A/N : Yeah, the prologue is short and kinda confusing. But you'll find out later who was talking to him on one or two of the lines. Or maybe you already know. Who knows? Heh... anyways, on with the story. Oh, and, by the way, all poetry verses in this story are selected from Lord Byron's many, many poems. Unless, of course, otherwise specified. Plus, all characters (so far) except for Morgana McKenzie are copyright to Marvel and all those lovely people.. Yay for alliterate names.
CHAPTER 1
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
I was not happy. Not by a long shot.
"Morgan, what the hell are you doing?"
My sworn archenemy, Kate Struthers, waltzes into the staff room in all her slinky, sexily dressed glory. Her black hair is pulled back stylishly into a bun with one little curly strand making an "O" next to her heavily make-upped left eye, which is a mirror of the right; her bright red lips, her low-cut, see-through-green blouse, and her tight-fitting houndstooth skirt all pull together in an outlandish combination that still looks good on her. It is something that no other woman working at the Times could hope to achieve.
I tried it once, and I got burned. I don't know why, seeing as I'm the only other young, slim intern in the whole damned building. Kate would say otherwise, though, the stuck-up bitch.
"Jeeeee-sus, Morgan, you sure you haven't been eating your way through there as you clean?" She snickers, and it dies down into a throaty purr as she sticks a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and lights up. I narrow my eyes and scrub harder. I swear, if I knew what idiot had really stuck moldy cheese in here as a prank, I would drag their ass in here in a second and make them pay. But, no, I didn't, and it was blamed on me. (Big surprise.)
"What brings you here? Hoping to score some chat with the higher ranked than you? Or hoping to score some higher ranks with... more than chat."
My little come-back whistles and falls into cartoony ruins and I clamp my mouth shut as more laughter bubbles up through her pretty, slender neck.
"Just to warn you..."
"Oh, joy. About what?"
"You seem to be gaining weight by the hour, Miss McKenzie." She pauses. "You must be, what, almost 150 now?"
I roll my eyes. She takes personal pride in insulting my (unchanging) weight every time she sees me around food. "I'm 130, thank you, just like last time you checked."
"Hm." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, taps it on the ashtray rim, and sticks it back in. "Other people have noticed too."
I freeze for a moment, then continue spraying 409 on the stained sides of the lettuce drawer.
"Like, oh.... lets see... Maybe, a certain Alex Adams?"
"Pur-lease," I say, as though blowing it off. But in an odd way, her rotten words get through to me, even though I know they aren't true. Alex Adams was a man I'd had a crush on ever since Kate and I started working here the moment we graduated from college. Both at the top of our photojournalism class, we had gotten twin offers from the most prestigious magazine in New York- nay, the whole country. The Times.
We had been best friends back then. Then, while knowing about the crush I had on Alex, she deliberately became "close" to him, and finally they began dating. He didn't even know my name.
Ever since then, it's been downhill for our relationship. She is a complete skank now, and I have no reserves in saying it. We've been neck and neck rising in the ranks, one slot at a time, from boring out-of-town, around-the-state news, all the way up to our current positions as Spider-man photographers extraordinaire. I work hard, and she works hard too... but I suspect in a totally different way. We all see the looks the boss gives her. Humph.
"Well, ta-ta dearie. I really must be going back to writing that article. You did hear that Doc Ock died?"
"I jump for joy," I snarled back in a monotone. That was supposed to be MY damn article, but she was writing it instead, cause I was "indisposed" down here for the day.
"Really? That's good to hear. Well, catch you later."
And with one last puff of smoke, she makes her grand exit.
I rock back on my heels and fall from my crouched position into an abrupt sit, my yellow-gloved, towel-bearing hands falling limp at my side. I give the tall, narrow refrigerator a shove with my foot. It rattles, and a Coke can falls to the floor and swells up menacingly, then finally begins oozing onto the ratty, coffee-stained carpet.
Great.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wake.
Yes, do wake up.
Come on...
So much to do...
He woke up to pain, more intense than he could ever remember- more intense than that first, slipping memory, of being borne through the icy darkness. That sensation of floating, passing through showers of colors and movement, drifting through pain and numbness, and finally, a blank spot before...
...Before here.
He did not know where he was, and had no current way of knowing he had been there many, many times before. It seemed to be only the end of a ruined dock, charred and falling through in places, as though something had gone terribly wrong here. And, even though it prowled on the edge of his memory, and would not show itself, the man had a creeping feeling that he had once known this place very well.
And then, in a fleeting moment, he tried to remember who he was.
Darkness.
Lights. Colors. Ice.
No name came floating up from the gloom. Panic constricted his throat.
Dr. Octavius.
"What?" It is the first word he spoke in this new life, so long from the last ones he spoke, the old promises, the old dreams, the old conversations he couldn't call to mind. The air rasped through his pipes, causing him to fall to his knees in a spasm of coughs. They subside slowly, and again, the name.
You are Dr. Octavius. Doctor Octopus.
"I..." It made no sense to him, this name. But it was all he had to hold onto in this rising sense of fear, of raw excitement that he had to face this world with nothing but a name.
Yes, and face this world you will. But not now. Not yet. Not for a while.
You must become reacclimated to this life.
You must remember your purpose.
A pause in the voices.
"But..." The doctor also allows himself a slight beat before continuing. "How? I can't remember anything. I try to grasp these... these, feelings, these memories, that sit on the edge of my mind." His voice rasps out across the silent harbor, unusually loud in the midnight stillness. Across the still waters, lights and sounds call out into the stillness, broadcasting its liveliness to the world. The man-made clouds above it reflect the lights back down, multi-colored and oddly beautiful, creating a little music box of the city. The doctor felt drawn to it.
A chuckle resounded in his head, followed by the soft purrs of two others. A fourth spoke.
It is only right that you should feel attracted to the city. After all, it is where you came from.
His eyebrows rose up to his hairline.
Yes, another voice hisses. But they resented you. They hated you. It is not good memories that call you back, you know.
True, so true.
The man furrowed his brow, looking down at his own hands, flexing them, watching the sinews move under the paled skin. He lifted his gaze back to what looked like a peaceful metropolis, and something on the edge of his brain clicked. New York City.
Not the place to get lost. Not the place to be ostracized, either.
Over 8 million people on that little island.
And so much revenge to be presented to them.
"R-...revenge?"
He squinted, as though his vision might magically zoom in and probe that innocent looking maze of buildings for something to stoke his anger. As though in response, as though it were being fed to him methodically at all the right times, another memory surfaced.
Flashes of red and blue, that taunting voice, flickers of anger rising in his gut.
And yet another name, to go with this haunt.
"Spider-man."
Ah, yes. Good.
Can you remember much else?
"I'll try..."
He closed his eyes, and concentrated, probing the fringes of his memories, groping for them, looking to pull the in closer. His face contorted with effort, and just as he was about to give up, it was as though a floodgate had opened.
Oscorp. Trinium. Spider-man. Fusion. Scientist. T.S. Eliot. Rosie. Power. Money. Smiling faces, looks of horror. Explosions, electricity, nothing. Rosie. Then, white walls, wickedly clean instruments. White coats. Blue coats. White and blue coats stained with blood. Confusion, anger, pain. Rosie. Fights, long nights of hard work, months of careful planning, months of evading capture. Rosie. A second chance, a second failure. Rosie. Pain. Anger. Rosie... Rosie... Rosie.
"Rosie."
A snarl from within.
Voices flooded through his head, but he could barely comprehend them. They jabbered fast and low, as though they meant for him not to hear.
"...not supposed to know..."
"...idiot!..."
"...shouldn't remember..."
"...avert...attention..."
And then suddenly a harsh voice in his direction.
Rosie is nothing but a name. You have no face to put it with because there is no face to put it with. Do not let unimportant and false memories get in your way.
There are greater reasons for your return.
You have ambitions, dreams to see through. You must deliver them to the world. You must finish this birth of a new era.
And you will have no distractions.
Forget it all but one thing...
Spider-man is your enemy...
...And he must be taken care of.
In the meantime, however, you have supplies to get. You have to find a place to carry this out.
"I know!" the doctor snapped, pressing gloved hands to his ears. He shook his head wildly as if willing these faceless devils to leave his mind in peace. "I know what I must do. I need no guidance."
A twitching of muscles in his back.
And he came face to face with his demons.
Four red eyes stared back, each surrounded by three wickedly sharp claws, opened fully as though to exhibit their potential power and destructive notions.
"No..."
We were the only ones there when they all left.
A hiss, a snap. He recoiled, and sank from his knees to his side, shaking, breaking out in a cold sweat.
"No! You should be gone!! No!"
Laughter.
We helped you rise to greatness. We will accomplish it again. Only this time, there will be no failure, because there will be no Spider-man.
A gasp. "Peter! No!" The man is reduced to silent tears as the floodgates open once more, and he is drowned in the torrential flow of memories, oh so many of them bad.
And he begins to sink once more to the bottom, but this time to the bottom of his conscience, and all he hears as he goes under again is the laughing of four demons.
His demons.
Sleep tight, Dr. Octopus.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"MORGANA MCKENZIE!"
Damn.
I quickly pull the lever on my chair, and it snaps back from a reclining position into its upright mold. I rub my neck and grimace, allowing my pen to drop to the floor. I bend over to pick it up, and as I do, there is an almighty CRACK over my head. I seem to forget for a minute that there is a panel of wood above me, and I whip up. There is another almighty CRACK, but this time its so much more personal.
"SH-... ARGH... ugh... GOD..." I moan, rubbing the back of my head. The pen still lies under the desk, though further back now, as if to taunt me. I look up through rapidly tearing eyes at my boss, Mr. David Dickens. He does not look in the least bit amused.
I unceremoniously dab my eyes with a tissue, not bothering to think that my mascara is now ruined. The source of the first crash (and the cause of the second) stares up like an ugly child at me. In fact, it should've been MY ugly child. But no, its Kate's ugly little bastard child, a hideously formatted front page with a blurry picture of Doc Ock on it, proclaiming "SUPERVILLAIN DROWNS TO HIS DEATH" in bold red print that out-sizes the title of the magazine itself. I screw my face up in an expression of distaste, but it apparently was the wrong thing to do.
"WELL???" he roars. "What the HELL is this??!" He opens it up and begins fumbling through, so angry he can't even hold his hands still. A few pages flutter to the ground. Some are Vogue-looking ads, sweepstakes ads, and Times subscription pages- but most that fall out have something to do with the late villain. "You write the WHOLE DAMNED MAGAZINE on this fruit loop?? That is the kind of CRAP that the Bugle gets by with! We hold ourselves to HIGHER standards here, Miss McKenzie."
Dickens' red face and large, freakishly blue eyes are boring into my subtle gray ones, and I look down at the desk, and mutter, "I didn't write that."
It's all I can do to keep from screaming back. It was either that level or this level.
"WHAT?!"
I lean back, and push away from the desk. He follows my every move like a vulture. A few more veins pop out along his neck.
"I said I didn't write that!" I snap back, my temper beginning to slip. I pause, close my eyes, and recompose. Slightly. "Remember? You thought I had put the cheese in the 'fridge in the staff room on the 5th floor, so I had to go down and spend all day cleaning the whole thing out?"
"Your point?" he asks, a maniacal edge in his voice.
"I couldn't have written this article! You reassigned it to Kate Struthers, remember?"
His whole body seizes up.
"Bullshit!" He slams the magazine back onto the table and storms out, but turns back at the last minute. "And you're on... you're on..." He waves his arms wildly above his head while searching for the word. I silently pray he isn't going to fire me.
"You're on... probation!" I stare, dumbfounded. Probation?!? What the hell? "I don't want to see you in this building for two weeks. And no paycheck for this month."
"WHAT?!?" It's my turns to yell. But he is already gone.
Resentment and anger boils in my stomach, along with the semi-stale turkey sandwich I had for lunch. Of course he won't fire me, I bitterly remind myself. Kate may be the one sleeping with the balding bastard, but I am the best budding photojournalist they have, and he knows it. AND he should've known he couldn't have even passed that stunt off, blaming that shit on me. Everyone would've known I was in the right. I snort. Oh, yeah, I forgot, Kate's got them all... "under her belt", too. Jesus, I hate this place.
Within the hour, I've packed up my personal belongings into my oversized laptop bag, turned out the lights, and left a sticky note on my door: "Out to lunch, be back in two weeks."
It'll go out with the trash tonight.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ending A/N : Phew! Wrote this baby in... checks clock three hours. Off and on, of course. Feel Morgana's wrath! I do, lol. The whole reason its taken so long is that I myself had to clean out a refrigerator, though it contained no moldy cheese. o.0 Sorry about any typos, I've read over this two or three times, but I'm not using Word- I use Wordpad. So if you see any typo errors or any big ugly sore thumbs sticking out, notify me. No flames please! This is a first fic. I don't remind if you review or not- I'm not a review whore. :-P (But cough they ARE appreciated) Chapter two should be rolling out tonight about 8:30 - 9 pm, so keep on your toes! Ta-ta, dearies.
Music: various Modest Mouse songs, "Accidentally In Love" (counting crows), "The Night the Lights Went Out in NYC" (from the official SM-2 soundtrack. go buy it. now! end subliminal message)