him out a bit). Peter headed down yet another alleyway in this labyrinthine neighborhood, his mind racing, trying to come up with
any
more ideas as his energy flagged.
He looked up—clotheslines were strung above him. The upper section of the alleyway was going to be too difficult for Harry to maneuver, so he was going to fly low. Quickly Peter fired his webbing at a spot about five feet overhead and affixed it to the wall opposite. He drew it taut, and in the darkness of the alley, the gossamer web strand practically disappeared.
He heard Harry coming in fast, gunning the engine of the Sky Stick. Peter started running again—Harry had to see him to make the trap work. Peter was halfway down the alley when Harry came roaring around the corner, practically a blur to Peter's eye.
Without slowing, Harry sped down the alleyway toward Peter, holding a pumpkin bomb in one hand and announcing that this was it, Peter wasn't going to get away this time.
Harry never came close to spotting the webline.
He hit it at full speed, the webbing cutting across his chest. Harry was knocked clean off the Sky Stick. The device kept going, bereft of its operator. Seconds later it crashed to the ground, tumbling several times before sputtering to a halt.
Harry fared far worse.
He bounded back with as much force as he'd expended when he hit the webline. Because it had taken him in his midsection, he flipped over and landed on the pavement headfirst. Peter gasped in horror. Yes, the armor would absorb some of the damage, but that was still Harry's body in there suffering the high-speed concussive impact. The human body could only take so much jolting around. A neck or back could easily snap, armored or not.
Peter saw his friend lying in a heap on the ground and, to his own frustration, found himself hesitating. It could be a trick. Harry could be playing possum, lying there to draw him in close, biding his time for Peter to lean over him in concern—and then Harry could gut him. Send his intestines spilling out into the alleyway and laugh in glee at the stupid expression on Peter Parker's dying face.
Peter's hesitation seemed to him to last an age.
If that's how I die, then that's the way it goes, but I've got to see if he's all right
.
Disdaining caution, Peter vaulted to the fallen Harry and checked him over. No warning of imminent danger from his spider-sense—Harry wasn't faking anything. Peter pulled the mask away and saw that Harry's eyes were closed, his face pale, a thin line of spittle trailing down the side of his face.
"Harry?" he said, but didn't wait for a response. Yanking the gauntlet off, he checked Harry's pulse.
Nothing.
"Oh my God," he whispered, unable to believe it. There was no way Peter could endure the knowledge that he had killed his best friend and single-handedly put an end to the Osborn family line. He put his head to Harry's chest.
Still nothing. The silence of the grave.
"
Oh my God! Harry
!" There was no whispering it now, and even as Peter howled his dismay, he started pumping Harry's chest. He had never been more grateful for that course in CPR that he had taken at the Y some years ago. He had been driven by terrible concerns that he might find his aunt or uncle collapsed on the floor one day, and he wanted to be certain that he would know what to do. Of course, he could never have envisioned back then, back before his life became the insane spectacle that it was today, the use to which he would be putting the training.
Even as he applied the pressure to Harry's heart, Peter's mind was racing. First rule of an accident: don't move the victim. You could cause all manner of greater damage in doing so.
But he didn't have a cell phone to call an ambulance, and even if he did, Peter didn't know where the hell he was. He couldn't begin to describe their location beyond "somewhere in Chinatown."
He thought he felt a stirring in Harry's chest, but he couldn't be certain. CPR was simply a stopgap to keep
any
more ideas as his energy flagged.
He looked up—clotheslines were strung above him. The upper section of the alleyway was going to be too difficult for Harry to maneuver, so he was going to fly low. Quickly Peter fired his webbing at a spot about five feet overhead and affixed it to the wall opposite. He drew it taut, and in the darkness of the alley, the gossamer web strand practically disappeared.
He heard Harry coming in fast, gunning the engine of the Sky Stick. Peter started running again—Harry had to see him to make the trap work. Peter was halfway down the alley when Harry came roaring around the corner, practically a blur to Peter's eye.
Without slowing, Harry sped down the alleyway toward Peter, holding a pumpkin bomb in one hand and announcing that this was it, Peter wasn't going to get away this time.
Harry never came close to spotting the webline.
He hit it at full speed, the webbing cutting across his chest. Harry was knocked clean off the Sky Stick. The device kept going, bereft of its operator. Seconds later it crashed to the ground, tumbling several times before sputtering to a halt.
Harry fared far worse.
He bounded back with as much force as he'd expended when he hit the webline. Because it had taken him in his midsection, he flipped over and landed on the pavement headfirst. Peter gasped in horror. Yes, the armor would absorb some of the damage, but that was still Harry's body in there suffering the high-speed concussive impact. The human body could only take so much jolting around. A neck or back could easily snap, armored or not.
Peter saw his friend lying in a heap on the ground and, to his own frustration, found himself hesitating. It could be a trick. Harry could be playing possum, lying there to draw him in close, biding his time for Peter to lean over him in concern—and then Harry could gut him. Send his intestines spilling out into the alleyway and laugh in glee at the stupid expression on Peter Parker's dying face.
Peter's hesitation seemed to him to last an age.
If that's how I die, then that's the way it goes, but I've got to see if he's all right
.
Disdaining caution, Peter vaulted to the fallen Harry and checked him over. No warning of imminent danger from his spider-sense—Harry wasn't faking anything. Peter pulled the mask away and saw that Harry's eyes were closed, his face pale, a thin line of spittle trailing down the side of his face.
"Harry?" he said, but didn't wait for a response. Yanking the gauntlet off, he checked Harry's pulse.
Nothing.
"Oh my God," he whispered, unable to believe it. There was no way Peter could endure the knowledge that he had killed his best friend and single-handedly put an end to the Osborn family line. He put his head to Harry's chest.
Still nothing. The silence of the grave.
"
Oh my God! Harry
!" There was no whispering it now, and even as Peter howled his dismay, he started pumping Harry's chest. He had never been more grateful for that course in CPR that he had taken at the Y some years ago. He had been driven by terrible concerns that he might find his aunt or uncle collapsed on the floor one day, and he wanted to be certain that he would know what to do. Of course, he could never have envisioned back then, back before his life became the insane spectacle that it was today, the use to which he would be putting the training.
Even as he applied the pressure to Harry's heart, Peter's mind was racing. First rule of an accident: don't move the victim. You could cause all manner of greater damage in doing so.
But he didn't have a cell phone to call an ambulance, and even if he did, Peter didn't know where the hell he was. He couldn't begin to describe their location beyond "somewhere in Chinatown."
He thought he felt a stirring in Harry's chest, but he couldn't be certain. CPR was simply a stopgap to keep
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