To Song With No Soul: Your reviews are eternally appreciated, my Loyal Minion. Take your well-deserved Oreos. Chapter 1 review: Ah, Parker was emo before it was cool. And as for one of the romantic pairings here, it might be deeply creepy but I'm doing nothing Marvel hasn't already; this is a modern remake of an already classic storyline. Remember the ancient Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times," and think about why it's a curse.
Chapter 2 review: I particular enjoyed writing this chapter, especially the scene parallel to Spider-Man 2. As for SXL, it pulls up just fine on my profile. It must be on your end. As for your comment about his blog: Yeah, he probably is, considering!
Chapter 3: Drowning Lessons, by Otto
"A thousand bodies piled up
I never thought would be enough
To show you just what I've been thinking
And I'll keep on making more
Just to prove that I adore
Every inch of sanity..."
My Chemical Romance, "Drowning Lessons"
I pace around May's apartment, anxiously fiddle with the bracelet, performing percussive maintenance. Between you and me, my dear friends and fans, I don't think it's going to last until the scheduled date of the wedding. Besides, her impernitent nephew is watching me like a hawk, the jealous little cretin. If I were a psychologist, I could entertain countless theories of his motive for his possessive--almost clinging--attachment to his aunt. It would be the best thing for all involved to carry out this whole sordid business today. There is no need to procrastinate.
In the kitchen, my fiancee busies herself with the cookie batter. I walk up to her, gently kissing her cheek. "Pardon me, Racheal Ray, but may I lick the spoon?"
"It's not good for you, Oliver," she tells me. "There's raw eggs in it."
"I'm a big boy, my dear May," I tell her, taking the spoon. "Raw eggs aren't going to kill me."
"You are a big boy, Oliver, and all that cookie batter can't be good for your heart condition," she reproves as I lick a stray chocolate chip from a finger.
"More of me to love, my dear," I laugh. I reach for the bowl again, but she snatches it away.
"Save some for Peter, and be a dear and pack our clothes for the wedding. The suitcases are in Peter's room. I don't typically go in there but I don't think he'll mind."
I dash upstairs and make my way to Peter's room. "Yes, dear," I tell her. The two most important words in a marriage, I know from experience.
"And call the minister and travel agent."
I pull the biggest suitcase from the closet, and open the zipper. I gasp as I throw open the lid. Crumpled in the bottom of the suitcase is a costume.
A Spider-Man costume.
And underneath the costume, four tiny red spider-shaped transmitters.
Another memory swims before my eyes.
"Shut it down, Ock!" The bug shouts at me. "You're going to hurt a lot more people this time!"
This is it. The final, tangible proof. I had known for quite some time, of course, but here--in my own two hands, mind you-- is a smoking gun J. Jonah Jameson, that pompous publisher of propaganda, would kill for or at least pay handsomely for. All I would have to do is take DNA tests of a hair or a skin cell from the mask and I would never have to rob to fund my experiments again.
Or, Otto Octavius reminds me, you could come clean and show May the costume. After all, Peter's identity is secret--he has probably lied to his "beloved" aunt for a very long time to preserve his double life. This is probably only a spare at any rate; he must have another hidden away in his own apartment.
Or, Doctor Octopus whispers to me from the back of my head, you could use the costume as your one trump card if that impudent boy dares to interfere with your plans. After all, that island could be key to your greatest dream, to the benefit of all humanity. Simple math, "Oliver." Simple logic. What is the ruination of one life compared to the profit of all mankind?
I fold the costume up very small, taking care not to lose or destroy any DNA remnants that may be hidden inside. I gingerly place it in the inside pocket of my trench coat, taking my cell phone out.
I dial the number I had saved, reaching the minister, who is quite willing to marry a couple who have only known each other a month. He's quite used to this, apparently; he comes from Las Vegas.
"Move the wedding up," I order. "I want us married today."
I call Jason Whittaker, the attorney in charge of the Reilly estate, including the Rosslyn Island facilities. "I want a Rosslyn helicopter ready to take May and I to the island today and a Rosslyn limousine to take us to the tuxedo rental and the private hangar," I tell him.
I call the caterers. "Change of plans. The wedding's today. Yes, I'll pay you extra for your trouble."
I call the construction personnel. "Change of plans. The wedding's today. I don't care about the schedule, it's an emergency. Well, kick the other clients off the list, I'll pay you extra and you'll get a free meal at the reception," I tell them. "I just want the gazebo built."
I call the tuxedo rental. "I'm going to show up in exactly one hour to pick up my tuxedo. It will be under the name of Octavius."
I call the travel agent and the five-star hotel in San Francisco. "I want to reserve the honeymoon suite for tonight, under the name of Octavius. Credit card? Don't have one, I'll pay when I get there."
I turn off the bracelet, permitting the tentacles to fold and pack my clothes into the suitcase. On my command, one of the pincers smashes the transmitters. Parker probably puts these on those he finds it necessary to track. Clearly, if the transmitters are active, it is not in my best interests to let them stay intact.
I turn on the bracelet again, the tentacles flickering for a few seconds before the holographic patterns take hold. I shouldn't have permitted them to become visible, I castigate myself. It was an unnecessarily imprudent risk to take this close to the wedding--all to pack the clothes a few minutes more quickly.
I rush downstairs. "May, the minister says he will be unable to perform the ceremony at the scheduled date," I lie. "I have already called Whittaker to arrange the helicopter ride. I would advise we leave now, the clothes and necessary documents are packed and ready to go."
"But Peter--"
"The minister says it was an unforeseen circumstance. If Peter truly loves you, he will understand. He should let you make your own choices."
May covers the cookie dough with saran wrap and puts it in the refrigerator. "Well, I can always bake them later," I say.
"I don't know how long it will keep--well, I can always have Peter take care of my house while we're gone."
The white limousine pulls to the curb, earning gapes from inquisitive neighbors. The driver reaches for the door, but I swat him out of the way and pull open the door and gently escort May in.
Jason Whittaker is already in the car. He hands out paperwork. "The marriage license, sign these," he says. "Are you sure you're not interested in signing a prenup, Ms. Parker?"
Oh, no...
"Of course not!" May seems genuinely offended by the suggestion. I inwardly sigh with relief. "If you can't trust the one you love with money, you shouldn't marry them in the first place," she says. "And Dr. Octavius here is an honest, honorable man."
I smile. "Of course. And Miss Parker here is an honorable, intelligent woman."
Just another day in the life of Otto Octavius, formerly Doctor Octopus.
