[Michelle Jones POV]
The autumn sun filters through yellowing leaves in Washington Square Park, casting dappled shadows across my book. I've read the same paragraph three times now, the words blurring together as my mind drifts. Two NYU students laugh nearby, their voices carrying across the relative quiet of midday on a Tuesday. Normal people doing normal things.
Must be nice.
I check my phone again. Nothing. Of course.
Harry Osborn has ghosted me for over three weeks now. Not that we were dating or anything—just study partners with occasional coffee meetups that might have been leading somewhere. At least I thought they were. Shows what I know.
I flip the page with more force than necessary, tearing the corner slightly. Great. Now I've damaged library property because a billionaire's son isn't texting me back. Get it together, MJ.
The thing is, Harry seemed different from what I expected. Not the spoiled rich kid the tabloids painted him as. He was thoughtful, asked real questions about my opinions, remembered small details from our conversations. And then, poof—vanished into the Osborn empire without so much as a "sorry, busy with CEO stuff."
My phone buzzes. For a pathetic second, my heart jumps. But it's just Peter.
"Hey, MJ," his voice comes through, that familiar eager tone. "Are you free to talk about that chem project? Ned and I were thinking—
"Shouldn't you two geniuses be able to handle it without me?" I cut in, but there's no real bite to it. Peter's earnestness is impossible to be genuinely annoyed with.
"We could, but it wouldn't be as good. Nobody analyzes research gaps like you do."
I can't help smiling a little. Peter Parker—the only person who genuinely appreciates my critical thinking skills rather than calling me a pessimist.
"Fine. I'm at Washington Square. Just reading—"
A shadow falls over me, unnaturally dark and sudden. Before I can turn, something clamps over my mouth—a gloved hand that smells of leather and something chemical. My book tumbles to the ground as I'm yanked backward with impossible strength.
"MJ? You there?" Peter's voice sounds tiny from the phone now lying in the grass.
I try to scream, to fight, but my limbs feel heavy, unresponsive. Whatever was on that glove is working fast.
The last thing I register before consciousness slips away is a sound that doesn't belong in a sunny park on a Tuesday afternoon—manic, unhinged laughter right behind my ear.
[Michelle Jones POV End]
____________________________________________________
Peter paces the length of Ned's bedroom, phone pressed to his ear, a knot of worry tightening in his chest.
"MJ?" he calls again. "Are you still there?"
The line is still connected, but all he can hear is distant background noise—park sounds, a siren somewhere, nothing from Michelle herself.
"Maybe she just dropped her phone?" Ned suggests from his desk chair, though he doesn't sound convinced.
"She wouldn't just... I heard something weird." Peter redials for the third time. "Come on, MJ, pick up..."
This time, someone answers. But it's not Michelle.
"Hello, Peter." The voice sends ice down Peter's spine—distorted, unnatural, tinged with amusement that feels poisonous somehow.
"Who is this? Where's MJ?" Peter demands, motioning frantically at Ned.
"Such concern! How touching." The voice drips with mockery. "Your little girlfriend is taking a nap right now. Whether she wakes up depends entirely on you."
"Threats? From you?" Laughter crackles through the speaker, making Peter pull the phone away momentarily. "A boy who still needs his aunt to iron his shirts? Speaking of dear May..."
The casual mention of his aunt makes Peter's blood run cold.
"She's working the late shift tonight at the hospital, isn't she? All alone in that parking garage afterward..." The voice drops lower, more intimate. "Do you know how easy it would be to take her? To peel the skin from her face while the world watches? To make you listen to her screams while I—"
"Stop!" Peter shouts, his free hand clenched into a fist so tight his nails dig painfully into his palm. "What do you want? Please, just tell me."
"That's better. Polite. Properly frightened." The voice sounds pleased now. "What I want is simple. Call Harry Osborn."
Of all the things Peter expected to hear, this wasn't even on the list. "Harry? What does he have to do with—"
"Call him. Tell him the Goblin has taken something precious from the spider. Tell him to come alone to the highest point of the Queensboro Bridge in one hour. Tell him to come as himself—as the Batman."
"Batman? I don't understand—"
"Understanding isn't required, only obedience." The voice hardens. "One hour, Peter Parker. Call your friend. Or start planning two funerals instead of just Aunt May's."
The line goes dead.
Ned stares at him, wide-eyed. "Dude, what is happening?"
Peter's mind races, trying to process everything. "Someone has MJ. They're threatening my aunt. And they think Harry is... Batman? It doesn't make any sense."
"Batman? Like the actual Batman who's been all over the news? That's Harry, seriously?" Ned looks equal parts terrified and awestruck.
"I don't know! But I need to call him." Peter scrolls frantically through his contacts. Harry's number is still there, though they haven't spoken much since Harry took over Oscorp. Things have been... different between them.
The call connects after four rings.
"Peter?" Harry's voice sounds wary, perhaps a little out of breath. "This isn't really a good time—"
"Harry stop!, MJ's been kidnapped," Peter blurts out. "Someone who calls himself the Goblin. He has her on the Queensboro Bridge and he's threatening to kill my aunt and he told me to call you and said to come as Batman and I don't understand what's happening but please—"
"Slow down." Harry's tone shifts instantly to something sharper, more focused. "Are you somewhere safe?"
"I'm at Ned's house, but—"
"Stay there. I'll handle this."
"Harry, he said you're Batman. That doesn't make any sense, right? Like, that's crazy—"
A brief pause. "I'll explain later. Where exactly on the bridge?"
"The highest point. He said one hour."
"I'll get your aunt first. Then MJ."
"But how are you going to—"
"Trust me." The firmness in Harry's voice is unlike anything Peter has heard from him before. "I'll call you when they're safe."
The line goes dead, leaving Peter staring at Ned, questions multiplying by the second.
"Dude," Ned whispers, eyes wide... "Harry didn't say no..."
________________________________________
Moments before...
The Ancient One circles me slowly, her movements fluid yet precise, like water flowing over stone. My own stance mirrors hers—balanced, centered, ready.
"You learn quickly," she observes, her eyes never leaving mine despite her casual tone. "Most students take months to grasp these forms."
"I've had some practice," I reply, maintaining the defensive posture she taught me this morning. The discipline isn't entirely new—I trained extensively in multiple martial arts after arriving in this universe, preparing Batman's physical capabilities to match the enhanced strength the serum and spider bite provided.
But this is different. The Ancient One doesn't just teach combat—she teaches harmony between physical movement and mystical energy. Each stance, each transition, serves both purposes simultaneously.
"Physical combat is merely the shell," she continues, suddenly launching a strike that seems to come from nowhere. I block it, barely, feeling the impact reverberate through my arm. "The true battle occurs on multiple planes of existence simultaneously."
She follows with a series of attacks that flow together like choreography, each one precise and purposeful. I defend adequately but can't find an opening to counter.
"You're still thinking linearly," she chides, sweeping my legs from under me with a move I didn't see coming. I hit the stone courtyard hard. "Your body exists in three dimensions. Your mind must learn to exist in more."
I rise quickly, adjusting my stance. "Show me."
A small smile touches her lips. She raises her hands, golden energy forming around them like liquid light. Not attacking, but demonstrating.
"Feel the energy flowing through you, between dimensions. Let it guide your movements rather than forcing them."
I try to replicate the motion, focusing on the faint sensation I've begun to detect during our training—the subtle current of energy that exists at the boundaries between realities. A flicker of golden light appears around my fingers, weak but unmistakable.
"Yes," she encourages. "Now move with it, not against it."
This time when she attacks, I don't just defend physically. I try to sense the flow of her energy, to anticipate rather than react. For a brief moment, it works—I redirect her strike and find an opening for a counter that nearly lands.
The Ancient One stops, genuine approval in her expression. "Progress. You begin to understand."
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my training clothes. I would normally ignore it during these sessions, but after the Goblin's emergence, I've kept it active for emergency alerts.
"May I?" I ask, already reaching for it.
The Ancient One nods, watching curiously as I check the caller ID. Peter Parker. We haven't spoken much lately—my dual lives as Harry Osborn and Batman leaving little time for old friendships. For him to call now is unusual.
The conversation that follows changes everything. Peter's panicked voice, the mention of the Goblin, MJ kidnapped, May threatened. And my identity—Batman—somehow known to this Goblin who can only be Norman.
"I need to go," I tell the Ancient One after ending the call. "Lives are at stake."
"Your father has escalated his attacks," she states rather than asks. "Taking innocents now."
"Yes." I don't bother questioning how she knows. "I need to get back to New York immediately."
She studies me for a moment, then nods once. "You recall the portal spell?"
"Yes." I've been practicing it daily since our last session, one of the few techniques I've shown aptitude for.
"Then go. Remember what you've learned here—not just about movement, but about seeing beyond the obvious." She steps back, giving me space. "The Goblin fights on multiple fronts. Physical, psychological, emotional. You must do the same."
I concentrate, fingers tracing the now-familiar patterns. Golden energy follows their path, forming a circle through which I can see my private study. The portal stabilizes, stronger than my previous attempts.
"Thank you," I tell her sincerely. "For everything."
"We've barely begun," she replies with that enigmatic smile. "Return when this crisis has passed. There is much more for you to learn."
I step through the portal, already calculating my next moves. Get to the Batcave. Secure May Parker. Then deal with Norman and save MJ.
My father has crossed yet another line. Taking innocent lives was bad enough. Targeting people I care about, people connected to me personally? He wanted me angry.. then that's what he'll get.
I'm not perfect... but I never make the same mistake twice, Norman Osborn. prepare to meet your creator.
________________________________________
May Parker pulls her worn cardigan tighter as she exits the hospital's side door, heading for the employee parking lot. The night shift ended an hour ago, but a last-minute emergency kept her longer than expected. Now it's nearly 1 AM, the lot half-empty and poorly lit.
She fumbles for her keys, thinking about the leftover lasagna waiting at home and whether Peter will still be up. The boy barely sleeps these days, always studying or working on some project. So bright, so driven—just like his uncle had been.
A shadow moves at the edge of her vision. May freezes, keys clutched between her fingers in the self-defense position she learned in that community center class. Probably nothing. Just nerves after a long shift.
But the shadow moves again, more deliberately this time, detaching from the darkness near a concrete pillar. A figure steps into the dim light—tall, imposing, dressed entirely in black with a cowl that obscures all features except for eyes that somehow catch what little light exists.
May gasps, stumbling backward. "Oh my God."
Batman. The vigilante from the news. Standing in her hospital parking lot at 1 AM.
"May Parker," he says, his voice a deep modulated rumble that doesn't sound entirely human. "You're in danger. I need you to come with me."
Her heart pounds painfully against her ribs. "How do you know my name?"
"There's no time to explain." He steps closer, movements precise and controlled. "Your nephew Peter is safe. Michelle Jones has been kidnapped by someone targeting people connected to me. You're next on his list."
"Peter?" Fear sharpens her voice. "What does Peter have to do with any of this? What have you done?"
"Nothing. But the man responsible knows I care about certain people in this city. He's using them to get to me." Batman extends a gloved hand. "I've spoken to Peter. He knows I'm taking you somewhere safe until this is over."
May backs away, not ready to trust this stranger despite his apparent knowledge. "I'm not going anywhere with you until I speak to my nephew."
Batman pauses, seeming to consider her demand. Then he reaches for something at his belt—a small device he holds out to her. "Call him. But we need to move quickly."
With shaking hands, May takes the offered phone. It connects immediately to Peter's number.
"Harry?" Peter's voice comes through, tight with worry. "Did you find her? Is Aunt May okay?"
May's eyes widen at the name, her gaze snapping up to the masked figure before her. That was Harry! "Peter? It's me. I'm fine, but there's... someone here saying I'm in danger. What's happening?"
"Aunt May! Oh thank God." Relief floods Peter's voice. "You need to go with him. Please. Someone took MJ and they're threatening you too. He's going to keep you safe."
"But who is he? How do you know—"
"I can't explain right now, but I trust him. Please, May. Just do what he says."
She looks up at the dark figure again, something nagging at the back of her mind. Something about the posture, the build, the way he holds himself despite the intimidating costume.
"Okay," she says finally, both to Peter and to Batman. "But you call me the second you hear anything about MJ, understand?"
"Promise. Love you."
"Love you too." She hands the device back to Batman. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere secure. Not far." He gestures toward a sleek black vehicle idling at the far end of the lot—how had she not noticed it before? "We need to hurry."
The ride is surreal—the vehicle moving with impossible speed and silence through city streets, Batman focused entirely on driving, offering no conversation. May sits rigidly in the passenger seat, mind racing with questions.
They pull into what appears to be an abandoned building in Queens, but inside reveals a small, surprisingly comfortable space with security systems that would make a military installation jealous.
"You'll be safe here," Batman tells her, already turning to leave. "There's food, water, communications. I'll send updates about Michelle."
"Wait." May steps forward, studying him more carefully now that they're in better light. The way he stands, the profile visible beneath the cowl, something achingly familiar... "I know you, don't I?"
Batman goes still. "You should rest, Mrs. Parker. It's been a difficult night."
"Harry?" she ventures, the pieces suddenly clicking into place. "Harry Osborn?"
His silence is confirmation enough.
"I used to watch you and Peter build those ridiculous science projects in my living room. You'd stay for dinner and always compliment my meatloaf, even though it was terrible. And now... your--" She shakes her head in disbelief. "Harry, what have you gotten yourself into?"
For a moment, Batman—Harry—seems to struggle with how to respond. Then he simply says, "I need to save MJ. And stop someone very dangerous. For good."
"Norman?" May guesses, connecting more dots. "The news has been full of the attacks on Oscorp. That's him, isn't it?"
"Yes." A single word, heavy with implications.
May approaches him, maternal instinct overriding fear of the intimidating figure he presents. "Be careful. And bring that girl home safe."
He nods once, then turns to leave.
"Harry," she calls after him. "Peter figured it out, didn't he? That you're Batman?"
"He's beginning to." The modulated voice can't entirely hide what sounds like regret. "I'll keep him safe too, May. I promise."
Then he's gone, leaving May alone in the secure room, wondering when exactly the world around her became so unrecognizable.
__________________________________
My phone rings as I speed toward the Queensboro Bridge, the Batmobile cutting through light traffic with surgical precision. Peter's name on the display.
"Your aunt is secure," I tell him immediately upon answering.
"I know, she called me." Peter's voice sounds strained, processing too much at once. "Harry... the Goblin called you Batman. And you just... took my aunt to some secret location. And now you're going after MJ. What the hell is happening?"
This isn't how I wanted him to find out. Not during a crisis, not with lives at stake. But there's no time for the full explanation he deserves.
"Yes, I'm Batman," I confirm, taking a sharp turn that sends the vehicle rocketing down a side street. "I can't explain everything now, Peter. But I will. Once MJ is safe."
"But how? Why? When did you—"
"Peter." I cut him off, voice firm. "I promise I'll tell you everything later. Right now, I need to focus on stopping the Goblin and saving Michelle."
A pause. "The Goblin. That's... that's Norman, isn't it? Your dad."
Smart kid. Always was. "Yes."
"Jesus, Harry." His voice drops almost to a whisper. "Be careful, okay? This guy, the way he sounded on the phone... he's completely insane."
"I know." Better than anyone. "Stay where you are. I'll call when it's over."
I end the call, pushing the vehicle faster as the bridge comes into view ahead, its lights cutting through the night sky. According to the Batsuit's chronometer, I'm well within the one-hour deadline Norman set. But that offers little comfort. Every minute MJ spends in his hands is one too many.
The Queensboro Bridge looms larger, its distinctive architecture creating the perfect dramatic setting Norman would choose. I abandon the Batmobile in a concealed location near the Queens side approach, switching to grapnel-assisted ascent to reach the highest point.
My enhanced senses scan for movement, heat signatures, anything to indicate where Norman might be holding MJ. The wind is stronger up here, carrying fragments of sound—including what might be a voice.
I follow it, moving silently along the upper support structure of the bridge. As I near the central tower, the sounds become clearer—a man's voice, taunting and cruel, punctuated by a woman's frightened breathing.
Then I see them.
Michelle Jones, chained to the steel framework of the bridge's highest point, face bruised, a trickle of blood from her nose staining her shirt. Beside her stands the Goblin—Norman—fully costumed, one gloved hand gripping her throat just tightly enough to make breathing difficult.
"There you are," he calls out, somehow sensing my presence despite my stealth. "The bat emerges from his cave." His grip on MJ's throat tightens slightly, causing her to whimper. "Just in time for our little demonstration."
I move closer, every muscle tensed for action, calculating angles and approaches. "Let her go, Norman. She has nothing to do with this."
"Norman, he calls me." Goblin said shaking his head...
"So nothing, really?" He laughs, the sound carrying across the night air. "She has everything to do with this! The people you care about, the connections you try to hide—they're your true weakness. Batman may be bulletproof, but Harry Osborn's heart is oh so vulnerable."
MJ's eyes widen at the mention of my name, confusion momentarily overtaking fear as she looks between us.
"The girl is quite fond of you, you know," Norman continues, giving MJ's face a mocking caress that makes her flinch. "It took... a little force for honesty, but the darling did as she was told... Been wondering where her 'study' partner disappeared to. Ya know what kid, I'll give you that. You really are my son. I'd do the same.."
He then laughs and continues, "Should I tell her? Should I explain how Harry Osborn abandoned her for his crusade of justice?"
"Stop it," I growl, edging closer. Just a few more feet and I'll be within striking range.
"Or perhaps a demonstration would be more effective?" Norman's grip on MJ's throat tightens further. She struggles weakly, eyes bulging in terror as her airway constricts. "Shall we see how long it takes for her to lose consciousness? Or perhaps I should just drop her—let gravity finish what I started."
"ENOUGH!" I launch myself forward, covering the remaining distance in a heartbeat.
Norman was expecting the move. He releases MJ, who slumps against her chains gasping for air, and meets my attack with surprising readiness. His combat reflexes have improved since our last encounter—the Goblin serum apparently continuing to enhance his capabilities.
But I'm still stronger, faster, better trained. This was all my fault. He got lucky. I hesitated and now people are suffering. Norman Osborn should be dead and buried, that is my fault alone.
I strike with precision, targeting nerve clusters and weak points in Norman's armor. He counters with raw animalistic aggression, launching a wild flurry of blows that would overwhelm an ordinary opponent. I weave through them, redirecting his momentum rather than blocking directly—just as the Ancient One taught me.
"Better!" Norman laughs, genuinely delighted despite taking hits that would incapacitate a normal human. "You've been practicing! Learning new tricks for our rematch!"
I don't respond, focusing entirely on the fight. Vermin like this was beneath me, it needed to be exterminated.
MJ watches in stunned silence, still struggling to breathe normally after Norman's chokehold.
As expected, Norman begins to falter, his attacks growing more desperate. I press the advantage, landing a devastating combination that sends him staggering back against the bridge railing.
"Is this what you wanted?" I demand, closing in for another strike. "To be beaten in front of an audience? To prove you're no match for Batman even with a hostage as leverage?"
Something shifts in Norman's eyes—a calculation, a realization. "No," he admits, blood staining his teeth as he grins. "This isn't what I wanted at all."
His hand moves to his belt, retrieving something small—one of his pumpkin grenades. But instead of throwing it at me, he turns toward MJ, who's still chained helplessly to the bridge structure.
"This is what I wanted," he snarls, arm cocking back to throw.
Time seems to slow. MJ screams. The grenade begins its arc toward her....