Title: Faith In Humanity
Rating: PG13 bordering on R
Fandom: Spider-Man movieverse
Author’s Notes: A while back I attempted a Spider-Man movieverse fanfic called Everyone Has A Choice, and I never finished it. This is that fic mashed down and rebuilt. It has something bordering on a plot now. :p
Summary: After the Queensboro Bridge incident, everyone involved struggles through the aftermath. Ursula Ditkovich was not involved, but she struggles through the aftermath nonetheless. And an unhappy middle-aged woman, after taking a job at the Osborn manor, suddenly finds herself an unwilling participant in the battle for a young man’s soul.
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
The Second Aftermath part 1
The Second Aftermath part 2
The Second Aftermath part 3
The Second Aftermath part 4
The Battle Royale part 1
The Battle Royale part 2
The Battle Royale, part three
June 19th, 2004, 3:03am:
Madeline clung to the barrier until her knuckles turned white. Phil and John stood to the side.
“I never came to her show,” Phil muttered. “That show she was in. I never saw her sing.”
“You will,” John said.
Madeline said nothing, just kept up the half-prayer half-plea in her head: you’ll be alright my darling everything will be alright I promise…
June 19th, 2004, 3:04am:
Gwen shivered. For the last few hours, she’d barely moved. Slowly, she took her eyes off the sky and turned to her father.
“I kissed him,” she said. “Spider-Man saved my life, and we’re just watching him get…killed. Is this the best we can do?”
Captain Stacy said nothing.
“Can’t we send in a helicopter, or…something?”
“We’ve tried that, Gwen. We’ve tried most everything.”
Gwen tried to look back, and found she couldn’t. She felt tired and worn; it had been a long week. Long month. She kept looking up at Mary Jane and wondering if she was thinking the same things she herself had thought when death opened up below her.
June 19th, 2004, 3:05am:
Ursula stood transfixed.
Diary. I really wish something would happen to me. Something big and exciting and important.
Up in the air, the monsters had gained the upper hand. Ursula couldn’t see very well from where she was standing, but she could make out a small red blur being slowly crushed by the hand of the sand monster, and a small white blur still up there in the web.
I don’t know what, but I want it so bad. It’s like I’m staring at the television screen and it’s all in there instead. All of the important stuff is hiding in there. None of it feels real.
She stared up at the sky, breathing out into the cold air. She could see the stars. If she looked past the monsters.
Either it doesn’t feel real, or I don’t.
“My lord,” her father said, quieter than she’d ever heard him. “I think he is going to die. Maybe us too.”
Is it any wonder no-one has any faith in humanity left?
All around was silent. Her voice echoed out.
“No-” Ursula said.
Emily David’s Diary, 9th July 1983:
I’m writing this from hospital. It’s midnight.
It’s been a while. Harry is two years old now. He doesn’t see me often. He’s looked after by nannies, or Bernard, who Norman named godfather, and it breaks my fucked-up heart. He looks like his dad, and not like me.
I keep feeling like I should write something important. Write something good. Can’t think of a thing. I’m lying in a hospital bed and for all I know I might die in a year, or a month, or a week. I oughta get something right. I feel like I’ve been pulled along on invisible ropes all my life and never done a single thing properly.
I love you, kid. You’ll be a good man someday.
I pray that means as much to you someday as it does to me right now.
June 19th, 2004, 2:37am:
It was dark. Harry was sitting just behind the broken mirror in the living room. He had never felt so alone in his entire life: even Bernard, after his cryptic explanation-
–there is no doubt your father died by his own hand–
-had gone away, and he was left slumped by the piles of shattered glass, wondering what to do. He felt downright sick, and he could barely bring himself to stand up. When he did, he found himself staggering through to the kitchen, with the vague idea of getting some alcohol, before remembering that there probably wasn’t any. So he sat down on a chair instead, and stared around. He felt like he was a ghost in his own house.
Why should you go risk your life for him? He almost killed you, and he burned your face. It didn’t even sound like his father’s voice in his head anymore, but he didn’t want to think about it. He grasped around in his mind for something to cling to, and finally came up with, he’s my friend. It didn’t seem like much at all- and it barely made sense to him- but as time ticked by and he didn’t move from where he sat, it was something, at least. Something to hold on to, for just one second longer.
A spider ran out from under the table.
Harry barely noticed it at first, then when he saw it crawling towards the cupboard in the corner, he followed it with his eyes. It ran underneath the cupboard, and he got up and went to look. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know if he wanted to catch it and crush it, or let it go. He didn’t know anything. But he knelt down, and looked under the cupboard.
The spider was scurrying away, but there was a slip of paper sitting there in the dust. Baffled, he pulled it out and read it.
harry look in the cupboard there’s something in there you should see. christine
He crumpled the piece of paper in his hands. It was the only sound in the room. He turned to the cupboard, and opened it, half-expecting that something would jump out at him, and pull him into the dark. But nothing did. There was nothing in the cupboard but some old cookbooks.
Come on. Close the door, go upstairs, go to sleep- by the time this night is over, Peter will probably be dead.
But he didn’t. He started to move the books. He shifted them from the cupboard and moved them to the floor. It took two minutes, and by the time he’d finished, there was only one thing left in there. A small green book marked EMILY.
He picked it up. If a voice told him to put it down, he didn’t hear it. He opened it, and read a little. Then he moved back to his chair, sat down, and flipped the book to the last page.
He read it.
Then he got up and left.
June 19th, 2004:
London, eleven o’ clock in the morning. 6am in New York. Sunlight shining through the windows.
Christine Steinhauer turned off the TV.