Ultimate Spider-Man: Run Like Hell

AN: Ultimate Aunt May is totally made of win. She's seriously awesome. Action-wise, this chapter is very limited. I made the decision to chop it in half so I could focus on the huge leap in the next chapter where the title of the story comes into play. I really wanted to write this scene with Aunt May, but I couldn't really fit her and the darker, panicked tone in chapter four together. I thought Peter should have a nice, pleasant morning before things get really bad for him.
As a sort of warning, this chapter does introduce an original character who plays a part in the story later on. It's not a big role, but I know some people dislike messing with the established canon. If this sort of thing bothers you, you've been warned. I wanted to get her introduction out of the way so we could carry on with the rest.

CHAPTER THREE

If you've never had Dim Sum before, oh man. I can't recommend it enough. Even without the crazy Spider-Metabolism you'd still find me here, every Saturday morning in China Town, making a pig of myself.

If Aunt May notices I eat more than I used to these days, she doesn't comment on it. She sits across from me in the crowded -- packed -- little restaurant at the wobbly little table we commandeered almost before the last butts had left the rickety little chairs and sips primly at the fresh cup of black tea in front of her. We've only been here for about five minutes, but there's already a crowd loitering near by, ready to spring for our table the minute we stand up. If you think I'm exaggerating how busy these places are, come back and tell me after you've taken an elbow in the eye because you almost had to headbutt someone to get a shrimp dumpling, and I'm not even joking. It's noisy, too, like nothing you've ever heard; everywhere the clatter of ceramic, non stop, as the dimunutive Dim Sum ladies push their trolleys through the narrow aisles, constantly refilling every empty tea cup.

Uncle Ben was really the big chinese fan in the family, but I think it was Aunt May who decided on these weekly outings. She seemed to think that if Uncle Ben was going to eat huge amounts of the stuff anyway, it would be healthier to eat it where it was at least cooked fresh on the spot, instead of delivered by apathetic teenagers in greasy cardboard cartons. I don't know about healthier, but since the first time we tried it, I can't get enough of it, not just the food but the whole atmosphere. I mean, look. It's not even eight in the morning and there are more people here than you might see at an Ihop all day. And everyone is so damn cheerful, smiling and swapping pieces of food back and forth before they sally off to work.

Just don't get in the way of a man and his Jin Deui, and you'll be fine.

I'm a little surprised to be here right now, to be honest. When I got back to the police station last night and saw Aunt May waiting there for me with Mr Urich -- who looked terrified in a restrained sort of way -- I was convinced I was going to be grounded until I was dead, possibly even later. She was practically jetting smoke from her nostrils. All I could do was hold the little bag carrying Mary Jane's "requested" Big Mac in front of me like a shield and put on my best pokey little puppy face. In the end, I think she was just glad to see me with my head attached. And the way MJ had simpered and cried and acted like I'd brought her the Holy Grail had probably helped soften her up, too.

I hadn't expected to sleep at all last night, but I think I was comatose before my head hit the pillow. I'd resisted the urge to call Mary right away -- we hadn't gotten a chance to really talk last night, but if there was any kind higher power up there, she was having a very deep, very dreamless sleep right now.

Still, I don't like that thoughtful look on Aunt May's face right now. She looks like she's turning over some complex problem in her head. I'd better derail her, and fast.

"So are you working late tonight?" I ask, swallowing a mouthful of sticky rice with difficulty. (Probably not the breakfast of champions, but hey.)

"I don't think so." she says absently, setting her cup down on the plate in front of her and toying with the handle. Her wedding band catches the early morning light streaming in through the entrance and seems to wink at me. "I was actually only going to put in a half day, if I could get away with it." She picks up a chunk of Turnip Cake with her chop sticks (something I still haven't mastered, so here I am, the savage with a fork) and frowns at it. "I thought maybe we could go out to dinner with Mary Jane and her mother."

I resist the urge to make a face, taking a drink of scalding tea to hide it. I like Mrs Watson fine -- always treated me great, and the lady is a martyr -- but she's always been a bit . . . frenetic where Mary Jane's safety is concerned. I can only imagine what sort of a craze she's worked up into right now. "That'd be great." I say finally, striving for a normal tone, but Aunt May gives me a knowing look.

"How about you? You're going straight to the Daily Bugle after this, right?" Her tone has a note of forboding that implies there's only one right answer here.

"Yep." I say, giving her my best shiny happy citizen smile. She doesn't look convinced. I think she knows I'd rather stay with Mary Jane, but last night MJ was pretty specific about staying at home in bed. I'll have to settle for calling her on my lunch break. "Saturday is the day I have to archive all the week's back issues, so I'll be pretty busy."

"That was nice of Mr Urich to give you a ride last night. He looks different than I'd imagined." She takes a bite of her cake and points her chop sticks at me. "You should get him something. Say thank you."

"Yeah. I guess I should hurry over to the Hallmark store. They probably have a hard time keeping 'Thanks For Driving Me Into Queens To See My Girlfriend In The Klink' cards in stock. I hear they're popular."

The corner of her mouth twicthes. "While you're there, be sure to pick up some 'I'm Sorry You Were Grounded For Being Such A Smarty' cards. I hear there's a good market for those lately."

Point.

She doesn't seem mad though, and for a while we lapse into a comfortable silence. She raises her eyebrows when I get my third helping of Bau from the bemused looking little old woman pushing the nearest Dim Sum cart, but doesn't comment. Me? I'm just happy to be here with her right now. Between school, Spider-Man, my job, and her job, we honestly don't get to spend as much time together as I'd like. Yeah, so I know it's not cool to want to hang out with your family, but I could care less. I love my Aunt and it's not like my social status could do any worse, anyway.

Of course, in typical Aunt May fashion, she waits until I have my mouth full before she says, "I'm thinking maybe we should move out of town."

For a moment, I can only stare at her, my cheeks bulging with steamed bun, eyes enormous over them. She only stares back at me blandly, hands folded on the table in front of her. I struggle to swallow and wind up gasping, eyes streaming. "No fair." I wheeze, fumbling for my cup of tea. "You're supposed to wait until I have something liquid in my mouth if you're shooting for a spit take."

"Peter, I'm serious." she says, a touch of annoyance creeping into her voice. She frowns at me, and in her tidy little black suit for a moment it's like being stared down by a principal or something. "I've been thinking about this for a while, and last night only makes it seem more logical. You can't pretend it doesn't."

The realisation that she is serious and she does mean business rolls over me with the easiness of a heavy wave, and my heart begins to pound. It's not fair. I'm only fifteen. I can't take this much stress in a twenty four hour period. "Aunt May! Come on. This is crazy. We can't just up and move because some whack job -- "

"We're not talking about someone knocking over trash cans and spray painting garages, Peter." she hisses. "This is some sick freak who gets off by hurting little kids. I don't think I'm being crazy to be worried about this."

"No, I know, but -- "

She slaps the flat of her hand on the table hard enough to make our plates clatter. It's a mark of how noisy this place is that nobody turns around. Or maybe they just don't care. "But what? Do you really understand how close Mary Jane came to being killed last night, Peter?"

God, I wish she wouldn't bring that up. It makes a sick feeling roil up from the pit of my stomach.

"I'm not trying to be mean." she continues. "But this city is dangerous, Peter."

That does it. "The whole damn world is dangerous, Aunt May!" It bursts out of me before I can stop it, and now several people actually do turn around. I'm aware of a dull heat in my cheeks. I hadn't actually meant to shout it.

It's only silent for a heartbeat before the rest of the restaurant returns to business, people turning back to their little plates with exasperated mutters about the crazy white kid, I'm sure. Another Dim Sum girl comes by, this one a tiny woman with a perfect button nose and a smiling mouth, and refills my teacup. She winks at me in a friendly, understanding way as she leaves, and I smile weakly in return.

After a moment, Aunt May sighs. "I know, honey. I just . . . "

"Worry." I finish for her, finally meeting her gaze. "You don't think I worry about you, too?"

"Now why would you do that?"

"Because you're so pretty. Some prince could fall in love with you and whisk you off to his castle, and then where would I be? I'd be out of clean underpants inside of a week."

Finally, she laughs, and the spell of tension breaks. I love the way Aunt May laughs, especially because she doesn't do it enough these days. She sort of rocks back in her chair and throws her hands up in defense, and the sound of her laughter is remarkably young and girlish. "Peter Parker, you remind me of your father more and more every day."

I blink. There's something I haven't heard in a while. "I do?"

She smiles kindly at me. "You do. He always had a way . . . and you look so much like him. It does my heart good to see you turn out like this."

"Oh. Well. That's . . . . yeah." I trail off, dropping my gaze to my plate to hide my embarassment and pleasure. I'm not so good with compliments. Finally, I look up at her. She's still smiling, and she seems a lot more relaxed. "So . . . we're not moving?"

She hesitates only a moment -- not long enough for me to work myself up into a real nice nervous twitch -- and then shakes her head. "No . . . it was just a suggestion, really. I didn't think you'd go for it . . . and besides, I don't feel like surrendering ground to the savages just yet. Are you full, sweetie?"

"Yeah. Kind of a lot of excitement over breakfast. Not good for the ol' ticker." I add in a passable old man impression, complete with wheezing as I pat my chest.

She laughs again, and the sound lifts my heart. "Okay then. Let's blow this joint." she says with a grin, and beckons for the check.

On the sidewalk, we go our seperate ways. She's parked down around the corner and, theoretically, if I'm on my way to work on foot, the quickest way is in the opposite direction, down one of the main streets. Aunt May turns and begins adjusting my collar, stoically immune to the theatrical sighs and eye rolling that I give for accompaniment. "You'll call me when you get there." she says, not a question.

"Yes, Aunt May."

She smoothes my hair back from my forehead -- pretty unsuccessfully. I haven't had a haircut in a while, and my hair flops right back down in front of my eyes. She clucks her tongue a little in disapproval. "Do you need money for lunch?"

"No, Aunt May." I reply, trying to sound as monotone as possible. I'd be a lot more embarassed if we were anywhere else, but the fact is, even on the sidewalk, in China Town, nobody cares much about a scrawny white boy. "And please fuss over me as much as possible in front of people. If you could call Mr Jameson and ask him if I've been eating enough bran on my lunch breaks, that would be awesome."

She smirks a little and pats my cheek. "I might, you know. Mr Jameson has kids. I'm sure he worries, too."

Now this is of interest. "Mr Jameson has kids?" I'd always suspected he was a robot fueled by pure hate. I wasn't aware evil machinery could reproduce. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Eloise in my book club knows his wife." Aunt May says absently. "He's got two kids from a previous marriage, both older than you. A boy and a girl." She smiles a little, and I know what she's thinking; she and Uncle Ben always wanted kids, too, a perfect matching set. "Anyway. I'll call you in a while and let you know if I'll be off early. We'll stop and get Mary and her mother, and we'll all go to Olive Garden."

Swell. Mediocre greasy Italian and stifling motherly worry.

"That would be great." I say instead, smiling because I know it means a lot to her.

She smiles back and pats my cheek before kissing me on the forehead (which still is embarassing, no matter where you are.). She has to lean down a little to do it, but not much. I still hold out hope that I'll end up taller than Richard Simmons. "Okay, honey. You have a good day. Bring home the bacon."

"Yes ma'am. I will suffuse our assets with pork and pork by-products."

I stand and watch her go. On the corner, she turns and waves. Backlit by the morning sun, she suddenly looks younger, and I catch a glimpse of the smiling woman that must have hooked Uncle Ben.

After she's out of sight, I head off to work, just like any normal guy.

Only I do it in spandex.

---

So, webs. Actually pretty snappy to get around.

I'm trying to cut back on using them for regular transportation. Fact is, they're not cheap, even when you get most of your supplies off of bootleg chemical stores on eBay. For all my bellyaching about cash, I'd have a lot more if I walked like a regular kid more often these days.

But the fact is, I'm not a regular kid. I need the practice, too.

And if I'm honest, I think I'm starting to get a little hooked on this.

I'm swinging towards Times Square now, high above the crawl of traffic, and I'm almost giddy with how natural the movements have become. Swing, and release. Catch, and swing. I pump my legs like a kid on a swing set on the downward arc, and for a moment the roar of the wind that whips past my body is almost deafening. It's sharp enough that it stings a little, and tears from the cold prick my eyes, but I barely notice. At the top of my arc, I let go, the momentum carrying me up and forward in a sort of mid-air swan dive. I have two, maybe three seconds of dizzying free-fall before I snap off the next web, catching the end in my fist, and the whole things starts all over again.

I can't help but think I dodged a bullet back there with Aunt May. She may have laughed it off in the end, but I think she was more than a little serious. The food in my belly gives an unpleasant lurch at the thought, and I quickly turn my thoughts ahead to the day instead. I hadn't been lying when I said I had a lot of work to do today. And I suppose I'll have another verse of "When I Was Your Age" courtesy Mr Jameson for leaving early last night. I'm not expecting any sympathy, mainly because I have no intention of telling him why I left. The last thing I need is for everyone to know it was Mary Jane who found the body last night and have them hounding at her door. Everyone is going to find out in time, but let her get as long as she can in quiet for now. I'm sure she needs it.

I need it a little too, but this is my quiet time, up here where I can startle the occasional low flying bird, moving so quickly you can hear the air being displaced around me, flying in short bursts between web lines. Is it terrifying? Yeah, okay, a little. But every day I spend more time up here, above everyone else, I think it'd be more terrifying to be trapped down there permanently with them in that hot crush of bodies on every sidewalk, or crammed in another smelling car.

I cut across the rooftop of a local Starbucks, feet pounding across the surface for a moment before I leap again. Sometimes I think I fire off a web blindly -- it's a little frightening to realise now and again that I don't always look at where I'm throwing my next anchor point. But I've never fallen. Not yet, anyway. Some of us aren't so lucky.

Like that girl last night . . . oh man. I still don't know her name, and a part of me is afraid that when I pick up a newspaper today and see who she'll is, I'll recognise her. I don't know if it would be better or worse if I did. And then there's the terrible thought that I never will meet her regardless. Somebody I could have known, someone I might have had something in common with, someone I might have liked to laugh with at lunch, and I'll never know.

I know Mary Jane expects me to do something, and believe me when I say I wish there was something I could do, but there isn't. Not now, anyway. It's terrible, and it's scary, but that guy is out there and it's up to the police. It's flattering that MJ puts so much trust in me, but sometimes I think she has me confused with Batman as far as high tech tracking technology goes.

Note to self. Utility belt? Actually not a bad idea.

I'm still not entirely convinced last night was real anyway. The end of it all behind the school had me seriously doubting it for a while, and I'm still not sure what I saw. Liz and Flash? I guess it's not entirely far fetched -- they don't really hate each other, but then again I never got the impression that they were bosom buddies either.

Oh god, Parker, don't think about bosoms. Not in tights. The last thing we want is for the anti-Spidey enthusiasts to have another reason to think I'm a creep.

Okay. Then instead think about how I'm going to face Liz on Monday and look her in the eye and pretend I didn't see her jiggly bits being groped by the class neanderthal. I'm quite certain Clark Kent never had to deal with this. Sometimes I wonder who the hell is writing my life. At least it's not important in the scheme of things. Weird, but not critical.

Although, even as I think it, something in the back of my mind is bothering me about that . . .

But before I can catch it, there's a gunshot from below.

Great. Just once I'd like to know what it'd be like to hear a gunshot and respond rationally by running in the opposite direction.

I drop towards the sound, arm reaching out reflexively to catch the arm of a streetlamp and swing me off into a dingy side alley. About fifty feet away, I can make out a pair of figures struggling against the side of the wall. A glance back shows me the alley entrance is empty, and I don't know if it's because traffic is noisy enough that nobody heard what I did, or if they're just doing the jaded New Yorker thing and ignoring it. Either way, it's a good thing. Guns still make me nervous, and I like it better when the only person in the line of fire is me.

I run towards them past overflowing garbage cans, and at first they don't see me. They're of similar height and build, dressed in equally nondescript clothing, and one of them has a death grip on a pistol of some kind while the other has hold of his wrists and has them forced into the air. The man with the gun spits into the other's face, actually growling like a cornerned dog. "Bastid! Fuckin' bastid! You an' my fuckin' Sara! Toldya I'd get you!"

Sometimes my history teacher likes to talk about evolution, and how nice it is we're not swinging in the trees throwing our own feces at each other anymore. There are days when I'm not sure we aren't.

"Max," the other says in a strained voice trying for civility, "come on, just . . . just drop it, look, I told you, nothin' happened, aright?" He puffs a little as Max only snarls in response and tries to bring the gun down. Neither are big men, but it looks like a pretty fierce contest nonetheless. "Jeezus, Max, I'm serious!"

"Bastid!" Max shrieks shrilly again. I can see the cords of his neck standing out with the effort of trying to force his hands down.

"Max!" his friend pleads again.

"Spider-Man!" I say, and smack them both in the eyes with webs when they turn towards me. "Whoops, sorry. I'm not so good in social situations. What's the etiquitte here? Do I go and get a gun to wave around too?"

Squawking in surprise, Max's friend lets go and staggers backward, clawing at his face. His left foot comes down on a piece of rotten garbage and he goes slipping backwards, feet flying out in front of him. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing, because Max chooses that minute to fire wildly, the first bullet passing so neatly above his friend's head that it probably parter his hair like a ruler, and the next missing my left ear with a sound like a wasps' angry whine. "Bastids! Whafuck?!"

"Wow! You sure are fiesty this morning, Max!" I sound less shocked and alarmed then I really am. Which is good, because people don't want to hear a super hero's voice cracking like a fifteen year old boy's, which, once again, I really am. I drop low to the ground and shoot off another string of web, this one splatting neatly against the hand with the gun and pinning it to the wall behind him. "What's your secret? Wheaties? Folgers? I'm more of a CoaCoa Pebbles guy myself."

"Geez!" his friend wheezes. He's rolling on the ground, struggling with the webbing covering his eyes and only getting his hands stuck in the process. His heels beat a panicked drum on the alley floor. "Geez! I can't fuckin' see! Who's -- "

"Take it easy, buddy. Don't worry. I'm not giving your friend any special treatment." To prove it, I web him to the ground, too. I can hear sirens coming now -- someone's finally noticed the shots -- and I feel vaguely satisfied. It's not often that my little detours are drawn up as quickly and painlessly as this. And hey, if 'bastid' is the worse thing I ever get called, well, point for me. "In fact, I'm even bringing some special friends over to meet you guys, you're just that special -- "

"Fuck!" Max cries, head wagging blindly in my direction. "I know you! Fuckin' Spider-Man! I see how it is! You let a guy off who sleeps with his best pal's girl! The li'l people don't get any fuckin' justice!"

I could make a really bad joke about that one, but I won't. "I know, I'm sorry. I'd give you the prize for the Stupidest Individual, too, but honestly? Day's still young, someone else might grab it." The sirens are closer now, and I turn to go, but pause. "Seriously, guys. Fighting over a woman like that? You were really going to shoot him?"

"I'll ventilate ya ya fuckin' bug!" Max screams in response.

"Yeah, yeah. You and everyone else." I sigh, turning to go. As I do, the toe of my boot comes in contact with something small and hard, and it goes skittering and clattering across the ground a few feet away. Startled, I bend down and fish it out of a pile of old newspapers.

It's a cellphone. And somehow, I don't think it belongs to either of my new friends. It's too cute, too compact. Too pink. I'm honestly surprised I didn't notice it before because it was right under my feet, literally, and it looks brand new.

Outside the alley, there's the screech of tires as the police finally make their appearance. Without thinking much about it, I turn and leap up the side of the building, actually running up it briefly in an acrobatic stunt that would make Ringling's salivate. Footsteps are pounding in the alley below, but I'm already moving in the opposite direction, still carrying the cellphone. When I get time, I'll look through the address book and try to find the owner.

Now? I'm late for work. Again.

*

Go on. Get it over with.

It's what I think as I enter the Bugle, slinging my backpack in the direction of my cubicle and punching in quickly with the other hand. I'm late -- not really, catastrophically, Rip-Van-Winkle-Late, but still late enough that it looks especially bad after last night, and I think I should probably nip it in the bud and let Mr Jameson get his yelling out of the way. That way I won't have it hanging over my head all day, and I think it might even put him in a better mood too, as though yelling for him is the equivalent of a morning jog for some people.

Besides, Betty Brant is already here, and she's spotted me from across the room. I don't know how much Ben has told her, but her face lights up with interest and she starts to weave her way towards me, hand already outstretched and mouth opening. I'm not yet ready for the interrogation that I'm sure is coming, so I pretend not to see her, hurrying off towards Mr Jameson's office. The door is closed, but some stupid impulse makes me reach for the handle and yank it open anyway, not even thinking about knocking. "Mr Jameson, I -- "

Three pairs of eyes turn towards me from inside the office and I freeze in the doorway. Whoops. Glancing behind me, I see Ms Brant has altered her course, studiously not looking at the open door as she heads away.

"Parker! Even barns have doors! You might have been raised in one, but you still must have learned how to knock." I don't know how he does it, but Mr Jameson manages to look about a foot taller when he's angry. He's standing behind his desk with both fists planted on the surface, glaring at me through the haze of cigar smoke curling up from the cigar clamped between his teeth. "Get out of here!"

"Jonah -- " That's Ben Urich, standing to the left of the door, stepping forward with his hands raised like you might try to ward off an angry dog. "Take it easy, Peter didn't mean to interrupt. I know you're angry, but -- "

"You know I'm angry?" Mr Jameson snaps, his attention swivelling away from me. I feel a little bit like a bug under a bootheel must feel at getting a temporary reprive. "What the hell do you know, Urich?! Well, you knew about this, but you didn't seem to think you had to tell me, so -- "

"That's not fair and you know it. I only found out last night!"

"Last night! More notice than me, her own -- "

"You were busy, you said it yourself! You had your cell turned off, how was I supposed to -- "

"Don't argue with me when I'm about to feed you your own ass, Urich!" Mr Jameson bellows, the water in a glass on his desk actually quivering a little. And then he spins towards me again, face pale except for two spots of hectic angry colour high in his cheeks. "AND SHUT THAT FUCKING DOOR!"

SLAM.

I freeze with my hands on the closed door, staring wildly at them both, heart pounding, thinking wildly that if this is what growing up is like, I'll be happy to deal with school and uncomfortable girl social situations for the rest of my life. And then I realise I'm probably on the wrong side of said closed door, because now there are no witnesses.

For a minute, Mr Jameson only stares at me, his jaw working enough that I imagine I can nearly hear his teeth grinding together. I just have time to think that this is how it ends, throttled to death by an old man at my job while Aunt May is making reservations at Olive Garden, when he sighs and slumps a little, finally shifting his gaze out the window. "Parker, you've met my daughter?" he says almost grudgingly, gesturing to my right with the hand now holding his cigar.

"Uh." Is all I can manage again. I turn my head on tendons that feel creaky and old to find myself face to face with a woman I hadn't noticed. "Um. No. Hey." I thrust my hand out automatically, feeling stupid and slow and exasperated. I mean, come on. Haven't I met my Crazy Shit Quota for the month yet.

"Hey. Hi." she says mildly, taking my hand and shaking it once, giving me a quick smile.

There's a brief, uncomfortable pause before Mr Urich jumps in, dropping a hand on my shoulder. "Peter, this is Emily Jameson, Mr Jameson's youngest. Emily, this is Peter Parker." He gives my shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. I don't know if he's trying to tell me Mr Jameson is calming down, or his daughter isn't a threat -- I find both a little hard to believe right now. "Peter takes care of our website maintenance."

"Brave kid." Emily Jameson says, that little smile again. As she speaks, she drops me an amused wink, and I finally relax a little, if suspiciously. Finding myself in the room with another of the Jameson clan is more than a little freaky, but at least I can't spot any bolts sticking out of her neck or heavy black stitching. No fangs as of yet. Despite the yelling of just a few moments ago, she looks relaxed and calm. It occurs to me that if she really is Mr Jameson's daughter, she's probably immune to it by now. "Sorry you got blasted, Peter."

"That's . . . that's okay." I say, recovering. "Some people have coffee. I go for the more extreme wake-up." It's a weak joke, but it's better than a squeak, and even Mr Urich gives me a faint smile. "I'm sorry I barged in, Mr Jameson. I just wanted to apologise for being late today and -- "

"Late?" He throws up his hands and sinks into his chair with a groan, the leather material creaking in apparent commiseration. He slumps a little, raising his eyes theatrically to the ceiling. "Who cares about late? All that money, gone, just gone . . . "

What?

"It was only one term, and you know I paid for it myself, Dad." Ms Jameson says patiently in a heard-it-all-before tone. She shakes her head a little and shrugs. "Something better came along. Give it a chance, you'll see."

None of this is making any sense to me, so I take the opportunity to take a closer look at Mr Jameson's daughter. Surprisingly, she's actually pretty . . . pretty. I don't know what I'd expected his kids to look like -- maybe minature Jonahs with little military crop cuts and cigars, boy and girl alike -- but this isn't it. She's probably only in her early twenties, and dressed casually in jeans and a simple blouse. She doesn't look much like her father, except for the dark eyes, and she's got pale, slightly angular features that would probably look a lot harder and more arrogant without that easy smile.

Okay. So his daughter is human. That doesn't prove anything about him.

Mr Jameson is wagging his head from side to side sadly. "'Something better', she says. Where would we be if Elvis had decided to go for 'something better'?"

I'm close enough to Mr Urich that I can see him roll his eyes a little. "Come on, Jonah, that's the worst comparison yet. This has nothing to do with anything like Elvis."

"I don't have side-burns." Ms Jameson murmurs with a small frown, touching the sides of her face. "Or satin pants . . . although . . . "

Mr Urich pats me on the shoulder again, this time prodding me gently back towards the door. "Go on, Peter. You go ahead and get back to work. Thanks for letting us know you're late, and . . . uh . . . don't let it happen again." he finishes awkwardly. He clearly doesn't have a lot of experience bossing teenagers around, or he'd know you usually have to push a bit harder than that. "I'll come by your desk and we'll talk about last night later, okay?"

Ms Jameson tips her hand back and forth in a small wave. "Nice meeting you, Peter." she says warmly . . . and then mouths 'Hang in there' with a roll of her head in her father's direction, which makes me feel a lot better about her.

I'm nearly out the door -- and God, I'm almost relieved at the thought of working through mounds of computer code if the world will stop spinning backwards outside my desk for a while -- when Mr Jameson's head comes up. "Last night?" he says, eyes narrowing a little. "What happened last night? Did something else happen? Ben?"

I swear inwardly. The last thing I wanted was to have to explain any of it to Mr Jameson. He'd be pumping me for an exclusive story all day -- which is quite possibly the most unpleasant thought I've had yet this morning. I open my mouth, not even sure of the lie I'm going to give, when my pants begin to play the tune from 007. It takes me a moment to realise it's the cellphone I picked up earlier and not the sound of my brain cracking.

"Sorry. Sorry. 'Scuse me, gotta take this." I lie glibly, backing out of the office with a fake smile and shutting the door behind me, cutting off Mr Jameson's demanding voice. I fumble the phone out of my back pocket and flip it open. "Hey, hello? Listen, I know I found your phone and all, but you just saved me big time, so we'll call it ev -- "

"Hello? Is someone there??"

I freeze in mid stride away from the door, a funny, unpleasant tickle running down my spine. It's a woman's voice, quavery and filled with panic as sharp as broken glass. "Hello??" she cries again, her voice breaking, when I'm too stunned to answer. "Oh God, please, is anyone there?"

"I - I'm here." I manage. I'm standing in the middle of the room, feeling that horrible sensation like the earth is tilting beneath my feet again. "Who is this? Hey, what's wrong?" This can't be happening, I think, even though the sudden painful constriction in my chest lets me know it is.

She doesn't respond immediately, but I hear her suck in a deep, quivering breath. "God, please, he made me call you, I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry! I don't even know you!" Her voice is spiralling up again, becoming sharp enough that it hurts my ear, but I keep the phone jammed against my head.

"What are you talking about? Who is this? What's going on?" I try to sound demanding, tough, angry, but my voice only sounds uncertain to me.

Suddenly, she lets out a long, low wail that sends the short hairs at the back of my neck standing up at attention, and my eyes widen. This isn't happening. I think again, even as she cries out, "Please, please help me! It hurrrrrrrrrrrrts!"