Disclaimer: Prepare for a shock...Spider-Man doesn't belong to me. Hope you're not too disappointed.

This takes place after the first movie.

Chapter One: All In A Day's Work

The fat man sitting behind the desk was wearing a pristine, custom-tailored white suit, with a silk scarf tucked neatly around his blubbery neck and fastened with a diamond pin worth more than most third-world countries. The thin man sitting in front of the desk was wearing an all-concealing metallic gold cloak and hood, his face deep in shadow. The fat man, whose name was Wilson Fisk, grimaced to himself over the melodramatic fashion but made no comment. These costumed freaks were the cutting edge of villainy these days, and villainy was his business.

"Understand, I am willing to fund your newest project, but only in return for my participation in certain...details. Surely you realize the profits that can be made if your project is successful?" He spoke in a deep, booming voice which rang through the room. The caped individual's reply was a smooth, eerie whisper.

"This project has much wider implications than making a few dollars," he said. "Do you not have the vision to appreciate how the world will change—when I succeed?" He tossed his head back arrogantly, and for just a moment light played across dark skin and strange, white-blue eyes.

Ignoring the dramatic declaration, Fisk leaned forward and demanded, "Do we have a deal, or not?"

"Indeed we do. Someday you will be able, unworthy though you are, to claim some small credit for the greatest political revolution of all time," the soft-spoken criminal replied. He stood and bowed gracefully, gold cape swirling around his feet as he turned to leave. "I look forward to receiving your first contribution." The bodyguards at Fisk's office door stood aside to let him pass, and Fisk sat back again with a snort.

The ego of these people, honestly. But megalomaniacs were easy to manipulate, easy for him to use. And the money-making potential was enormous. Closing this deal was definitely a good day's work.

Fisk smiled.


Looking down, Spider-Man watched a working girl pace the sidewalk. At least, he figured she must be a working girl, because no one else would be hanging around this neighborhood wearing that outfit in this cold. Spider-Man was crouched on the edge of a rooftop, blowing on his hands to keep them warm and wondering what he was doing wearing his outfit in this cold. He hadn't been thinking about winter when he'd decided on spandex...maybe he could come up with a cold-weather version? Or hibernate until Spring. Come to think about it, spiders were summer creatures, weren't they? Yeah, he could be a seasonal vigilante, sounded good—

Suddenly the world slowed around him, and he whipped his head back downward, scanning the pavement urgently. He'd learned fast to pay attention to the odd sensation alerting him to oncoming danger. The working girl, her open coat leaving her shiny black mini and purple halter top uncovered, looked about the size of an action figure from the wall-crawler's point of view. She was making her pitch through the window of a car that had pulled up beside her. That wasn't it. Pedestrians strolled along and a few cabs zoomed by, nothing out of place there—wait. There, in the shadows between tall buildings, two men, confronting a man and his wife. The man was fumbling in his pocket, handing something over, and Spider-Man thought he could glimpse the end of a woman's purse already tucked into the armpit of the taller attacker, the one with the gun.

With a movement that was becoming second nature, Spidey aimed and shot a webline to the building across the way, hurling himself through the air like some kind of urbanized Tarzan. He set a course that would hopefully end with him sliding neatly between the two walls, right over the muggers' heads. Whooshing perfectly into the center the gap, he twisted and released the line, somersaulting to land firmly on both feet within arm's length of the confrontation. He gave himself a mental high-five; his web-slinging was getting more precise with practice.

The muggers and the couple being robbed barely had time to notice his passage overhead before Spider-Man reached out and snatched the purse from the purse snatcher.

"It's just not you, dah-ling," the vigilante drawled, tossing the purse gently at the woman, who let it drop to the pavement and kept staring at him. The tall mugger gaped wildly at the sudden appearance of a red-and-blue clad acrobat wearing a full-face mask and cracking stupid jokes, or at least he gaped until Spidey grabbed the gun with one hand and hit him lightly on the jaw with the other. The robber dropped cold. The web-slinger paused to check his pulse; he'd had a few bad moments already in his brief career when he'd hit someone a little too hard. So far, it had only resulted in a broken jaw, or two. When you had the strength to punch a hole through sheet steel you had to careful around fragile flesh and bone. Spider-Man had no wish to find himself weighted down with the responsibility for anyone's death. Well, no one else's death.

The second mugger didn't wait around to see what happened next—he took to his heels, running in a blind panic. Spidey leaped a few stories up the wall of the building and scuttled along, perpendicular to the street, after his prey. The robber was almost half a block away when he realized his sneakers weren't touching the ground anymore. He churned his feet uselessly in the air for a few comic moments before giving up, panting and gasping for breath as he hung limply from the web splattered over his back. Spider-Man attached the other end of the silken line to a lamppost high above the street. "Now, this is a stick up!" the hero quipped, then hopped back over the vertical surface to where the couple were standing.

All of it had happened so fast, the people on the street were still figuring out what was going on. The working girl was leaning on the car window, with her head turned and an astonished expression on her face. An older lady, a couple of kids and a man in a business suit were all watching the action like it was some new kind of reality show. The kids started clapping, and one shouted, "Way to go, web-head!"

"You guys alright?" Spider-Man asked from his spot head-down on the wall above the almost-victims. The man was looking down at the first mugger and faintly repeating, "Oh my god, oh my god." His wife lowered her hands, took a deep breath, and let out a scream that they probably heard all the way to Madison Park. "Ah, right...good," Spidey mumbled. Distantly over the screaming he heard the discordant wail of sirens. Spider-Man hesitated only a moment, webbing the unconscious man to the pavement, before flipping himself around the corner into the dark space between the buildings and moving up and over as fast as he could, onto the roofs before swinging across the street on the other side. The scream faded into the distance.

Even with the chill air blowing into his face, Spider-Man was getting warmer as he bounced and soared between buildings, feeling good. Letting go of a line, he landed smoothly on a rounded light pole in what was for him a comfortable crouch. Below, cars and cabs and buses had snarled to a stop, and he felt a little smug as he shot another line from his wrist and continued on his way. Crossing town by web, Spider-Man didn't have to worry about crowded subways or buses running late—he was in a traffic pattern all his own.

Web-slinging was a blast and Spider-Man had become addicted to the sheer joy of throwing himself through the air, every muscle performing faultlessly, gracefully. If someone'd told me in high school that I'd be swinging over Madison Avenue someday wearing tights, and enjoying every minute of it, I'd have asked them what they were taking, he thought. Grinning under his mask, Spider-Man let sound a horrible lord-of-the-jungle yodel as he swooped over Manhattan. This is the only way to fly.


Detective Lamont leaned against a patrol car, sipped his coffee and watched, bored, as the paramedics bent over the mugger lying pinned to the pavement by a large, glistening web. All attempts to break or cut the thin strands had been unsuccessful, and now they were simply making what assessment they could of the man's condition while waiting for the web to melt. After several months of 'spider scenes', dealing with sticky substances had become old hat for New York's finest. Lamont hated it. Spiders were creepy enough when they were the right size and only left webs in dark corners. The idea of a man-sized spider catching criminal flies weirded him out, and waiting for the long strands of spider silk to melt was a waste of time.

Over by his patrol car, Officer Sanderson was questioning the handcuffed man who had been hanging from the light post. If that mook had half a brain, he'd have slid his arms out of his jacket before we got here, Lamont thought sourly. The short, pudgy crook had been too freaked by the whole incident to work out that it was only his jacket that was stuck, not him. Poor schmuck seemed almost grateful to see the police. He stuttered and shook while giving his statement. Sanderson was carefully taking it down, not saying anything but an occasional "Mm, then what?" but Lamont could see the corners of his mouth twitch as he tried to suppress his laughter. Great, another officer who got a kick out of spider attacks. The detective closed his eyes in frustration. That damn costumed freak had the police running around cleaning up his messes, making cops look ridiculous as they chased after a crime-fighting insect.

Lamont crumpled his Styrofoam cup and threw it into the back of the car. Another report to write up including sentences like, "On-lookers describe the man as red, blue, and limber..." God.

Where's an exterminator when you need one?