To Song With No Soul: Don't worry, you've warned Pete plenty, he'll get the lesson through soon enough. As for the minister: He probably will--if he stays alive long enough. You'll see. And after I'm through, this story will have more twists than a corkscrew. They don't call me the Trickster for nothing! Happy reading!
Chapter 7: Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto, by Otto
"I'm not a robot without emotions—I'm not what you see
I've come to help you with your problems, so we can be free
I'm not a hero, I'm not a savior, forget what you know
I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control."
Styx, "Mr. Roboto"
When I have enough time undisturbed to ponder such things, and when in a contemplative mood, when I find the occasion to philosophize on this online journal, this blog, my dear friends, I ponder the nature of my relationship with Peter Parker. My student. My nephew. My archenemy.
As much as I find fault with the cinematic version of my life provided by Sony Pictures, and I assure you it is a very long list of faults, there is one thing of relevance that remains accurate: Peter and I were not always on such hostile terms. My precious memories, once thought lost forever in the depths of the East River, have slowly been restored, and I hear echoing in my mind the question: "Did Bernoulli sleep before he discovered the curves of quickest descent?"
What happened, my old enemy? What happened, Parker, during those long and eventful years?
We both were lonely science geeks, each of us bullied and tortured by those jealous of the advantages intellect brings.
Nevertheless, neither of us were satisfied to wait and see what life throws at us. We were each driven to shape our own destinies...to take the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune and in turn, to shape them with our own hands.
He took those slings and arrows and made them into tools: while I took my slings and arrows and made them into weapons.
We each had dashing good looks, brimming confidence, intelligence to spare, and gorgeous lovers, an existence most men would envy... but we weren't satisfied, Peter, were we? Neither of us. I threw myself into my research in robotics, artificial intelligence, and nuclear physics--and you in turn threw yourself into your "career" as a masked vigilante.
You need the mask, the mission, my dear Parker. You need Spider-Man, just as I need Doctor Octopus. Just as I need my mask, my mission. Why do we each feel the burning need to change the world?
Of course, that's where any similarity between us ends. Time and time again, time after time, you prove to me and all the world that watches your dedication--more properly, your obsession--with doing what you think is right. You have proven yourself more than ready to sacrifice yourself and this precious life of yours--always flickering like a candle--in the name of what you call simple human decency.
As much as I am loath to admit it out loud, we are connected extraordinarily closely on your tangled, tangled web. I need you, because you provide a challenge to my life, a certain inspiration, a hope for eventual redemption.
And as much as you are probably loath to admit it out loud, you need me, because not only is a superhero useless without a supervillain, but because I hold a mirror up to you that reflects who you might have become if circumstances had differed. I am what you see reflected through a glass darkly. We represent a duality--the idealistic and intangible versus the concrete and practical.
Against my better judgement and that of the artificial intelligence of my tentacles, I find myself heading once again to the apartment of May Parker, where my old enemy and a platinum blonde young lady in a black catsuit wait for me on the rooftop.
"Maybe May's in the middle of wedded bliss," the lady tells Peter. "Although I'm surprised he can even see the necessary glands over his--"
I decide to interrupt her scintillating conversation, as it doesn't take a nuclear physicist to deduce the gist of her insult. "Fortunately, we never got to that point. And I assure you, my dear lady, I can see my vital organs quite well."
"Okay," Peter lunges at me, his constant undertone of sarcasm strengthening. "Thanks for sharing! Now, what have you done with May Parker?"
I am forced to defend myself, restraining him with two tentacles. "I have done nothing," I tell him. "And the proper patronymic is May Octavius. I find it eminently reasonable to expect my nephew to give me the proper respect I am due." To grind the lesson in, I order the tentacles to squeeze tighter. "If not for your elders, than for your betters."
Cat Lady defends her man, leaping towards me. I decide to show her that against me, she is out of her league. I catch her by the collar. "My quarrel is not with you," I warn her. "Be grateful that my upbringing prevents me from physically assaulting a lady, and kindly refrain from interfering in my family matters."
Spider-Man remains defiant. "Well, aren't you the knight in shining arms."
"Tell me, Spider-Man, is your repertoire of jokes and wisecracks only a disguise for your raging psychological insecurity?"
"I don't care about any marriage certificate you can produce. You're not my uncle."
"Well, no, not genetically perhaps," I tell him. "But in every other sense, including under the law, I assuredly am. Despite your continuing attachment to your aunt's first husband."
The searing pain hits me a few seconds after, the feeling reminiscent of flesh being flayed from bone. When my vision finally clears, I turn to the source of the problem--a set of laser claws have sprouted from Cat Lady's gloves, severing one of the tentacles completely.
"Aw pipe down, will you?" the bug yells at me. "For Chrissakes, you'd think she just tore off one of your arms!"
"It is one of my arms, you addlepated dullard!"
"You know what I mean!"
I feel two pairs of hands on my back, quickly escorting me into an apartment. The hands push me onto a bed. I hear two voices echoing distantly in my head.
"You reckon we should get him a Tylenol, Spider?"
"The dude's a nutcase, Felicia. It's probably all in his head. If he's not faking it."
"Christ," the bug's voice resounds in my ears. "I'd long ago figured out you had some kind of mental link with those things, but I never suspected the connection would be so--intimate."
I do not care to fully educate the little smartass about the extensive, organic relationship I share with my beauties, but I answer him anyway. "As I previously said, for all intents and purposes they are as much a part of me as the limbs I was born with. Even when detached from me, while in prison, I could still feel them, as the phantom pains of a soldier who left a limb on the battlefield. That is why I will never be completely powerless, and why you will never decisively defeat me. Have you a soldering gun, by any chance?"
I sit up on the bed, and a soldering gun is placed in my hands. I block out the pain long enough to drape the torn tentacle across my lap and steady the base of it in my hands. Another tentacle grasps the soldering iron and goes to work.
"So Otto," the impertinent bug intrudes, "what are you going to do now that you know who I am?"
Annoyed at the interruption, I tell him exactly what.
"What do you expect me to do? Do not flatter yourself that your true identity is in any way important to my purposes. No matter what your name is, you are just another meddling fool interfering with my work." I look up from the tentacle. "We offer a truce."
"What?" the bug says.
I sigh. For such an intelligent young man... "We both want your aunt alive and unharmed. You want to be reunited with her. I want what she has in her possession. It would be easy for us, united under this common purpose, to successfully retrieve her."
The bug crosses his arms and looks at me sideways. "I trust you only as far as I can throw you, Ock."
"Fair enough. But how successful have you been in your search? Haven't you and your lady friend heretofore sat on this rooftop on your thumbs waiting for her to show up?"
The bug sighs and extends a hand. "Touché. Truce then."
I sit down at the desk watching him, and wonder which one of us is going to break the truce first.
"I'm going to go now." the bug says, heading for the door. "Felicia, keep tabs on him."
As soon as he leaves, I turn to Felicia. "Make me something to eat."
She looks down her nose and flounces out of the room. "Fuck you. Make it yourself."
"Tell me, Miss Felicia, would you say the same thing if I were Spider-Man, and I had asked you this?"
"You bet your ass I would have."
I trudge up off the bed and make my way to the kitchen, using a tentacle to search the cupboard. "Damn it, May had better not have thrown away those Oreos..."
She didn't, though, and I pull them out along with a carton of mint chocolate ice cream, piling both in a bowl, heaping chocolate syrup on the whole concoction.
Felicia looks at the bowl, then down her nose at me. "You're a disgusting pig."
I heave the sigh of the truly affronted, and tell her: "On the contrary, my dear Miss Felicia, I am no pig but an Octopus."
And then I hear the rumbles and the falling of tree branches and debris outside...
Just another day in the life of Otto Octavius, called Doctor Octopus.
