Chapter 11
Fair warning: it does get a little PG-13 towards the end.
OoOoO
"So, Clover? Do tell me," the doctor teased from behind the glass, leaning on the counter and shooting the young girl an amused grin. "How did the fight go? What funny names did he give you? How many of those petty little jokes did he make to throw you off?"
Clover's furious glare was so heated that it could've melted the glass between them. Scowling deeply, she growled lowly, "Shut up."
It had been four full days after her debut to the web-slinger. Clover had to slink past several crowds of people unnoticed to the Green Line, and once she had disembarked at the Bronx, she had to find an alleyway to sleep in. Spider-Man was the only one who saw her in person, but he's probably told the police by now that she's the same girl from the AMBER Alert. Now, she really had to stay hidden.
Clover straightened her new jacket and jeans. On the night after the battle against Spider-Man, she had to break into another clothing store and steal something that would attract far less attention than her leaf dress. She was now wearing a pair of snug blue jeans and a cyan-colored light jacket zipped all the way up. Once again, she looked like the average New Yorker teen.
Since then, she had spent her days wandering the streets for food and her nights sleeping behind graffiti-ridden dumpsters. The bottoms of her bare feet were now stained brown from the grime on the road. Clover had also stolen a pair of cheap sandals to wear around town, but she found the feeling of shoes on her feet…constricting. She much rather preferred feeling the ground under her feet, even if it meant possibly stepping on something sharp.
"I told you it wouldn't be easy," Doc Oc chided, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Knowing how to use your powers is only half the battle. Still, I'm quite impressed you've managed to evade the authorities thus far."
"Do you think those guards recognize me?" Clover asked in a hushed tone, peering at the surly guard not too far behind her mentor. Fortunately, he didn't look like he had heard what she said; his face was buried in his phone, with his index finger tapping the screen.
Doc shifted his gaze to the side, too, turning his head slightly to get a glimpse of the guard. Turning back to his assistant, he assured, "Amazingly, they haven't. Then again, I believe this division of New York's Finest is more dedicated to confining the criminals they already have, rather than helping to locate the ones still at large. Besides, these men only earn about fifteen dollars an hour, anyway. I bet most of them find this job absolutely thrilling." He rolled his eyes on that last note.
Shifting in her chair to make herself more comfortable, Clover asked, "So now what? When are they going to let you out?"
Groaning irritably, the doctor replied, "The good news is that I shall be leaving Rikers momentarily. The bad news is that they plan to transfer me to Ravencroft. Despite my obvious intellect, the judge has ruled that I am legally insane. In approximately two weeks, I'll be trading in my orange uniform for a straightjacket.
Clover remembered reading an article once about Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane. It had been renowned for holding the Big Apple's most notorious masterminds of crime (or at least the ones with good lawyers who helped their clients plea insanity) along with the garden variety of those suffering from some sort of destructive mental disorder or condition―schizophrenia, substance abuse, intermittent explosive disorder, you name it.
The name of the hospital was somewhat misleading, however. It had been founded as a New Deal hospital during the Great Depression. With the help of good ol' Franklin D. Roosevelt's alphabet government programs, hundreds of poverty-stricken New Yorkers had been able to get a living building it from the ground up.
Since then, Ravencroft had been renovated hundreds of times and had become one of the most renowned hospitals in the country. The hospital especially had to become renovated after the influx of mental patients during the late 60s. In 1968, journalist Lana Winters had published an exposé on the sadistic Briarcliff Mental Institution in Massachusetts, and many of the former patients were transferred to New York for further care.
Her mentor continued, "However, I have a solution. Luckily for all of us, I'm not the only inmate here that wants the arachnid destroyed, and they would make excellent allies in our next step. Of course, we need one more person from the outside, who, by a stroke of coincidence, is being treated at Ravencroft at this moment."
"What do you mean, Doc?"
The doctor glanced over his shoulder again, surreptitiously slipping a sealed envelope from his jumpsuit and slipping it under the small slot in the glass. Catching his intentions, Clover swiped it from the counter and stuffed it into the pocket of her stolen hoodie.
Doctor Octopus explained in a hushed voice, "Now, Clover, I cannot explain now, but all the information you need is in the envelope I just gave you."
Clover peered under the table, slipping the white envelope from her pocket momentarily and reading the name written across the front in blue ink.
"Who's…Maxwell Dillon?"
"Our way out," the scientist grinned. "I cannot explain much at the moment, but he and I have been exchanging letters so far during my imprisonment. According to him, I happen to be the only one who he's heard from in a rather long time. I'm afraid that the police might start to question our sudden acquaintance, however, so I want you to send this message safely to Max."
She hid the letter in her pocket again, careful not to crinkle it.
He leaned back in his chair and watched the clock. "Have safe travels, my dear. I believe they're just about to call me ba―"
"Time's up, Octavius!"
The guard dropped his phone back into his pocket before stomping back towards the doctor.
Doc Oc turned to look at him, leaning back in his chair.
"Ah, why thank you!" he sneered, styling a sardonic smirk. "I was afraid you had lost track of the time! Tell me, how many green pigs did you slaughter while I was sitting here?"
"Zip it, Doc," the guard grunted, grabbing him from under the armpit and hoisting him up. The scientist watched his assistant give to him a quick nod as he was taken away, the double door swinging behind him.
The portly man was led down the bare hallway past some of the more common criminals of Rikers―unshaven burglars, tattooed gang-bangers, and scruffy drug dealers. All of them were confined to their cells, either leaning against the black, metal bars or trying to fall asleep on the hard mattresses.
A handful of them shot threatening glares towards him, but the majority of them gave Doctor Octopus indifferent nods in greeting. When Doc Oc had first arrived at Rikers, he had been the subject of gossip in practically the entire prison. From what Adrian had told him, new prisoners were the most exciting events that happened around here, but as expected, the interest in him sharply declined after a day or two.
Doctor Octopus loathed prison, but to cope with his current condition, he decided to make this a learning experience for himself. Experiencing prison firsthand had debunked plenty of the stories he had heard about it on the outside.
For example: contrary to what everyone sees in the movies, the whole "don't drop the soap" thing is actually quite rare and is grossly over-exaggerated. An overwhelming majority of the hanky-panky done in prison was consensual, especially for the inmates who have been sentenced for at least twenty years and have never seen a woman in ages. Doc Oc had witnessed this when he tried to sneak off to the restroom to look for any possible tools or passages to escape. In front of the door, however, was a yellow "wet floor" sign, and he could hear some very loud and very particular noises from two inmates inside.
At that moment, Doctor Octopus had magically transformed into Doctor Nopetopus and turned the other way.
Doctor Octopus had faintly hoped that he could rely on some sort of prison hierarchy to make himself appear more threatening to any inmates who dared to harass or assault him. After all, surely the super-criminals who have been popping up recently would be considered much more dangerous than your everyday serial killer or drug dealer, right?
But to his surprise, such a hierarchy wasn't observed, if it even existed. The only types of prisoners regarded were the pedophiles and the rapists―all the other inmates seemed to look down on them and treat them like scum. In the lunch line one day, somebody stuck out his leg and tripped over a sixty-year-old man who was sentenced for molesting his grandchild. The others laughed as the man groaned in pain, and some of the prisoners even spat on him before the guards broke in.
The only thing that amounted to status and wealth at Rikers was how many Little Debbie cakes and girlie magazines you had. Doctor Octopus was able to steal some from some of his fellow inmates in exchange for information. When one of his victims discovered that one of his Zebra Cakes was gone, the doctor kept it away from him until the other inmate could disclose which guards had which working hours.
Furthermore, Doctor Octopus had become more involved with the currency developed amongst the prisoners. His pockets were filled with cigarettes not because he smoked but because he could trade them for anything he wanted. Need a stick of gum? One cigarette please. Want a Cosmic Brownie? That'll be three.
But no matter how many little snacks you had, you always had to compete against Walter Hardy. The aged man was known before arriving at Rikers as infamous burglar "the Cat" before finally getting arrested after Spider-Man had cornered him in an abandoned warehouse. In the prison, he was famous for making several batches of what everybody called "swole"―a ramen noodle dish with potato chips, crushed Cheetos, ketchup, and beef jerky mixed in, depending on what was available and what you wanted.
Around dinnertime, everybody would gather around Walter while he mixed several bowls of swole. Doc Oc was revolted at first by the idea of eating Cheetos and ramen noodles together, but after being served the same gruel and cold dishes for a number of days from the kitchen, he decided it was worth a try.
To his surprise, it tasted a lot better than it sounded. He asked Walter once where he always got all the food.
Walter Hardy had answered with a coy smile, "Oh, just from some family…"
Otto didn't complain. Eating swole was one of his rare chances to get normal food. More often than not, he missed many things that he never thought about on a day to day basis, things he took for granted―flipping on a light switch, feeling carpet under his feet, marking off a day on the calendar…
In fact, that was the worst things about prison. Each day rolled on so slowly that the hands on the clock seemed to stand still. It was much too dull. There was way too much time on your hands. Every day was some sort of order of eating, sleeping, and chatting. Adrian taught him a couple card games to help pass the time. If it was just the two of them, they'd play German whist or speed. If they were at a table with others, they'd all play blackjack, or they would bet cigarettes over a good game of poker.
The bespectacled convict was led through the maze of charcoal gray walls to the small dining room where the prisoners were allowed their free time until dinner. The guard released Otto from his grip, knowing that he didn't need to do so when his colleagues were in the room silently keeping a close eye on anyone wearing an overabundance of orange.
A familiar bald head nodded at Otto from the other side of the room. When Doc Oc pulled out one of the metal fold-up chairs next to him on the round, metal table, Vulture asked, "So how is the little spitfire doing?"
Scooting up, Doc Oc responded, "Just as I had expected. She had not thought her entire plan through to kill the arachnid. Her face is on the news even more, and not as a missing child. Our little Caylee Anthony is now Morgan Geyser."
"I would give her some credit, though," Vulture shrugged. "After all, she did manage to get away from Spider-Man in the end. The rest of us can't say that."
"Indeed," his friend nodded, "but she still has a lot to learn."
"Do they allow one person to visit two inmates, by any chance? I haven't seen her since September."
"I doubt it."
Adrian huffed, "Of course. I'd just like to congratulate her on finally giving it to Osborn."
The two watched some of the activity in the wide room. The dinner line wouldn't be open for another half hour, but they could already catch a whiff of the acrid gruel boiling on the stove. Doc Oc waved his hand in front of his nose to waft away the smell, hoping Walter would add something nice to his swole tonight.
Vulture then asked, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Otto, does Clover know about…the plan?"
The corners of Doctor Octopus' lips curled up in anticipation.
"Not yet, Adrian, but she will find out soon enough."
He turned away from Adrian and glanced towards another table, which hosted a clique of three prisoners: one with red hair, one with a trimmed black beard, and one who towered the both of them and styled a curly handlebar moustache.
The one with the red hair, who was obviously the leader of his posse, had been observing the two of them ever since Otto had come into the room. When they both caught his eye, the redheaded man turned back to his friends and said something, glancing back towards the two. The man with the beard was looking at Doc Oc's table, too, and he motioned the redhead towards them with his chin.
Adrian noted, "You told them to meet us here, right?"
Otto smiled, "How could I have forgotten? I don't know what's keeping Jackson, though."
They didn't have to wait for long. Strolling to their table at this moment was the redhead himself. He had a hardened look on his face that hinted at suspicion which Doc Oc found amusing. Placing his hand on the table, the man drawled, "I reckon you fine gentlemen wanted to talk to me?"
His voice made him sound like he came straight out of a bad Western, and the rough callouses on his fingertips suggested that he was handy with a lasso. His skin was slightly tanned from long hours of ranch work, but after years of mercenary work, it was starting to fade off. From the way he was frowning down on Doctor Octopus in distaste, he looked like he was ready for the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Doc Oc replied, "Of course. I'm happy to see that you're interested in our little deal, Montana."
Leaning in, Jackson Brice gritted, "Don't call me that. Only my friends and my best clients call me that."
Taking mock offense, Doctor Octopus smiled back, "Why, Jackson, aren't we your friends? We're the only ones who can get you out of here. Where's that Southern hospitality that I've always heard about?"
"I ain't a Southerner," Montana spat at him. "You ain't never heard of Bozeman before, have you? Why do you think I give some folks the privilege to call me Montana?"
Vulture, letting out an exasperated groan, suddenly cut in, "Do you want to get out of this hellhole or not?"
Montana snapped back at him, "Would you like to find out how far that nose of yers can go into yer brain?"
Adrian growled and started getting up from his seat.
Quickly stopping the situation from escalating, Doctor Octopus held his large arm across Vulture's chest and cautioned, "Now, now, Adrian. Let's not be so hostile to the man. We need his help as much as he needs ours."
"In case you haven't noticed, Doc," Montana stated, crossing his arms, "I already take orders from someone twice the man you are. Mr. H bails his men out just like he washes his dishes and takes out the trash. He's fixin' to come and get us out this Saturday. Unless there happen to be more zeros on yer price tag, I ain't wastin' more time with you."
The mercenary spat on the floor and turned his back to them. He had almost put their offer to help him escape out of his mind when he heard Doctor Octopus say, "How much is the price for Spider-Man's head on a plate?"
Jackson stopped in his tracks.
The doctor's response replayed in his head.
Not looking back to them, he remarked, "That's a mighty high price yer offerin', Doc."
"Indeed," the doctor agreed, "and I believe it's one your Mr. H would not mind as well."
Montana faced them again, his business eyes staring down on them. "And how do you suppose we collect this here price? That bug is harder to round up than a buckin' bronco in heat. I didn't get him, you didn't get him, and bird-boy here didn't get him―"
"But all of us together will," Doc Oc pointed out.
The mercenary cocked his head to the side. "Who's 'all of us?'"
Resting his chin in his hands, Doc Oc answered, "If you would please take a seat, we will be more than happy to explain."
The knowing gleam in the scientist's eyes gave Montana a strange sense of assurance.
Pulling up a chair across from them, he sat down.
"I'm listenin'."
OoOoO
Clover walked under the black iron gate towards the old brick building.
A chill went down her spine. She knew that Ravencroft was a very old institution, but she had no idea that the Victorian structure in front of her would appear this creepy. Although the hospital had gone under plenty of much-needed renovations since its foundation, its imposing Gothic Revival style of architecture didn't exactly fit the words "friendly" and "caring" with its steeply pitched roof and its pointed arch windows.
When Clover swung open the large, wooden door at the entrance, she was surprised by the way the modernly-styled inside contrasted its ancient outside. The front room of the institution looked like that of a normal, present-day hospital, complete with blue-painted walls, white tiles, and even a small play area for any children who dropped by.
Straightening her jacket, Clover approached the sunny receptionist, who was busily typing away at her computer when she noticed her.
The lady chirped, "Hi there! Can I help you?"
Clover, standing on her toes to lean her elbows on the tall desk, told her, "I was wondering if I could visit my cousin right now. He should be here."
"No problem, baby! What's his name?"
"Max."
"Sorry, baby, I need a last name."
"Dillon."
The receptionist's smile dropped slightly, and a hint of wariness flashed in her eyes. Her over-the-top peppiness has flickered off for a fraction of a second. At that moment, Clover knew she was at the right place.
With an uneasy giggle, the woman faltered, "Um…that's so sweet of you! Uh, you know, you're actually the first person Max has seen in the longest time…uh, let me call him up for you, baby…"
She reached across the desk and picked up the receiver for her telephone, pressing a button as she held it up to her ear. Clover listened to the woman talk. As the receptionist spoke, she was toying with the coiled wire to the receiver nervously.
"Uh, hey, Ashley, where's Max right now?...Oh, okay. Listen, there's someone here to see him…no, tell him that it's not Dr. Connors this time…it's a cousin of his…sure, of course! Thanks!"
The receptionist clicked the telephone receiver back and turned back to Clover.
"Alright, baby!" she cheered, standing up from her chair. "I'll take you to the visitation room! Ooh, Max'll be so happy to see you!"
Down the whitewashed hallways Clover was led down, under row after row of fluorescent lights. Clover felt her breathing become shallower and her arms tense up uneasily. The way those lights were designed and the floor was laid out didn't make her any more comfortable.
She passed an open room, and she glanced inside. It was empty, probably waiting for another patient to claim it, with only a metal framed bed and some medical equipment to fill it. Clover eyed the newly-washed white sheets of the bed fearfully, the way they were so pristine and spotless. The medical equipment, which consisted of a heart monitor and an IV stand, lay silent and unused, but Clover could hear the constant beeping in her mind, remembering the way the little green line on the screen always bounced up and down to the rhythm of her heart.
The room disappeared behind them both, but Clover kept facing over her shoulder until it was far behind them. A nurse with a metal cart strolled by Clover and the receptionist, and the young girl caught a glimpse of what was on it. Lying across the top was an array of clean, brand-new medical tools. Clover's heart raced faster as she kept staring at the tools.
She saw a pair of long tweezers resting next to a sharp scalpel. When the scalpel shone in the light, Clover instinctively touched her left elbow, remembering the way it hurt so much when Osborn took a sample of her skin. She could imagine the feeling of her skin being pried and ripped off, and the image of the bloody piece of her flesh in the petri dish flashed through her mind.
Right beside the scalpel were a handful of syringes, aligned perfectly like a row of foot soldiers. Clover's hand grazed further up her left arm, touching the area on her shoulder where the giant needle was stuck into. She wondered exactly how deep the needle had gotten. Osborn had mentioned that he wanted it all the way into her bone, and Clover shuddered even more.
Her mouth suddenly became drier. Every blue latex glove was exactly like the ones worn by the researchers at OsCorp. The tile floor was just as hard, and the ceiling lights were just as bright. Everything appeared to have been soaked in bleach at some point. Even the way the nurses clicked their pens and wrote on their clipboards made goosebumps crawl across Clover's skin. The way they scribbled on their papers, recording the results of the latest medical test…
"Baby, are you okay?"
Clover gasped, snapping out of it. The receptionist was staring at her worriedly as if Clover was another patient instead of a visitor.
Clover looked down and realized that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead and were dripping down her face. The hair at the back of her neck was standing on end, and Clover could've sworn that she saw Osborn peeking from around the corner at some point.
She steadied her breathing, reminding herself that she was at Ravencroft, not OsCorp.
She chuckled reassuringly, "Heh heh…I'm fine, thank you..."
The receptionist led her into another room much cozier than the rest of the hospital. The carpet was a strange maroon-purplish color, save for the dark brown splotch staining the floor which Clover guessed was an old blood stain. About the room were different tables and couches to add a homely touch to the area, and on the tables were different kinds of board games like checkers and Scrabble to entertain the patients.
The receptionist chirped, "This is actually the therapy room, baby, but we prefer to bring our visitors in here, too, just to make the patients feel more at home. You can sit on that couch over there, baby, and if anybody gives you a hard time, just give us a holler."
Clover, scanning the room and spotting some patients resting here and there, shrugged, "Fine by me."
As directed, Clover plopped herself on the corduroy love seat that was obviously an investment from the nearest Goodwill and waited for Max. She toyed with the letter in her pocket, confirming that she still had it.
She sat there patiently for five minutes in the quiet room until she heard somebody speak to her:
"Psssst. Kid. Pssst. Hey, kid!"
Clover spun around to where the voice was coming from but saw nobody there.
Oh, great. Now she was hearing things. Was the crazy here contagious?
"Psssssssssssssssst, kid! I'm over here! Pssst!"
Clover turned back in front of her and nearly jumped out of her seat.
Standing right in front of her was a skinny man with a bony face and messy, bright red hair. A wide, toothy grin glared down on her, and his eyes were glazed in such a wild way that Clover had to grip at the sofa to stop herself from running out of the room.
She peeped, "Um…hi?"
"Hiya there, kid!" the redhead grinned, throwing his hands into the air like a drunk circus clown. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! We don't see many littluns like you around here! Not in this part of the place, at least!"
"Um…this part?" she responded, cringing. She didn't know that Ravencroft had a juvenile section, and this was probably the oddest way to find out.
"Nooooooope! All the littluns are way over on the other side of here, being kicked around by the nursies!"
He leaned in close to Clover's face and whispered, "But to tell you the truth, kid, all the nursies would take the littluns any day. Did I tell you what happened to one of 'em the other day?"
Clover narrowed her eyes. This guy gave her a raging case of the bejeebies, but she knew that he couldn't do much to her without getting into trouble. She answered flatly, "No, not really."
Snickering in a high-pitched voice, the mental patient dropped himself into the ratty sofa across from Clover and began, "It all started last week, when I was just hanging out in my room role-playing with some sporks I stole from the cafeteria―I'll show you one, if I get the chance―when the nurse came in and told me it was therapy time! But I tried to explain to her that I was playing house with my sporks, but she wouldn't listen!"
He then held up his hands and started acting out the scenario in front of her.
"So then, I took one of my sporks and dug it straight into her eye! You won't believe how good those sporks are! If you curve them into the eye socket just right, you can get buckets of blood all over your hands!"
Clover rested her chin in her hands in a bored fashion and deadpanned, "Oh my. How exciting."
"Ooh, you should've seen it, kid! She was screaming and screaming and screaming, and I swear, it was the most hilarious thing I've ever seen! Oh, I just love a good screaming in the morning! Really wakes me up!Oh, and her blood was all over my hands, and it was so warm and slippery, it almost felt like soap. Hey, do you think if I took a shower in it, I would have red skin forever?"
Clover rolled her eyes. Where the heck was Max? This blabbermouth was giving her a headache.
He continued excitedly, "I was just about to rip her tongue out and bash her teeth in, but the other nursies had got there too soon. Too bad. I've always wanted to see what a tongueless scream sounded like!"
Clover then interrupted, "Hey, uh…uh, listen, whoever you are…"
"Cletus!" the man smiled. "Cletus Kasady! Remember the name, kiddo! After all, I might be the last one you'll see, 'cause I'll be biting your nose off!"
"Yeah, yeah, Cletus, whatever," she set aside impatiently. "Listen, do you know a guy named Max, by any chance? I've been sitting here forever waiting for him."
Cletus answered quickly, "Oh, you mean the new guy! Well, he's not that new. He's been here since last September, I think. I dunno. I remember things wrong sometimes, but it all works if it feels right. Like this one time when I watched my daddy screw my mom right in front of me―or was that my stepdad and foster mom?"
Clover swallowed something. Given the burning feeling at the back of her throat, she knew what it was.
Leaning back, the mental patient kept explaining, "Anyway, that guy never shuts the heck up, if you know what I mean. I'm not Max anymore! I'm Electro! Yada, yada, yada, the same thing day in and day out, and he sounds like he's straight outta college, too. Stupid college boy voices. Cut his lips off..."
Clover groaned. She was just about to go find a different rendezvous point when the screechy voice of a woman came from behind her:
"Cletey!" the voice cooed sweetly. "Why would you ever cut your lips off? I'll never get to kiss them again!"
The albino girl groaned again. Just how many of these wackos were going to greet her today? Max wasn't this crazy, was he? Clover looked to see who was speaking now.
Swinging her hips from side to side was a tall woman wearing a blue smock just like Cletus'. Her hair was jet-black and very long, its voluptuous waves cascading down her shoulders and over her chest. Her peachy skin glowed in the fluorescent lights, almost making her look like a deranged goddess with her bloodshot eyes.
Or, rather, her bloodshot eye―while her right eye was intact, a large, jagged scar was in place of where her left eye was supposed to be. A perfectly round scab that appeared to be the remains of a bullet wound was all the Clover could make out. The skin around her scar was peeling off and giving way to bloody pieces of scabs and hair follicles. Clover grimaced at the way small droplets of pus were dripping out.
A warm, honey-eyed look came onto Cletus' face. He licked his lips as he checked out the seductive patient up and down. He then sang off-key, "Here comes the bride! All dressed in white! I wish it was red! Then you all be dead!"
The lady gave out a loud cackle. "Oh, Cletey! You're such a gentleman!"
She then laid down on the sofa next to him. She scooted up to him, splaying her legs across his lap and hugging him closely to her. She crooned, "Mmm, are you telling her the nurse story again? You know how much I like to hear you tell it."
He leaned in closer to her with a lewd grin. "Oh, for you, Frances, I wouldn't mind saying it all night long."
They started clutching each other closer and going in for a kiss.
Clover saw exactly where this was going.
She raised her hand awkwardly and said, "Uh…guys, I'm still here…"
She had to look down to her knees, her cheeks burning in embarrassment, avoiding all eye contact with the two crazy lovebirds on the couch in front of her. Clover hoped that none of the other patients would notice the scene in front of her, but then she heard one of the nurses clear his throat.
Clover kept facing down to the floor when she heard the nurse warn, "Cletus, Frances, do you need to be put into your rooms again?"
Frances snorted and whined, "Aw, c'mon, live a little! This place gets way too frumpy all the time!"
A new man's voice was then heard: "You think you're the only ones here who think that?"
Clover glanced up to see who the man accompanying the nurse was.
Standing next to the nurse was what Clover assumed to be another patient, but unlike all the others, he didn't wear a scrub. Instead, he seemed to be entirely covered in a thick, gray rubber isolation suit with gloves and a mask, something that reminded Clover of something that astronauts wore in space. Out of his chest and around into his back, though, were two pieces of thick tubing that had a bright yellow light glowing out of them.
In fact, when Clover looked more closely, she saw that the light was actually a bunch of lightning bolts circulating around the man's body. She trailed her stare up to his mask-covered face. Under the plastic eye holes, Clover could see more yellow light and two blue dots which she guessed were his eyes.
Her mouth hung open. It was as if the man himself could create electricity, and the suit was meant to protect everything around him from burning or short-circuiting.
The man, who was much taller than Clover, had his hands crossed indifferently and was eying Clover as well. He barked, "And what are you staring at?"
Clover was about to answer him when Cletus sneered at the man, "Hey, Max, who's side are you on? I'm your pal, aren't I?"
Max shot a venomous scowl at the redhead. "My name is Electro. Get it right for once, dammit. And just because they locked me in this place doesn't make me one of you."
With Frances still clinging to him, Cletus rose from his seat and derided, "Sucks to you. You're a huge party pooper, y'know that? C'mon, Frances, let's go someplace where Max can't ruin the fun…"
As they trailed off to themselves to the far side of the room, Max called angrily, "That's Electro to you!"
Alarmed, the nurse placed his hands on Electro's shoulders and motioned him towards Clover. "That's enough now, Max. I think it's time to finally meet your cousin…"
This was when it had occurred to Electro that he had never seen the albino girl before. He always saw way too many different people coming and leaving Ravencroft that he lost the interest to keep track of them. The girl was looking back up at Electro with her emerald-green eyes. What struck him the most was how short she was―when she stood up to shake his hand, the top of her head barely reached the bottom of his neck. Electro could've sworn that she was only fifteen or sixteen years old.
Electro crossed his arms and scoffed, "This chick is no cousin of mine. The heck are you?"
The girl gave him what seemed to be a defeated look, her arm still extended out to shake it. "Max, don't you remember me? It's me, Clover! I'm your cousin from Brooklyn!"
"Kid, I don't know nobody from Brooklyn. You got the wrong guy," he grunted down on her. He then turned his back to her and headed back for the halls. "I'm going back to my room. Don't have time for this…"
Some kid. He wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one on this side of the planet who had to wear a full-on isolated suit. He had almost pushed her out of his mind when she called, "But Max, I got a letter from your favorite Uncle Octavius!"
Electro stopped in his tracks.
Octavius?
He whipped around to see the girl holding up a somewhat crinkled envelope with his name inscribed in blue ink―and in a specific handwriting that Electro recognized anywhere. The letters were written with grace and care as if the author had years of distinction behind him, yet they were swirled in such a way that it almost mimicked a doctor's signature. The young girl had a knowing smile across her face as if to tell him, I'm on your side.
Electro had been wondering when he'd get his next letter from Dr. Octavius. He was starting to worry that the cronies at Rikers had caught up to their gig and either prohibited him from writing or stringently supervised over what he had written.
Looks like the Doc had found a way to solve that problem.
Electro glanced at the nurse and shook his head to the direction of the door. "Sorry 'bout that, nurse. I remember this girl now."
As the nurse nodded and left, the man in the suit looked down on Clover again in askance. Who was this girl? Did she know who she was dealing with here? If so, how did she know the Doc? Dr. Octavius had never mentioned a kid in any of his letters to him. Why was this one get into the picture just now?
Electro, still keeping his eye on the girl, sat on the spot of the sofa where Cletus and Frances had been making out earlier and sent a hot glare Clover's way. When Clover sat down, Electro spread his legs at shoulder-length apart and rested his elbows on his knees.
He then stated in a low voice, "Listen up, kid. You've got thirty seconds to tell me who the hell you are, how you know Dr. Octavius, and why you're giving me a letter with my name on it. Go."
Waving the letter back and forth in the air, Clover replied with a hint of playful accusation, "What, you don't think this is proof enough that I'm on your side? How long has the Doc been sending you these letters? I can't believe the Doc hasn't mentioned me yet."
"Just answer the question."
"I'm Clover. I was the personal assistant of Dr. Octavius back at OsCorp for many years. The doctor and I are very close."
The patient in the suit stared her down skeptically. Dr. Octavius had mentioned before that he was in charge of the company's big-shot research facility, but there had been nothing said about an intern or assistant.
"Bull," Electro growled, leaning in. "You don't look a day over fifteen. How did you end up being his personal assistant?"
Frowning, the girl corrected, "Sixteen, actually. And yes, believe it or not, Dr. Octavius has been one of the most influential people in my life. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be sitting in front of you right now."
Electro let out an exasperated breath. At least she was right about one thing. He then barked impatiently, "Look, just give me the envelope already!"
The albino girl rolled her eyes and handed it out to him. Electro immediately snatched the mail out of her hand and tried to open the envelope. He kept fingering the top of the seal, but his gloved fingers just grazed over the edge. Again and again, he thumbed the seal with no avail, his grunts firing up with agitation.
If it weren't for this stupid suit, he could get the letter open! Just another thing from his past life that he missed terribly. He couldn't run up the stairs without the boots on the suit clomping so loudly. He couldn't flip on a switch without shorting out the lights in the room. He couldn't even eat with a metal fork without accidentally turning it into a little electromagnet.
Grrr…when was Dr. Connors going to come up with that magical cure? Electro kept telling himself every day since his confinement at Ravencroft that the one-armed scientist would visit one day with something―a pill, a vaccine, anything! But the lies he told himself day in and day out only grew less and less convincing. He had to face the music. The old Maxwell Dillon that everybody used to know was dead.
"Um…need help with that?"
Electro glanced up from his epic smack-down with the envelope to see Clover giving him a wry look. She held up her hand and beckoned him to give her the envelope.
He gave it to her, and she whispered, "Watch this."
He watched more closely at her hand.
Suddenly, from under the sleeve of her frumpy jacket crawled out a greenish-brown vine covered in sharp thorns. Electro's eyes flew open, and he nearly fell forward from his seat.
Did he…did he just see that?
He watched Clover grip one of the long thorns and use it to make a clean tear down the short side of the envelope, slipping out the folded piece of notebook paper and handing it to the man in the suit.
Electro faced her again. She had a knowing smile on her face, and she asked, "Tell me: did you see anything strange recently on the news? A giant plant castle, perhaps?"
Clover couldn't see it, but Electro's mouth was hanging open behind his mask. He then said, "Wait a minute…are you?..."
Nothing was needed to be said. He understood now. He recalled watching the news just yesterday when they were reporting on the giant plant castle that sprung in the middle of Central Park, swinging vines at hundreds of innocent bystanders and giving the police and fire department a pretty thorny experience. He saw the cameras catch Spider-Man swing for the castle, and Electro had rooted for whoever had built it.
And she was sitting right in front of him.
"You're…you're that girl who was fighting the web-freak the other day!" he gasped. He started raising his voice. "I heard about you! You made that giant castle in one night! You were showing the web-freak who was boss!"
"SHH!" the girl anxiously shushed, holding her hands up to get him to settle down and whipping her head from side to side to check that nobody had overheard them. "Dude, I'm trying to stay under the radar!"
"I saw your picture on the news!" he kept on, standing up on his feet. Under his mask, his skin was glowing brighter and zapping out small lightning bolts in excitement. "They said that you were missing, didn't they!? That you were kidnapped? But then Spider-Man came on camera and said that you said it was a lie! Is that true?"
Clover had to get up, grab his arm, and drag him back into his seat before one of the orderlies noticed or overheard them. She hissed, "Yeah, I'm that girl who fought Spider-Man back on Wednesday. Now keep it down!"
Electro held his hands up in defense, bringing his voice back down to a whisper. "Okay, okay, my bad! But seriously, did you knock him up pretty bad?"
She sighed in return, "Not enough to put him out for good."
"Hey, none of us did. Give yourself some credit. At least you got away with it. I'm stuck in this ratty old place. But enough 'bout that. I wanna see what the Doc has to say…"
With his gloved fingers, he clumsily folded out the letter. Clover could make out her mentor's swirly handwriting from behind the paper in blue ink. She tried to read it from behind, but then Electro told her, "Uh…it says that you need to read it, too."
Clover shrugged and went to sit next to Electro on the couch. When she leaned in to read, she could feel a small amount of heat radiating from him, and she could now get a closer look at the glowing current of electricity flowing within the tubes on his suit. The stream of lightning bolts circled indefinitely, and Clover started to become anxious.
She gripped the edge of the sofa, remembering how much it burned when Osborn electrocuted her…
"You alright, kid?"
Clover snapped out of it. Electro was giving her a strange look. He then said, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
She chuckled uneasily. "Sorry…it's not you. I just have a bad history with electricity…"
Electro shook his head dismissively. "Eh, I'm used to it. You've actually been nicer than some of the people here. Most just stare at me like I'm from outer space…"
They read the letter together.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Dear Maxwell,
First of all, let Clover read this as well. I assume you two have already introduced yourselves. (Clover, I knew you were going to eavesdrop anyway; I've learned quite enough about you over the last decade.)
I'm quite pleased that you have received my last two letters! I know you have been through so much lately. Your accident was quite unfortunate, and from what I've read and heard, you've been treading through some pretty rough waters lately.
But not to worry, my dear Maxwell. You and I are more or less in the same boat, not to mention that we both have some scores to settle with a certain arachnid. Shortly, with your help, you, me, and plenty of others will be able to get rid of him for good.
Therefore, I am now gathering my resources so that we may both be able to get out of our current situations. A handful of my fellow inmates here at Rikers have already agreed to aiding us in our endeavor, but we can only escape from this prison with your and Clover's help. That is why I want you to get out of Ravencroft as fast as you can.
However, you must not bring any suspicion towards you, so I ask that you refrain from trying to escape or using brute force. What I would prefer you do is play the redemption card and make the psychologists there believe that you are on a quick road to recovery. I will be sure to keep in touch with you until I am positive that we are ready.
Clover, this is where you come in, so read very carefully. Because you are the only one who is not confined to any type of prison nor is currently detected by the law, I want you to act as my messenger between Ravencroft and Rikers. Come to Rikers every third day and visit Ravencroft the morning after. (That means that I shall see you again this Wednesday.)
Clover, please take every care not to raise any suspicion. Take a different route every time you travel to and from each facility. Take different trains. Don't let yourself get recognized by anybody, but especially try not to let yourself be seen by the same people every day, aside from those at Ravencroft and Rikers. To solve your food problems, I suggest you invest in a battery-powered grow light to place under your clothes. There are two Home Depots in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn that I know of where you can steal one. They will not be hard to find, trust me.
Best of luck to both of you. I'm sure you two will get along quite nicely as well.
Sincerely,
Dr. Otto Octavius
OoOoO
The front doors for OsCorp were only twenty feet away from her, maybe less.
Ellie Simkins kept telling herself that as she kept her eyes on the sidewalk and covered her face with her hand, ducking her head to charge through the wall of news reporters that flashed their cameras towards her.
The crowd of journalists consisted of those from all sorts of media. All the local New York stations were stationed in front of OsCorp, camping out in their white news vans with the satellite dishes sticking high up from their tops, their wires coiling back down to their vehicles. Every newspaper and magazine in the city wanted to have a word with her, including The New York Times, USA Today, and even The Daily Bugle.
As the young woman with the light brown, shoulder-length hair paced closer and closer to the building, the reporters quickly sniffed her out like a flock of hungry vultures ready to tear her eyes out. She heard them race over to her, and Ms. Simkins was nearly hit in the face several times by several microphones.
The screaming from the crowd deafened her. More and more questions stabbed at her with every step:
"Ms. Simkins! How do you feel now that your daughter is a wanted criminal?"
"Ms. Simkins, how do you think your daughter got supernatural powers? What are you hiding from us?"
"Ms. Simkins, did you ever see this coming? Has your daughter ever shown any questionable behavior before this?"
"Ms. Simkins, how do you think this reflects on you as a parent?"
The secretary squeezed her eyes shut when the bright lights of the camera flashes nearly blinded her, and she quickened her pace even more. She imagined how shameful and babyish she must look like in those photos, and when she passed the video cameras, she wondered exactly how many viewers would be scrutinizing her.
She had dealt with this crowd for days now, every time she clocked in and every time she clocked out. An explosion of tears always tried to burst out from within her, and she wanted no more than to scream to them at the top of her lings, she's not my daughter!
But all she had to do was walk a little faster, though, and she would be within the quiet and privacy of OsCorp again.
Finally, he hand reached for the cold, metal handle to the glass door, and she felt its weight swing towards her. Not letting the door open too widely, she slipped inside, and the din of the crowd became a muffled afterthought. She let herself look up again and keep her gaze straight ahead, leaving her thirty seconds of hell behind her that was now banging on the glass doors, stealing pictures of her from the inside.
Or, rather, she left thirty seconds of purgatory―because hell was standing right in front of her in a crisp business suit and dark, gray eyes.
Norman Osborn smiled, "Ellie, I'm so glad to see you again. I see you've gotten used to the media horde outside, but I wouldn't worry if I were you. Sooner or later, they'll find something shiny to follow."
Ellie clutched her purse closer to herself as she approached her boss. "Of course, sir."
"Now, if you don't mind, Ellie, we have some business to attend to in my office."
The secretary gulped. She didn't like the way his voice was laced with sweetness. Her hands became clammy as she strolled alongside her boss to the elevator, knowing full well that her excursion with him would last at least half an hour.
The ding of the elevator doors sounded like a miniature funeral bell. The silver-colored doors slid open, inviting the man and the woman into their own little space for their comfort. Mr. Osborn and Ms. Simkins then entered the elevator, the latter with a sick, empty feeling weighing her down.
The doors then shut. She and her boss would now be completely alone for the next four floors.
When Osborn edged himself closer to her, his secretary steadied her breath rate and said, "Norman, can I ask you something?"
Her boss smiled. "Of course, my dear. There's no need to be afraid."
He then lifted his hand and sifted it through her hair delicately. She tried to pretend it wasn't there, but her boss only leaned in closer to her. He took in a deep breath and noted in a lewd tone, "You smell quite lovely today, Ellie. What perfume is that?"
She ignored his question. "Norman, when you asked me to announce that AMBER Alert to the police and on the news, you promised that you would tell me who that girl was."
He kept running his fingers behind her neck and replied dismissively, "Why do you get so worried over things like that, Ellie? This is just something I want you to do to help poor Ashley out."
"But who's Ashley? Everybody's always asking me if I'm scared for my daughter, but she's not my daughter. I have no daughter. I've never seen that girl before in my life. Who is she?"
His grip in her hair tightened faintly. Osborn, keeping his voice in a kittenish whisper, soothed, "Now, now, Ellie. I wouldn't be poking my nose into the matter too much if I were you. After all, don't you still have those debts to pay to your school?"
Ms. Simkins' shoulders slumped. Even though she was bouncing, fully-grown twenty-five-year-old woman, she had to go back to school for a degree she had desperately needed to get a job that could actually support her for more than three months. The good news was that she was able to successfully graduate from ESU with an associate's in business. The bad news was that the price for her education had more zeroes in it than she thought, and she had been up to her nose in unpaid student loans.
But Norman Osborn had saved her. After providing her a position as his personal secretary, he had donated a jaw-dropping amount of money to pay off all her loans. Ellie had thought that it was the greatest moment in her life. An unbearable weight that she had been carrying for months was now lifted off her shoulders, setting her free from all trouble.
Or so she had thought.
Osborn's hand was now finding its way out of her hair and around her waist, and she felt his palm massage the side of her buttocks. He didn't bother taking it off when they arrived at the fourth floor and the doors opened. He led her straight to the large oak doors to his office where they went in, the doors closing behind them.
Ellie, now alone in Osborn's large office with him, then asked, "Well, if I can't know who she is, can you at least tell me if she's safe?"
She turned to face him. Her boss had a hungry grin on his face, and his gaze trailed away from her eyes and down her curvy body. She turned away and blushed.
Putting his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them, Osborn lulled, "I'm afraid I don't have the answer for that, Ellie, but the police will find her. I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. If they can't find her, I'll see what I can do myself…"
Ellie wasn't sure what he meant on his last sentence.
His hands slinked down from her shoulders to the buttons on her white shirt. As he unfastened them, Ellie stared at the golden ring on his left hand, signifying a marital loyalty that did not exist to him. His hands slithered under the cloth and caressed her bare skin underneath, making her skin crawl. Her boss then locked his lips against hers, and his cologne nearly choked her.
Still locked in a tender kiss and embrace, Ellie's eyes opened and glanced towards Osborn's desk, where a picture frame watched them both from afar. On it were three people: him, his son, and an unfortunate woman with short, brown hair by the name of Emily Osborn.
Eight months. That's how long Ellie and her boss have been keeping this up. In the beginning, Ellie had rationalized her boss' infatuation with her as something normal, something that lots of people sometimes went through in the workplace. With every intimate act together, however, Ellie felt as if she was walking around all the time somehow polluted.
Her stare was fixed on that of Mrs. Osborn on the picture as her boss stopped moved away from her lips and started kissing her neck, bringing his hands further down her body.
So this is what it meant to be "the other woman." At that moment, she wondered what it meant to be the first woman. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes as Osborn slid her shirt off.
OoOoO
Note: Doc Oc's experience at Rikers Island is based off of real stories from former inmates on Reddit. If you would like to read more real accounts on prison life, the link below should go right to the two AskReddit posts in question:
r/AskReddit/comments/1unid1/former_inmates_of_reddit_what_is_a_common/
r/AskReddit/comments/2lntrx/former_prisoners_of_reddit_what_is_something_that/
Furthermore, Lana Winters and Briarcliff Mental Institution are both from the second season of American Horror Story, and they are owned by FX.
And some of those quotes from Cletus were real ones from the comics. I bet all you Cletey fans out there enjoyed that.
Bonus points to anybody who can tell me who Cletus' girlfriend is! (Or, rather, will be.)
NEXT UPDATE: Friday, May 15, 2015
