Seldes Katne
Site mom
Since this is a fairly short story, I decided to just post the whole thing at once. It's about 11 typed pages.
A couple of things to get out of the way first:
Summary: As the Sentinel robots attack New York City, Daily Bugle reporter Ben Urich assembles eyewitness accounts of a mutant boy rescued by a non-mutant woman. As the boy’s story unfolds, Peter Parker considers the unnerving thought that his own enhanced DNA might make him a target as well. And in the aftermath of the attack, glimpses of heroism and villainy emerge, not among larger than life beings with earth-shattering powers, but through the actions of average men and women and the choices they make in the face of extraordinary events.
Disclaimer: Any of the recognizable characters in this story (Peter Parker, Ben Urich, Joe Robertson, for example) belong to Marvel Comics — I’m merely borrowing them for the duration. (Of what, one might ask....) There has been no money made or another financial restitution received for the writing of this story. (Which is just as well — I pay enough in taxes as it is!)
Peter Parker peered around the corner of the cubicle that housed the Daily Bugle’s web server and watched the controlled chaos of a newsroom dealing with a major breaking story.
Several days ago, the government had unleashed the huge metal robots known as Sentinels on the city of Los Angeles, reportedly to find and “remove” members of mutant terrorist organizations, according to officials. Several dozen people had been killed in the operation.
Now, this Saturday evening, the Sentinels had been spotted in New York City. The television stations had been carrying reports for almost an hour. Newsroom editor Joe Robertson alternated between directing the reporters’ activity and watching the bank of television screens on the newsroom wall. Conversations were held in low, intense tones. Everywhere he looked, Peter could see staffers talking on phones, people typing, editors bending over reporters’ desks for consultations. Even the sports department had gotten involved. Sandy Paget, who usually covered high school girls’ sports, was interviewing someone on the phone; Peter could just make out the words, “giant metal foot crushed cars” on her screen.
A dozen paces away, reporter Ben Urich was shrugging out of his coat, his back to Peter; Robertson was turning away from the television screens showing various shots from the network news shows. Many of the screens featured pictures of the Sentinels.
“You were supposed to be off tonight.”
“I was, until I got a front-row seat for the Sentinel attack.” Urich tossed his coat onto the back of his chair and flipped open his notebook. “Official reports as of two minutes ago claim a dozen dead. Four of them are confirmed as having been mutants. I’ve got the information from the police media relations office, plus a sidebar story of one kid who was actually rescued from one of these things.”
“Rescued?”
“Yes. I’ve got a call in to some of my sources for more information. I had to talk to half a dozen people to piece this together, but basically....”
Saturday night in New York City:
The ground trembles. People pause briefly, then continue on. The ground shivers again. Car horns suddenly blare in the distance. The ground shudders. Shouts and screams split the air. The pavement jumps, then jumps again. A massive head, shoulder and arm appear around the corner of a building. As the metal monster steps into the intersection, the ground shakes in time with its footsteps.
Cars swerve to avoid the huge feet; pedestrians stand transfixed for a moment, then burst into motion, bolting in all directions, some into traffic. Motorists crash vehicles into street signs, other vehicles, some trying to avoid the robot, some swerving away from fleeing pedestrians. A carpet of glass and debris coats the street, crunches under the robots boot-like feet.
A green beam of light erupts from the Sentinel’s hand, and one of the running pedestrians, a little apart from the others, is lit by a halo, then winks out of existence. The people closest to him pelt on, unharmed. A second victim, lifting off from the sidewalk in an attempt to fly to safety, meets the same fate.
The Sentinel’s long strides carry it further than the fleeing humans can run. People scatter as the robot strides down the avenue.
One small figure scrambles desperately for cover, slips and falls amid the glass shards and debris. The robot’s head swivels toward the teen boy crouched in the street; the massive hand comes up for the killing blast –
– And a woman leaps out into the street, flinging herself bodily on top of the teen.
The Sentinel freezes. The woman, gasping for breath, gathers the slightly smaller form of the teen to her and kneels, motionless.
The robot waits, as though considering its options. As it stands, it is joined by a second robot. Both tower over the two small people in the middle of the avenue.
Two police officers run down the sidewalk, shouting at people to clear the streets. They stumble to a halt at the sight of the tableau in the middle of the avenue. One of them calls to the two people huddled together under the robots’ malevolent gazes.
At last the woman stands up, arm still around the teen’s shoulders. She is speaking, but her words don’t carry to any of the bystanders. Slowly she and the teen walk across the pavement to the police officers. The woman says, “This is Manuel. If the Sentinels tried to attack him, he’s probably a mutant. He’ll be all right as long as he stays with you. Please take him someplace safe.”
Then she turns and runs down the street, in the direction in which the original Sentinel had first been moving. The police shout after her, but she disappears into the crowd and is lost to sight.
“Do you have names?”
“The boy is Manuel DiCamillo, fifteen years old. I couldn’t talk to him – the police had escorted him back to their station by the time I got this much of the story. The officer I spoke to said the kid was pretty shook. I’ll try contacting the family as soon as I get an address and see if I can set up an interview.”
“And the woman?”
“My source said Manuel called her ‘Miranda’, but didn’t give a last name.”
“Not a relative or friend of his family?”
“No. Apparently he’d never seen her before.”
“Good Samaritan, then.”
“That’s what it sounds like. Apparently, when the Sentinels saw the boy was under police protection, they backed off. A few minutes later several of them were spotted in Times Square, where they were involved in a confrontation with a group of mutants....”
Peter, who had been more than close enough to hear Urich’s recitation, lost the thread of the conversation. Fifteen years old? That could have been me! If I’d gone home earlier tonight, that could have been me in the streets with those things!
Peter stared at the wall without seeing it. Would a Sentinel, designed to detect people with a mutant X-gene, be able to tell the difference between a natural-born mutant and Peter’s artificially changed DNA? But those robots would have been programmed to recognize known terrorists, he told himself. I’m not on anyone’s ‘Most Wanted’ lists. I should be okay—
“Peter?” Joe Robertson leaned over the cubicle wall. He held out a pair of folders. “Could you please run up to the wire room and see if anything has come in from Associated Press or UPI? Any kind of pictures goes to the photo editor; any text comes to me, okay?”
“Uh, sure, Mr. Robertson.” Peter took the folders and trotted in the direction of the staircase.
I’m gonna have to look into this when I get a minute, he decided as he jogged into the newsroom a few minutes later, two photos and several articles tucked into the respective folders. Bad enough half the city thinks Spider-man’s some kind of nutcase without having huge robots gunning for me, too—
Ben Urich’s phone rang as Peter passed his desk. “Urich. Hello, Phil. Got something for me about Manuel—” Urich paused. “Oh.” He called up a word processing program on his computer, cradling the phone against one shoulder. “I thought he was going back to the precinct... So what hap— Oh. The two officers... Do you have their names?”
Peter handed the folder of articles to Robertson, who nodded his thanks; the editor’s gaze was fixed on Urich. Peter stepped to one side and listened.
“Were there witnesses?” Urich’s fingers flew over the keyboard. The words “Six blocks from site of rescue, DiCamillo in street, where Sentinel’s lasers killed” scrolled across the computer screen. Joe Robertson’s eyes closed in sympathy. Apparently oblivious to the emotional impact of his words, Urich kept typing. Peter shuddered and turned away.
God, that guy was my age! It could have been me—
“Peter? Are you all right?” Robertson reached out and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“I – yeah, it’s just – I heard Mr. Urich talking about that boy, and –” Peter gulped “—that could have been me! I mean, he was my age, and –”
“Peter, stop and take a deep breath.” Peter complied, his breath almost a sob. “Good. Take another.” Peter inhaled and exhaled, a little more steadily this time. Robertson watched him closely. His hand still rested on Peter’s shoulder. “Okay. Listen to me. It wasn’t you. You’re safe. The Sentinels were only after mutants. The attack is over, and the Sentinels are gone, or destroyed. It’s okay.”
Peter squeezed his eyes closed. “Yeah. Okay. It’s just – he could have me, or one of my friends from school. He was only fifteen, and now he’s dead.”
Robinson steered him to a chair. “Sit down. I’m going to get you a glass of water. You keep taking deep breaths and reminding yourself that it’s all over, all right?”
“Okay,” Peter replied. Numbly, he watched reporters and photographers striding from desk to desk, or bending over to collaborate with a colleague. Ben Urich had hung up the phone, and was still typing steadily, a look of determination on his face. Robertson returned with the water.
“You doing all right, Peter?”
“Yes. Thanks, sir.”
“Maybe you should call your aunt to come get you.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Robertson offered him a reassuring smile and turned away to talk to another reporter. Peter placed his call, then sat sipping at the water. He watched Urich stand up and wave Robertson over. They consulted for a minute, and Urich sat down again. Peter could just see his finger press the Send button, forwarding the story to Robertson’s computer terminal for editing. Then Urich slumped into his chair and sat staring at the now empty screen. After a moment, he sighed, turned and reached for his notebook. Peter stood up and eased his way across the corridor.
“Mr. Urich?”
Ben Urich opened his notebook, his eyes on its pages. “Yes, Peter?”
“You know that fifteen-year-old boy you were talking about? He’s — he’s dead now, isn’t he?”
Urich’s voice was weary. “Yes. He died less than half an hour ago. According to one witness, the police officers escorting him back to their station apparently flung him up against a building several times, and then threw him out into the street, where a Sentinel was following them. One laser is all it took.”
“What was he guilty of?”
Urich peered at him through his glasses. “I’m sorry?”
“What did he do that made the police throw him out where the Sentinel could kill him?”
Urich gazed at him steadily. “I don’t know as he did anything.”
“Nothing?” Peter gripped the top and side of the cubicle’s wall. “He didn’t attack anyone, or burst into flames, or blow something up? Did the police think he was going to hurt anyone?”
“According to my source, no one else has come forward yet who was close enough to see what really happened. The police had no warrant out for Manuel’s arrest, or any suspicion that he was involved in any crime or terrorist activities.”
“Then why did those officers do that?”
Urich’s gaze slid to the computer screen for a moment, then back to Peter. “I suspect that they just didn’t like mutants very much.”
Peter stared. “That’s it? They killed him just because he was a mutant?”
“That’s the way it seems. I expect there will be an investigation into what happened.”
“So...they’ll be charged with murder, right? And sent to jail?”
Urich looked away suddenly and drew a deep breath. Finally, not quite meeting Peter’s eyes, he replied, “I don’t know. It seems to be just the one witness. Internal Affairs will investigate it, but unless one or the other officer confesses....” Here he sighed, and his gaze came back to Peter. “It’s possible that no charges will be filed due to insubstantial evidence.”
Peter stared at him for a moment; then he dropped his gaze, and for several heartbeats stood staring down at the floor. Maybe, if I had left earlier, I could have been there, done something.... Finally he raised his eyes. “How do you stand it?” he asked Urich. “How do you deal with, with all the wrong things people do, with all the bad things that happen?”
The reporter studied Peter; his expression shifted from one of weariness to something a little more like compassion. “I write about it.” Urich took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. Then he tossed the glasses onto his desk and turned back to Peter. “That’s all I can do, Peter. I’m not Iron Man, or, or Spider-Man, or any of the other superhero types out there. I just happen to be a pretty good writer. I get information. I write my story, and I hope that enough other news services pick it up and enough people read it and get angry enough to want to change things. I can’t stop a Sentinel by myself, or save people from so-called supervillains. All I can do is write. It’s the only weapon I have against the bad things that happen.”
Peter froze. Ben Urich thinks Spider-Man is a hero? Aloud, he asked cautiously, “You think Spider-Man in a hero? A lot of people don’t.”
“He stops muggers and thieves. He rescues people who can’t defend themselves. He does it all without getting any form of payment or recognition.” The side of Urich’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yes, I would say he’s a hero. Despite what J. Jonah Jameson might say to the contrary.”
Peter actually smiled back. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He turned away and started down the walkway. Then he stopped and came back. “Mr. Urich?”
Urich’s hands were poised over the keyboard. “Yes, Peter?” There was a note of impatience in his voice this time.
“Uh, maybe you don’t want to answer this, but... when you were writing the stories on the Kingpin, did you – did you ever get any, you know, death threats?”
Urich froze, still staring straight ahead at his screen. For a few heartbeats he did nothing. Finally, without looking at Peter, he said, “What would make you ask that?”
“I, uh, just wondered. I mean, you said you’re not a superhero or anything, but you had someone really powerful after you who had already murdered someone, and you were going to write a story exposing him. Weren’t you afraid?”
Urich’s gaze shifted from the computer screen to his hands, still resting lightly on the computer keys. “Yes, I was,” he murmured in a voice Peter could just hear over the background noises of the newsroom. “I kept thinking of Veronica Guerin. Ever heard of her?” Peter shook his head. “She was a journalist in Ireland who was murdered in 1996 because of her stories about drug lords and what they were doing to her country. Journalists have been killed in a lot of places around the world for writing stories that powerful people want censored.”
Urich took his hands off the keyboard and turned to Peter, resting one elbow on his desk. “But more than afraid, I was angry. This man and his organization were hurting and killing people. Some of them might have deserved it, but most of them didn’t.” Urich’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Teens dying because of drug sales. People shot and killed during hits because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Storeowners put out of business or roughed up because they wouldn’t pay protection money. We got rid of a president of the United States back in 1974 because no one was supposed to be above the law. No one.”
Peter almost backed away from the Urich’s expression. In the short time he’d worked at the Daily Bugle, he’d seen humor, concentration, and determination on Urich’s face, but this was first time he’d seen the dark, intense anger that showed there now.
Then Urich drew in a deep breath, and the look vanished, to be replaced by a much gentler expression of sympathy, and hint of sheepishness. “A good journalist isn’t supposed to get emotionally involved in his story, you know.”
“I guess,” Peter replied. “But you have to believe in your story, don’t you?”
Urich actually smiled. “Yes, you do. You have to go where the story takes you. When I was in college, I read a statement like that from someone who wrote fiction. But it’s just as true in journalism.” He sighed and turned away to reach for his glasses. “Manuel’s story won’t be finished until the police officers responsible for his death are brought up on charges or cleared. And I don’t know about you, but I want to find and talk to that woman who jumped out in front of that Sentinel to save a boy she apparently didn’t know. Now that took courage.”
A couple of things to get out of the way first:
Summary: As the Sentinel robots attack New York City, Daily Bugle reporter Ben Urich assembles eyewitness accounts of a mutant boy rescued by a non-mutant woman. As the boy’s story unfolds, Peter Parker considers the unnerving thought that his own enhanced DNA might make him a target as well. And in the aftermath of the attack, glimpses of heroism and villainy emerge, not among larger than life beings with earth-shattering powers, but through the actions of average men and women and the choices they make in the face of extraordinary events.
Disclaimer: Any of the recognizable characters in this story (Peter Parker, Ben Urich, Joe Robertson, for example) belong to Marvel Comics — I’m merely borrowing them for the duration. (Of what, one might ask....) There has been no money made or another financial restitution received for the writing of this story. (Which is just as well — I pay enough in taxes as it is!)
Sentinels
by Seldes Katne
by Seldes Katne
Peter Parker peered around the corner of the cubicle that housed the Daily Bugle’s web server and watched the controlled chaos of a newsroom dealing with a major breaking story.
Several days ago, the government had unleashed the huge metal robots known as Sentinels on the city of Los Angeles, reportedly to find and “remove” members of mutant terrorist organizations, according to officials. Several dozen people had been killed in the operation.
Now, this Saturday evening, the Sentinels had been spotted in New York City. The television stations had been carrying reports for almost an hour. Newsroom editor Joe Robertson alternated between directing the reporters’ activity and watching the bank of television screens on the newsroom wall. Conversations were held in low, intense tones. Everywhere he looked, Peter could see staffers talking on phones, people typing, editors bending over reporters’ desks for consultations. Even the sports department had gotten involved. Sandy Paget, who usually covered high school girls’ sports, was interviewing someone on the phone; Peter could just make out the words, “giant metal foot crushed cars” on her screen.
A dozen paces away, reporter Ben Urich was shrugging out of his coat, his back to Peter; Robertson was turning away from the television screens showing various shots from the network news shows. Many of the screens featured pictures of the Sentinels.
“You were supposed to be off tonight.”
“I was, until I got a front-row seat for the Sentinel attack.” Urich tossed his coat onto the back of his chair and flipped open his notebook. “Official reports as of two minutes ago claim a dozen dead. Four of them are confirmed as having been mutants. I’ve got the information from the police media relations office, plus a sidebar story of one kid who was actually rescued from one of these things.”
“Rescued?”
“Yes. I’ve got a call in to some of my sources for more information. I had to talk to half a dozen people to piece this together, but basically....”
Saturday night in New York City:
The ground trembles. People pause briefly, then continue on. The ground shivers again. Car horns suddenly blare in the distance. The ground shudders. Shouts and screams split the air. The pavement jumps, then jumps again. A massive head, shoulder and arm appear around the corner of a building. As the metal monster steps into the intersection, the ground shakes in time with its footsteps.
Cars swerve to avoid the huge feet; pedestrians stand transfixed for a moment, then burst into motion, bolting in all directions, some into traffic. Motorists crash vehicles into street signs, other vehicles, some trying to avoid the robot, some swerving away from fleeing pedestrians. A carpet of glass and debris coats the street, crunches under the robots boot-like feet.
A green beam of light erupts from the Sentinel’s hand, and one of the running pedestrians, a little apart from the others, is lit by a halo, then winks out of existence. The people closest to him pelt on, unharmed. A second victim, lifting off from the sidewalk in an attempt to fly to safety, meets the same fate.
The Sentinel’s long strides carry it further than the fleeing humans can run. People scatter as the robot strides down the avenue.
One small figure scrambles desperately for cover, slips and falls amid the glass shards and debris. The robot’s head swivels toward the teen boy crouched in the street; the massive hand comes up for the killing blast –
– And a woman leaps out into the street, flinging herself bodily on top of the teen.
The Sentinel freezes. The woman, gasping for breath, gathers the slightly smaller form of the teen to her and kneels, motionless.
The robot waits, as though considering its options. As it stands, it is joined by a second robot. Both tower over the two small people in the middle of the avenue.
Two police officers run down the sidewalk, shouting at people to clear the streets. They stumble to a halt at the sight of the tableau in the middle of the avenue. One of them calls to the two people huddled together under the robots’ malevolent gazes.
At last the woman stands up, arm still around the teen’s shoulders. She is speaking, but her words don’t carry to any of the bystanders. Slowly she and the teen walk across the pavement to the police officers. The woman says, “This is Manuel. If the Sentinels tried to attack him, he’s probably a mutant. He’ll be all right as long as he stays with you. Please take him someplace safe.”
Then she turns and runs down the street, in the direction in which the original Sentinel had first been moving. The police shout after her, but she disappears into the crowd and is lost to sight.
“Do you have names?”
“The boy is Manuel DiCamillo, fifteen years old. I couldn’t talk to him – the police had escorted him back to their station by the time I got this much of the story. The officer I spoke to said the kid was pretty shook. I’ll try contacting the family as soon as I get an address and see if I can set up an interview.”
“And the woman?”
“My source said Manuel called her ‘Miranda’, but didn’t give a last name.”
“Not a relative or friend of his family?”
“No. Apparently he’d never seen her before.”
“Good Samaritan, then.”
“That’s what it sounds like. Apparently, when the Sentinels saw the boy was under police protection, they backed off. A few minutes later several of them were spotted in Times Square, where they were involved in a confrontation with a group of mutants....”
Peter, who had been more than close enough to hear Urich’s recitation, lost the thread of the conversation. Fifteen years old? That could have been me! If I’d gone home earlier tonight, that could have been me in the streets with those things!
Peter stared at the wall without seeing it. Would a Sentinel, designed to detect people with a mutant X-gene, be able to tell the difference between a natural-born mutant and Peter’s artificially changed DNA? But those robots would have been programmed to recognize known terrorists, he told himself. I’m not on anyone’s ‘Most Wanted’ lists. I should be okay—
“Peter?” Joe Robertson leaned over the cubicle wall. He held out a pair of folders. “Could you please run up to the wire room and see if anything has come in from Associated Press or UPI? Any kind of pictures goes to the photo editor; any text comes to me, okay?”
“Uh, sure, Mr. Robertson.” Peter took the folders and trotted in the direction of the staircase.
I’m gonna have to look into this when I get a minute, he decided as he jogged into the newsroom a few minutes later, two photos and several articles tucked into the respective folders. Bad enough half the city thinks Spider-man’s some kind of nutcase without having huge robots gunning for me, too—
Ben Urich’s phone rang as Peter passed his desk. “Urich. Hello, Phil. Got something for me about Manuel—” Urich paused. “Oh.” He called up a word processing program on his computer, cradling the phone against one shoulder. “I thought he was going back to the precinct... So what hap— Oh. The two officers... Do you have their names?”
Peter handed the folder of articles to Robertson, who nodded his thanks; the editor’s gaze was fixed on Urich. Peter stepped to one side and listened.
“Were there witnesses?” Urich’s fingers flew over the keyboard. The words “Six blocks from site of rescue, DiCamillo in street, where Sentinel’s lasers killed” scrolled across the computer screen. Joe Robertson’s eyes closed in sympathy. Apparently oblivious to the emotional impact of his words, Urich kept typing. Peter shuddered and turned away.
God, that guy was my age! It could have been me—
“Peter? Are you all right?” Robertson reached out and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“I – yeah, it’s just – I heard Mr. Urich talking about that boy, and –” Peter gulped “—that could have been me! I mean, he was my age, and –”
“Peter, stop and take a deep breath.” Peter complied, his breath almost a sob. “Good. Take another.” Peter inhaled and exhaled, a little more steadily this time. Robertson watched him closely. His hand still rested on Peter’s shoulder. “Okay. Listen to me. It wasn’t you. You’re safe. The Sentinels were only after mutants. The attack is over, and the Sentinels are gone, or destroyed. It’s okay.”
Peter squeezed his eyes closed. “Yeah. Okay. It’s just – he could have me, or one of my friends from school. He was only fifteen, and now he’s dead.”
Robinson steered him to a chair. “Sit down. I’m going to get you a glass of water. You keep taking deep breaths and reminding yourself that it’s all over, all right?”
“Okay,” Peter replied. Numbly, he watched reporters and photographers striding from desk to desk, or bending over to collaborate with a colleague. Ben Urich had hung up the phone, and was still typing steadily, a look of determination on his face. Robertson returned with the water.
“You doing all right, Peter?”
“Yes. Thanks, sir.”
“Maybe you should call your aunt to come get you.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Robertson offered him a reassuring smile and turned away to talk to another reporter. Peter placed his call, then sat sipping at the water. He watched Urich stand up and wave Robertson over. They consulted for a minute, and Urich sat down again. Peter could just see his finger press the Send button, forwarding the story to Robertson’s computer terminal for editing. Then Urich slumped into his chair and sat staring at the now empty screen. After a moment, he sighed, turned and reached for his notebook. Peter stood up and eased his way across the corridor.
“Mr. Urich?”
Ben Urich opened his notebook, his eyes on its pages. “Yes, Peter?”
“You know that fifteen-year-old boy you were talking about? He’s — he’s dead now, isn’t he?”
Urich’s voice was weary. “Yes. He died less than half an hour ago. According to one witness, the police officers escorting him back to their station apparently flung him up against a building several times, and then threw him out into the street, where a Sentinel was following them. One laser is all it took.”
“What was he guilty of?”
Urich peered at him through his glasses. “I’m sorry?”
“What did he do that made the police throw him out where the Sentinel could kill him?”
Urich gazed at him steadily. “I don’t know as he did anything.”
“Nothing?” Peter gripped the top and side of the cubicle’s wall. “He didn’t attack anyone, or burst into flames, or blow something up? Did the police think he was going to hurt anyone?”
“According to my source, no one else has come forward yet who was close enough to see what really happened. The police had no warrant out for Manuel’s arrest, or any suspicion that he was involved in any crime or terrorist activities.”
“Then why did those officers do that?”
Urich’s gaze slid to the computer screen for a moment, then back to Peter. “I suspect that they just didn’t like mutants very much.”
Peter stared. “That’s it? They killed him just because he was a mutant?”
“That’s the way it seems. I expect there will be an investigation into what happened.”
“So...they’ll be charged with murder, right? And sent to jail?”
Urich looked away suddenly and drew a deep breath. Finally, not quite meeting Peter’s eyes, he replied, “I don’t know. It seems to be just the one witness. Internal Affairs will investigate it, but unless one or the other officer confesses....” Here he sighed, and his gaze came back to Peter. “It’s possible that no charges will be filed due to insubstantial evidence.”
Peter stared at him for a moment; then he dropped his gaze, and for several heartbeats stood staring down at the floor. Maybe, if I had left earlier, I could have been there, done something.... Finally he raised his eyes. “How do you stand it?” he asked Urich. “How do you deal with, with all the wrong things people do, with all the bad things that happen?”
The reporter studied Peter; his expression shifted from one of weariness to something a little more like compassion. “I write about it.” Urich took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. Then he tossed the glasses onto his desk and turned back to Peter. “That’s all I can do, Peter. I’m not Iron Man, or, or Spider-Man, or any of the other superhero types out there. I just happen to be a pretty good writer. I get information. I write my story, and I hope that enough other news services pick it up and enough people read it and get angry enough to want to change things. I can’t stop a Sentinel by myself, or save people from so-called supervillains. All I can do is write. It’s the only weapon I have against the bad things that happen.”
Peter froze. Ben Urich thinks Spider-Man is a hero? Aloud, he asked cautiously, “You think Spider-Man in a hero? A lot of people don’t.”
“He stops muggers and thieves. He rescues people who can’t defend themselves. He does it all without getting any form of payment or recognition.” The side of Urich’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yes, I would say he’s a hero. Despite what J. Jonah Jameson might say to the contrary.”
Peter actually smiled back. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He turned away and started down the walkway. Then he stopped and came back. “Mr. Urich?”
Urich’s hands were poised over the keyboard. “Yes, Peter?” There was a note of impatience in his voice this time.
“Uh, maybe you don’t want to answer this, but... when you were writing the stories on the Kingpin, did you – did you ever get any, you know, death threats?”
Urich froze, still staring straight ahead at his screen. For a few heartbeats he did nothing. Finally, without looking at Peter, he said, “What would make you ask that?”
“I, uh, just wondered. I mean, you said you’re not a superhero or anything, but you had someone really powerful after you who had already murdered someone, and you were going to write a story exposing him. Weren’t you afraid?”
Urich’s gaze shifted from the computer screen to his hands, still resting lightly on the computer keys. “Yes, I was,” he murmured in a voice Peter could just hear over the background noises of the newsroom. “I kept thinking of Veronica Guerin. Ever heard of her?” Peter shook his head. “She was a journalist in Ireland who was murdered in 1996 because of her stories about drug lords and what they were doing to her country. Journalists have been killed in a lot of places around the world for writing stories that powerful people want censored.”
Urich took his hands off the keyboard and turned to Peter, resting one elbow on his desk. “But more than afraid, I was angry. This man and his organization were hurting and killing people. Some of them might have deserved it, but most of them didn’t.” Urich’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Teens dying because of drug sales. People shot and killed during hits because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Storeowners put out of business or roughed up because they wouldn’t pay protection money. We got rid of a president of the United States back in 1974 because no one was supposed to be above the law. No one.”
Peter almost backed away from the Urich’s expression. In the short time he’d worked at the Daily Bugle, he’d seen humor, concentration, and determination on Urich’s face, but this was first time he’d seen the dark, intense anger that showed there now.
Then Urich drew in a deep breath, and the look vanished, to be replaced by a much gentler expression of sympathy, and hint of sheepishness. “A good journalist isn’t supposed to get emotionally involved in his story, you know.”
“I guess,” Peter replied. “But you have to believe in your story, don’t you?”
Urich actually smiled. “Yes, you do. You have to go where the story takes you. When I was in college, I read a statement like that from someone who wrote fiction. But it’s just as true in journalism.” He sighed and turned away to reach for his glasses. “Manuel’s story won’t be finished until the police officers responsible for his death are brought up on charges or cleared. And I don’t know about you, but I want to find and talk to that woman who jumped out in front of that Sentinel to save a boy she apparently didn’t know. Now that took courage.”
