Disclaimer: All characters are property of Marvel. I don't own 'em, and I'm not making any money off their use.

Author's Note: I almost didn't do this fic, but I posted a fragment of this chapter on dA and was encouraged to continue, so here we go. I hope that you all find it an interesting read. And I've done more research for this fic than I have for some of my term papers, so y'all'd better appreciate the effort! Anyway… Here is my next big epic fic, now that Moonlight Becomes You is over with. This story is going to start off a bit slow, but I promise that it will pick up once I introduce the Lizard.

NOSCE TE IPSUM

One – The Waters of Lethe

The sun felt good on his chilled skin, warming his stiff muscles and slowly drying the heavy wet clothing that shrouded his body. He wanted to roll on to his back, exposing his face to the welcome warmth, but something was wedged against his back, something hard and unyielding that wouldn't let him move. He didn't have the strength yet to push it away, so he stayed as he was.

Feeling began to return to his limbs, and with it, awareness of his body in relation to his surroundings. He was lying on a soft, gritty surface – dirt? Sand? – littered with pieces of debris that dug into his skin, though he wasn't uncomfortable. The thick, water-logged garment he wore protected him from the worst of it. Somewhere, there was the sound of water lapping at an invisible shore.

The tingling in his waking muscles sharpened into pain. But it was a good pain, he supposed. It let him know that he was alive. Though why that should be a concern was beyond him. After all, why shouldn't he be alive? Was there a reason? He didn't know. Something about that lack of information bothered him, but he brushed it aside. For now, he wanted to lie quietly and enjoy the sunlight, and the soothing sound of waves. The tranquil atmosphere nearly lulled him back into slumber, but he kept a grip on consciousness. He needed to figure out where he was, and why he was there, and… and something else he was sure he should know, but his groggy mind couldn't figure out what that was, yet.

He twitched his fingers, the first movement he'd managed since he'd awoken. He shifted his hand from his face, and suddenly yelped as the sun forced its way through his eyelids. He hadn't expected the light to hurt him! He shaded them with his hand, and finally opened his eyes.

He lay amidst the twisted debris of a shattered structure; warped and rusted girders thrust out of the - river? Was it a river? - or lay where they'd washed up on the banks, rotted, soggy planks of wood littered the ground beside him or floated lazily amidst the wreckage in the water. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, causing a peculiar pull at his spine. He ignored it, disregarding what was probably just another twinge as his body slowly came back to life. Now he could see more of his surroundings; it was indeed a riverbank where he'd awakened. He smiled slightly, glad he hadn't regained consciousness in the river!

Squinting his eyes, he turned his head to see what was behind him. The gleaming spires of a massive, distant city dominated the horizon, and he studied the jagged cityscape, wondering which city it was. As if that was a signal, other questions began to flood his mind. Why was he on the riverbank? What was the wreckage from? Why did he hurt?

And then came the question that should have been the simplest to answer, but that answer eluded him. Who was he?

His euphoria began to fade, and panic set in.

His mind was an empty void. He knew names like 'hand,' 'foot,' 'leg', etcetera, but not the sum of those parts. There was a word for this emptiness, this loss. Amnesia.

Panic gave him the strength he needed to surge to his feet, but before he could take a step, there was a sharp tug on his back that caused him to stagger backwards and stumble over something underfoot. He yelped and went down to his knees, landing heavily on top of whatever had tripped him and bruising his shins in the process. He looked down, and stared, puzzled, at the segmented length of metal that had caused so much trouble. It was long and thick, composed of inch-thick segments wider at the bottom than the top, tapering to a pointed head at one end. It had an almost skeletal look to it, but his shattered mind insisted it was a machine. He shifted so he was no longer atop it and pulled it into his lap to examine it more closely.

It no longer functioned, that part inside him that identified the machine had insisted. It lay limply, unmoving. Grit and debris were lodged in every joint, every crevice of the machine, and there were stains on the metal where scummy river water had dried. In one place, the conduits running the length of the device had been torn, exposing delicate circuitry ruined by whatever ordeal it had been through. His fear had somewhat abated as curiosity took over, but as he ran his hand along the machine's length, trying to find its source, he began to feel uneasy. The segmented body curved around behind him and went inside his coat! And when he twisted his head to better see behind him, he could make out three other long, unmoving shapes spread out behind him. He unzipped his coat, trembling fingers following the metal waistband beneath around to the small of his back, feeling the metal lying against his skin, and then finding the origin of one of the machines.

They were attached to him. He hadn't thought the situation could get much worse, but he was fairly certain that normal humans didn't go around with machines coming out of their spines. He gave the base of one of the machines a yank, but it was attached too tightly for his weak muscles to tear loose.

He gave up for the moment, and pushed the metal body off his knees. He struggled to stand, but their weight on his spine dragged him down, and he crawled on his hands and knees to the river's edge, the four serpentine machines trailing after him, dragging his spine until it felt as if the weight of the machines would rip it out of his back. He desperately needed clues as to who he was, and why he'd come to be here, and why he had these… things on his back. Perhaps, if he could just see himself… The wavelets distorted his reflection, too much for him to make out more than vague shapes, so he scanned the shoreline until he spotted a still puddle of water off to his left, and he crawled along the bank towards it.

The sunlit surface was reflective enough that he could see enough of himself to get a feel for what he looked like. The face that gazed back at him could have been that of a complete stranger. Dark eyes stared up at him, set deeply above a large, crooked nose. His fingers traced the unfamiliar lines of his cheek, ending at the wide mouth. He judged his age to be somewhere in the mid to late forties, and from the condition of his body, he didn't spend much time in the gym.

All in all, there was nothing useful to be gleaned from his reflection. He sat back on his heels and started rummaging through his coat's many pockets. His exploration turned up very little – a wad of soggy cash, something that had been a newspaper clipping until the ink had run, a broken pair of silver-rimmed sunglasses, a few small metal pieces that looked as if they'd come off some sort of machine, two cigars that had survived the dunking because they were wrapped in plastic, and a lighter. No ID, no address book, no credit cards, no nametag that helpfully declared, "Hello, My Name Is…"

He ran his hand through his hair, which had dried into spikes. He had no idea what to do now. A part of him wanted to lapse into hysterics, another part wanted to curl up into a fetal position until this all went away. Logic won over, as he sensed was normally the case. It was a relief to realize he wasn't prone to fits, that he could think rationally even in a situation like this… whatever this situation was. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as he considered his options. He needed to find help – evidence suggested he'd been in an accident of some sort, and it was possible he was hurt in ways he didn't yet feel. Perhaps the… the things coming out of his back were a result. How to find that help, though? The city seemed so far away, and his legs felt too shaky to hold his weight. Crawling may have been humiliating and painful, but it seemed his best option.

And then the nausea hit him, and he flopped to the ground as it seemed to spin out of control. He groaned, but the shifting earth beneath him showed no mercy. The nausea was slow to pass, he lost the contents of his stomach before he finally recovered enough to push himself back on to his hands and knees. His arms trembled to take his weight, and he realized grimly that crawling was out. The dizzy spell may have passed, but he was aware of there being something not right with his body. The illness was still there, hiding itself, waiting to flare up again when he least expected it.

He shifted so that his face was back over the puddle, and he washed the taste of vomit from his mouth. His throat was dry, and he took a few small swallows. A part of him warned him against drinking water that was likely highly contaminated, but he'd probably already swallowed several gallons of the river water before he'd finally ended up on shore. A few more sips wouldn't hurt him. The scummy water tasted only slightly better than the vomit's aftertaste.

The disturbed water settled, its surface again becoming an imperfect mirror, and he stiffened. There was a large shape dominating the reflection, blurry at first, but finally becoming recognizable as the shape of another person standing at his shoulder, reduced to a vague silhouette by the person's distance from the puddle. "Hel…" he tried, he tried, his voice coming out as a croak. "Help me…" he whispered. The person didn't move, and he turned slowly to better make his appeal. "Help…" he tried again, but trailed off. There was no one there, nor was there anything that could have caused the reflection. "Hello?" he called desperately. "Where… where are you? Can you help me?" His plaintive cries went unheeded. All the strength seemed to go out of him, and he sat heavily, staring dully down at the now-empty puddle.

Another spell of nausea took him, and he gritted his teeth and rode it out as best as he could. When it was over, he lay shivering, despite the heat. He had to get to a hospital; the sense that there was something wrong besides his amnesia intensified. But he'd never make it to the city's limits, much less to a hospital…

An idea occurred to him. Head upriver… The wreckage scattered around him had no obvious source on the land or in the water around him; therefore, it had washed away from somewhere upriver, presumably taking him with it. Perhaps there were people upriver who were searching for him! Taking another sip of water, he began the painstaking crawl through the debris littering the shore, dodging rotted slats of wood, shards of glass still imbedded in rusted window frames, twists of metal supports, determinedly hauling himself around every obstacle. The pain in his back was excruciating, and every ten minutes or so, the nausea would return. Hidden slivers of wood or shards of glass sliced at his leather gloves until his hands bled.

It took some forty minutes before he finally stumbled upon human activity. He'd been hearing it for twenty minutes: the drone of machinery, the murmur of voices, the occasional scream of sirens. But he was moving so slowly it seemingly took him an eternity before everything finally came into view.

Police cars formed a barrier around a shattered wharf leading out to what looked like the remains of a building's foundation. Mixed in with the black-and-white vehicles were several anonymous cars and an ominous van, its rear doors open and exposing a jumble of equipment. The two people closest to the van wore plastic all-concealing suits. His shattered mind dredged up the name for those outfits: radiation suits. He ceased his slow advance, no longer certain it would be safe. After a moment, though, he decided to proceed. Had it been dangerous, the people in the radiation suits wouldn't have their hoods thrown back, and the police wouldn't be walking around the scene dressed only in uniforms. A horn blasted, and he turned his head towards the river. A large boat with police scattered around the deck was slowly crossing the river, hauling a net behind it. Dredging it, he thought. They're looking for something. Me?

He didn't give any more thought to police presence and what it might mean. All he saw was someone who could help him. Slowly, he hauled himself to his feet, not wanting to crawl on his belly before these people. The metal things behind him threatened to over balance him again and send him toppling, so he compensated by leaning forward. He took one unsteady step, then another. The nausea rose within him again, but he fought it down. Help was so close… Hands outspread, he headed towards the first police officer he saw, failing to notice the man's astonishment until he drew his gun. The policeman screamed something that made no sense over the pounding of the blood in his ears. The edge of his vision started to go black, and he realized that he'd overexerted himself. Panicked, he cried, "Help me!" Then his knees gave out, and he fell forward. Darkness took him before he hit the ground.

XXX

The research paper had been sitting on Curt Connors' home desk for over a month, beneath a steadily accumulating pile of homework and exams and neatly paper-clipped copies of his own research. He'd leafed through it once, then hadn't had the heart to pick it up and give it the thorough grading that it deserved. Not after the accident. But the offending paper had been at the back of his mind ever since.

The thirteen-page paper had been written by Peter Parker, who was perhaps his most brilliant student – when the boy bothered to live up to his potential – turned in late, but its length exceeded his requirements. The boy had put a lot of effort into the initial research, and he could still remember when Peter had dropped it by his office on the way into the city to see some play. The youth's eyes had been glowing as he'd described his meeting with the paper's main focus, Dr. Otto Octavius. The meeting had so inspired the youth that he'd completed the paper two hours later, and he'd immediately called up Curt, asking if he could stop by the professor's home that very night to turn it in. Peter's enthusiasm had been infectious, and Curt had even chosen not to deduct points for lateness.

And then he'd returned from class the following day to find Martha waiting for him, her face streaked with tears. She hadn't been able to speak, merely pointing at the TV which was still running the breaking news story: A small, privately-owned lab financed by OsCorp Industries had been the site of a horrible accident, leaving one person dead and another in critical condition. By the end of the night, he'd lost two of his best friends, one to death, and the other to madness.

The paper had remained unread ever since. There was an unspoken agreement between Curt and Peter; the youth didn't ask about his paper, knowing that it was a sore subject, and Curt re-calculated his grade, omitting the need for the points the paper would have given him. After all, it wouldn't have been fair to ask Peter to research and write a new paper when it wasn't his fault Curt found it too painful to read the one he'd been given.

But now Curt found himself at his polished wooden desk, leaning back in his chair, the paper on his lap. He was holding a drink in his hand, absently swirling the contents as he stared off into space. Otto is dead. It had been all over the news ever since the previous evening; Spider-Man had put an end to his 'devious plot to destroy the city,' and the machine he'd constructed had been drowned in the river – along with Otto. It was thought that he'd rebuilt the machine that had caused him so much trouble in the first place, but larger. Given what had happened the first time, Curt knew the machine could have done some serious damage to the city. I should be relieved, he thought. For the past month, he'd been inundated by news of 'Doctor Octopus's' misdeeds, and Curt had felt shame on behalf of his friend. Something had driven him over the edge into madness, and he'd no longer been in control of his actions. Had Otto realized what he was doing, he would have been horrified by what he'd done. He won't be forced into doing anything else against his will again. Curt took a sip, not even tasting the brandy.

Martha had taken Billy to her mother's, sensing that Curt would need the time alone. Their small home was eerily silent without Billy watching TV or playing video games, or Martha puttering around the kitchen or cleaning when she wasn't busy catching up on work. After years of living with a noisy family, the silence was deafening. He appreciated Martha's gesture, however; he needed to be alone.

Otto and Rosie were two of his oldest friends. He'd known them long before he'd known his own wife; hell, he'd been instrumental in finally getting the shy Otto and the busy Rosie together. Of course, he hadn't expected that Otto would actually act on his suggestion to take that poetry class to get close to her, but it had been his advice, and it had worked. And it had been worth it to see Otto pace around their small dorm room reading poetry aloud and struggling not to rationalize the lines that made no sense to him. It had been even more fun drunk, Curt thought with a wry grin. Otto's dislike of T. S. Elliot wasn't because he didn't like the man's work; rather, it stemmed from an incident involving a full beer keg, a loss of clothing due to an ill-advised streaking through one of the athletic sororities' parties, and an attempt to impress Rosie – who was, of course, at said party - by slurring together the verses from two different Elliot poems. She'd never let him live it down. Curt never brought it up – but then, he'd been just as drunk and just as undressed…

Those were the days, Curt thought wistfully. They'd been roommates, he and Otto, and had hit it off almost immediately when they'd realized they were kindred spirits. They'd been inseparable ever since, even though their majors took them in different directions. Curt had wanted to be a doctor, while Otto was interested in physics. They'd had some overlapping classes, and when they had the same assignments, they'd often worked together with the result of both of them getting top marks in their classes.

Even after they'd both settled down, they'd seen a lot of each other. Martha had loved Rosie and Otto, so they'd often gone out together, or would just have pleasant evenings of dinner at one of their homes. They'd often lose the women when they'd enthusiastically launch into scientific discussions. Their last dinner together had been three nights before the demonstration, and Otto had been so excited telling Curt about the fusion reaction that he hadn't touched his food. He'd dragged Curt into his lab, showing off the shielding devices under construction, and ending with the revelation of the completed actuators. His eyes had been shining, like a child's on Christmas morning, and Curt had been sorry he'd had to tell his friend that he wouldn't be able to make it to the demonstration. But he'd been so certain that his brilliant friend would get everything he'd been hoping for…

Curt held up his glass as if for a toast. To Otto, he thought. May you finally find peace with Rosie. He tossed down the drink, then nearly choked when the sudden ringing of the phone shattered the silence. He set down the cup and got to his feet, the paper in its blue plastic cover falling to the floor, and was halfway to the phone before wondering if he should answer it. Did he really want his brooding interrupted by offers for a better long distance service? But the phone continued to ring insistently, and he finally picked up the receiver. "Hello?" He was ready to hang up at the first sign of solicitation.

"Dr. Curtis Connors, please," the voice on the other end of the phone said emotionlessly.

"Speaking," Curt said.

"Dr. Connors, your presence is required at Midtown Hospital," the woman continued. She was still speaking when Curt interrupted.

"The hospital? Oh my God… is it Martha and Billy? Are they all right?" It was suddenly hard to breath. If his wife and son were hurt…

"This is about Otto Octavius," the woman's voice plowed through his panic. "He's currently in no condition to make any medical decisions. He has no family that we can find, and his medical records have you down as his medical proxy. The doctors attending him would like you to come down to the hospital to make a decision on his behalf."

It took a moment for what the woman was telling him to sink in. "Otto's alive?" he asked, feeling rather foolish.

"Yes," the woman said, sounding slightly exasperated. "That's why we need you to come down to Midtown Hospital. Ask for Dr. Fisher." The woman hung up on him, and Curt continued to stare at the receiver for several long moments before he finally replaced it on the cradle. Otto is alive… Curt grabbed up his jacket and keys. Otto needed his help, and he wasn't going to let him down.

XXX

It was business as usual at Midtown Hospital, and Curt wondered if they were keeping Otto's presence under wraps. He certainly hadn't heard anything about his survival on the radio, and Curt kept his voice down as he sidled up to the reception desk and asked for Dr. Fisher. He was directed down a side hall towards the ICU, and knew he'd was in the right place when he reached a door flanked by two heavily armed police officers. Through the door, he could see a covered shape on a gurney with four long, limp 'cables' suspended over him. The police blocked the door before he could enter, however, and he didn't like the matching look on their faces. "I'm here to see Dr. Fisher," he said, keeping his voice calm. "I'm Dr. Connors."

One of the officers slipped inside, and Curt waited about five minutes before the woman returned, leading a weary-looking middle-aged man carrying a clipboard. "Dr. Connors? I'm Dr. Fisher." There was an awkward moment when Fisher offered his right hand to shake, then realized Curt couldn't reciprocate and immediately shifted the clipboard so he could offer his left. "I'm in charge of Dr. Octo- Octavius." Curt caught the man's slip-up, but didn't call him out. The man who'd robbed banks and nearly killed everyone aboard the train had been Doctor Octopus, not his friend Octavius.

"How is he?" Curt asked, as Dr. Fisher gestured for him to take a seat on the narrow couch outside the door.

Fisher glanced through his charts before answering. "He's suffering from exposure to radiation; fortunately, the river water diffused it enough that it was a low level." Curt flinched; he'd told Otto not to use something as unstable as tritium. "He's experiencing nausea and weakness, but it's being treated and he should make a full recovery. He also has several first- and second-degree burns from the heat, but nothing severe; he'll have minimal scarring. There are also several bruises and abrasions, which are to be expected. We'll have to keep him here for observation for a week or so, but he should be all right."

Curt stole a glance towards the well-guarded door. "Can I see him?"

Dr. Fisher shook his head. "The police want as few people to come in to contact with him as possible right, to prevent any… incidents. Besides, he's been unconscious since they brought him in; he wouldn't even notice your presence. Later, maybe…" he said evasively.

"Why did you ask me to come?" Curt finally got to the point. "The woman who called made it seem urgent, but it looks to me you have everything under control."

"He has no surviving family, and you're his medical proxy. We need your permission to perform the surgery necessary to remove the tentacles and harness once his condition is stabilized." He held a medical form towards Curt, who skimmed through the paragraphs without really reading. "As long as they're attached to him, Dr. Octavius remains a threat to society. We've spoken to his court-appointed lawyer, Mr. Murdock, and he says that removing them will help his case and his eventual reform. Also," he said, flipping to another page of Otto's medical charts, "removing them would improve his chance of recovery. The tentacles don't seem to be functioning, and their full weight is putting quite a strain on his spine. His back is being pulled out of alignment, and one of the fused needles in his spine is pulling loose, and if it does, it there's the possibility that it could tear a nerve."

Curt had seen the melted nano-wire contacts sunk into Otto's spine when his friend had first been brought to the hospital, and he shuddered in memory of the hideous wounds. If one of them tore loose, it could cause even greater damage. "If it's so bad, why do you need my permission to remove them?" he asked.

"To protect the hospital against a law suit," Fisher said blandly. "If we performed such major surgery without permission, Dr. Octavius could conceivably sue us and win. As his proxy, if you sign that form, we won't be held accountable."

Curt fished a pen out of his pocket and balanced the clipboard on his knees, but he didn't sign. "You're talking about a surgery unlike anything that's been tried before; how do you know it'll be better for him than leaving the actuators in place?"

Dr. Fisher rubbed his eyes. "We don't," he admitted. "We're flying in one of the country's best neurosurgeons and a couple other specialists to look him over, but we won't know how Dr. Octavius will be affected until after the surgery. He could be perfectly fine, or he could be crippled for life… or even die." Dr. Fisher regarded Curt solemnly. "I know it's a difficult choice to make, but you have to do what's best for Dr. Octavius."

Was crippling – or death - preferable to living with the actuators attached? Perhaps they didn't work now, but they could be repaired. Now that Otto had spent a month living with them, would he want to let them go? Had they insinuated themselves into his mind so much that he'd be convinced he could no longer live without them? Curt remembered his arguments with Otto against using AI in the actuators, not when he was planning to hook them directly into his brain. Otto had laughed and assured him he was taking every precaution. Now, though, who knew what damage they had wreaked on him? What would taking them away do to him?

Maybe it would destroy him – or maybe it would give him the chance to resume a normal life. It would be a life without his beloved Rosie, but at least it would be his life again. Don't I owe it to him to give him the chance for normality?

Pen in hand, Curt leaned over and signed the paper.

To Be Continued…

And just in case someone comments on this, it is possible to drive a vehicle with just your left hand, though it's difficult. I got a demonstration of this when my Dad broke his right wrist and couldn't use it at all, and yet, he refused to have someone drive for him. (Believe me, it's not fun to have him as a backseat driver!) So I figure that Curt can drive, he just doesn't unless he has to.