Prologue
Aftermath part 1
Aftermath part 2
Aftermath part 3
Aftermath part 4
Aftermath part 5
Aftermath part 6
Emily part 1
Emily part 2
Emily part 3
Emily part 4
Emily part 5
Emily part 6
Emily part 7
Cinderella part 1
Cinderella part 2
Cinderella part 3
Cinderella part 4
Only Human part 1
Only Human part 2
Only Human part 3
Only Human part 4
Only Human part 5

FAITH IN HUMANITY
The Second Aftermath, part 1


May 19th 2004:

A few hours after the aborted wedding, a family conference was held in the Jameson house. It dissolved, within a matter of minutes, to John and his mother and father all screaming at each other.

“We bill that girl for the wedding!” Jonah Jameson shouted. “Her and her new man. We bleed every damn dollar out of them.”

“Dad-”

“Or her parents. We get hold of them. Who are they, John? Have I met them?”

“No. And no.” John said fiercely. “Neither of them have money, and MJ doesn’t either, and face it, Dad, demanding things from her isn’t going to do any good.”

“I agree with him,” John’s mother snapped. “You listen up, Jonah. Or is it always just about the money to you?”

“Yeah? Who was it who ordered a vanload of flowers? And three new dresses? And caviar?”

“Look, we can argue later,” John said in exasperation, displaying the abilities that had made him captain of a space shuttle. “Right now, we just have to consider what to do. I’ve been trying to contact MJ, but she won’t reply-”

“Course she won’t! What did you expect from someone who’d pull a stunt like that?”

“Shut up, Dad. As I was saying, she won’t answer her phone or anything. I’m gonna try going through her parents, I think. I just want to talk to her.” All the energy suddenly seemed to go out of him, at that. “Just talk,” he said with a sigh, and sunk down on one of the sofas. His parents glanced at each other. For the first time in at least a decade, they were apparently thinking the exact same thing.

“Are you alright, John?” Jonah asked gruffly.

“Not really.”

His mother went to the wine cabinet, filled a glass, and sat down on the sofa next to him. “Here,” she said, and handed the glass over. John drank the whole thing. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “I’m fine. Really. I will be.”

“Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do if she comes back?” Jonah boomed. “If she comes back begging you to take her back and share your wealth?”

“What your father means,” John’s mother said icily, “is, would you forgive her.”

“Yes.”

“And, would you take her back? Would you marry her?”

“No,” John said firmly. “No. I’ve got no faith in her anymore.”

*****

The New York Times, Interview with the Train Passengers, June 2004:

“Give the man the key to the city.”

Jonas Staton, aged 35, is doing something not unusual: he is standing with his two children staring proudly up at a billboard of Spider-Man. But for this family there is a big difference: if not for the interventions of the web-slinger, Staton wouldn’t be standing with his family at all. Only last month, he was on a runaway train- the multi-armed madman Doc Ock had tampered with the controls- and would have suffered certain death, along with hundreds of other passangers, if Spider-Man had not saved them.

“Give the man the key to the city,” Staton repeats, almost dreamily. “And a big fat cheque to go with it. Man’s probably too decent to spend it, but what can you do?”

He is not the only one with such sentiments. Eleanor Gleeson, 24, a young mother who, terrifyingly, had her baby with her on the train as it was racing out of control, has exactly the same thoughts. “He deserves something for what he’s done,” she says firmly. “I wish I could track him down, you know, and thank him in person.”

It is hard to describe the atmosphere between the seven train survivors gathered together for their interviews. Between them, they’ve got most of the races and religions under the sun covered, but they speak as through they are a family. Which in some ways they are: they were bonded together purely by fate. As you hear about survivors of terrorist attacks coming together to form support groups, so have these people- the difference being that in this case all were survivors.

“People have said it’s stupid to dwell on an incident where no-one was actually killed,” said Hugo Spiers, 58. “But I disagree. It’s the sort of thing people should dwell on. I saw the best side of humnaity that day.” Eleanor, meanwhile, has even greater reasons for wanting to remember. “I thought my baby was going to die along with the rest of us,” she says quietly. “Can you imagine feeling that? And he would have died, too, we all would, if not for Spider-Man.”

*****

May 19th 2004:

When Peter came back in, MJ was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, looking thoughtful.

“Hey,” he said gently.

“Hey,” she answered. A pause. “They’re gonna be looking for me right now. John’s parents are probably gonna be out for my blood.” Peter suddenly realised that she was holding her mobile phone in her hand. “He called,” she said helplessly. “John did. I didn’t answer.”

Peter didn’t know what to say.

“He probably hates me right now.”

“No. He won’t.”

Another pause.

“So, what happened?”

“Oh. There was an attempted breakout at the prison. But they’d actually pretty much dealt with it by the time I got there.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

MJ put her mobile phone down on the floor, in a decisive sort of manner. “Well,” she said. She started taking the hairpins out of her hair. “I guess you’d better help me get this dress off.”

So he did.

*****

Ursula Ditkovich’s Diary, 20th May 2004:

It’s 5am in the morning. I can’t sleep. I’ve been watching the news again. There’s been more crazy stuff going on, you see. There was another one of those big battles, and another hostage, and another rescue. I can’t go into too much detail cos I don’t know much detail. But the Villain Of The Piece this time was called Doctor Octopus, but his real name, apparently, was Dr Otto Octavius. It’s been confirmed on TV. They pulled his body out of the river. Still had the arms attached. Used to be a great scientist, so they say.

He showed up before, as well. He’s been in the papers for weeks. But I haven’t written about it. I haven’t really written about very much. I’ve been kinda low. I just haven’t done anything. I know Peter’s been kinda low too, you could tell just by looking at him, so I brought him cake. I don’t know if it helped him any. I hope it did.

So, yeah. I wonder if we can start to expect something like this once a year, or something. I’m still just watching and reading the news. I’m not actually there. It could’ve been something I invented in my head for how real it seems, you know? Sort of.

Also, Peter has a girl in his room.

I wish something would happen to snap me out of this.

******

20th May 2004:

Harry knocked on Peter’s door.

“Peter. Let me in.”

But no-one answered. He shoved it, hard, and felt the bomb he’d put in his backpack rattle around. “Open.”

“The door gets stuck,” said a voice from behind him.

He turned around and saw a thin blonde girl standing there. “Open it for me, then,” he said curtly.

She gave him a look somewhere between intimidation and anger, if such a thing was even possible, walked over, and tried the door.

“It’s locked,” she said. “He must be out.”

“When will he be back?” Harry demanded.

“I don’t know,” she answered. She looked him up and down, quite possibly taking in the fact that he looked tired, drunk and dishevelled. “W-what do you want with him?” she asked nervously.

I have no idea. “Just to talk to him.”

“Oh.” She backed away from the door. “Are you a friend of his?”

Harry said nothing. The girl looked at him hopefully, and then realised she wasn’t going to get an answer, and her expression slowly changed to one of relative concern. “Um. If you’re waiting, do you want some cake?”

“What?”

“Some cake. While you wait for Peter to come back.”

“What?”

“Do you?”

He stared at her in utter befuddlement. “What, you offer food to everyone who walks in the building?”

She almost shrank before his eyes. “I. Um. I just have cake.”

And I have a bomb and two knives. “Right. Well. Okay.” He could think of nothing better to say, and he was hungry, and it felt like his brain was about to break. “Let’s have cake. Bring it on.” He clapped his hands wildly, and the girl scurried off, frightened. Five seconds later and she returned, with a plate of chocolate cake.

“I made it myself. Today.”

“Good. You make cakes often?” he said, his voice light and crazy. He stuffed a whole slice into his mouth.

“Yes. I cook,” she said nervously. She was attempting to put some distance between them.

“Good. Everyone needs a hobby.” He reached for another slice. “What’s your name?”

“U-U-Ursula.”

“Nice name, Ursula. You know Peter, then?”

“Yes. He lives next door,” she said.

“Lucky you.”

“You know, I’m not sure Peter’s coming back,” Ursula said, her voice almost shaking now. “He. Um. He might be busy.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” she said. “Keep the cake,” she added, and scrambled back to her own door.

“Don’t tell him I was here,” Harry said loudly, just before she closed it.

*****

21st May 2004:

Peter opened the door the next morning, after being woken up by the sound of someone trying to open it, to find Ursula. As soon as she saw him, she blushed and stepped back again.

“Sorry. I should have knocked. Again.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Peter said. Behind him, on the bed, MJ pulled the covers back and looked around, and Ursula turned bright red.

“Um, I’ll come back later.”

“No, it’s fine,” Peter said quickly. “What’s up?”

“Someone came by yesterday,” Ursula said, barely meeting his eyes. “I would have told you earlier, but you didn’t get back until late…”

“Who was it?” Peter asked, although he thought he could guess. “Did you get his name?”

“No,” Ursula said, looking at the ground. “But he, um, he had brown hair…and he seemed a bit…angry.”

“I see,” Peter said glumly.

“I offered him cake,” Ursula added.

Peter stared at her. Then, despite the worry he was feeling, he grinned. “Ursula?” he said. “You…just keep with the cakes, okay? They’re good stuff.” He was sure he hadn’t properly articulated what he wanted to say, but Ursula blushed even redder, if that was possible, whispered a thank you and ran away.

MJ was barely awake. “Who was that?” she said. “What’d she want?”

“Nothing,” Peter answered. He paused, barely even recognizing that he’d made a decision in that moment, and then spoke again. “She’s the landlord’s daughter. Lives across the hall.”

“Oh,” MJ answered, and went to sleep again.

*****

An email, 22nd May 2004

<john_j@hotmail.com> to <singsong123@hotmail.com>

MJ, I know you’re avoiding me, and I guess I can see why. But this isn’t good for either of us and it’s really hurting me. Please write back, or phone me, or come see me. Please. I need to see you. I really do.

-John