Author's Note:

Well, I finally saw TASM 2! And, well, it wasn't quite perfect, but it was pretty amazing! You can read my review (or random thoughts pertaining to the film) here, on my tumblr: .com.

I know this chapter took a while, even though it's not that long. That's for several reasons:

1. It's not told from Autumn or Peter's POVs (What?), so I had to get into that mindset.

2. I couldn't find the name of the Osborn's deadly disease for a couple of days, and when I did, I was slightly troubled by the fact that it's not real, and doesn't even resemble a real disease.

3. I really, really felt like writing more Autumn/Peter fluff this entire time, but I had to spend this chapter fleshing out several underdeveloped characters and introducing some new ones.

Fun fact: The Hearst Tower was used as the basis for the OsCorp building in the Amazing Spider-Man films. That's why I used the Hearst Tower's address as the OsCorp tower address.

This may be my last update for a couple of weeks. I have to start studying for finals soon, so I won't have much time to write. I may update once more before I go offline, but that's a big maybe.

Thanks to all who have supported "Acatalepsy" in my brief absence!

The Osborn Curse

OsCorp Tower, 300 West 57th Street

The past few weeks have not been kind to Dr. Stefan Harrow; they have stomped on him, smashing him into a fine pulp with an iron-tipped boot.

He supposes he is lucky that he still has his job.

No.

He is lucky he is still breathing. OsCorp seems to be home to many "unfortunate accidents". It happened to Richard Parker, and he seemed to hold the entire world in the palm of his hand. Harrow makes deals with danger for a living. His days may or may not be numbered. If anyone deserves such a conveniently-timed demise, it is the man who single-handedly lost the most important experiment of the decade, of OsCorp's entire history, even.

He came close to recovering her, too. But the retrovirus did its work well. From what Security described, she moved so quickly, so gracefully, that the best-trained guards could only watch in frustration. Harrow had other recoveries planned, but she went off of the map for a while, and when she reemerged, she was partnered with the Parker boy. wouldn't risk it. United, the two of them could easily take out OsCorp's best forces.

And now, SHIELD has them in their hands. OsCorp's playing nice around SHIELD. The last thing they need is a swarm of super-spies sniffing around.

Steps approach from behind, and Harrow spins around in the swivel chair at his desk.

"May I help you?" Harrow asks his superior.

Rajit Ratha looks at him with the same glower he always seems to wear. The right corner of his mouth is twisted downwards in a permanent scowl, and gruesome scars run from his lips up to his cheeks. It isn't a secret: Ratha was one of the Lizard's more unfortunate victims.

"Mr. Osborn is in critical condition," he announces with a thick accent. He makes it sound like a surprise, but Norman Osborn has suffered from retroviral hyperplasia for well over two decades. Various miracle drugs and treatments have kept him alive, but barely. The Grim Reaper is ever-tugging at his coat. If he really is on his way out, then, it's about time.

"I am sorry to hear that," Harrow says stiffly. His voice is raspy- he hasn't gotten a good night's sleep since this "Black Cat" disaster began.

"Your presence is requested at Mr. Osborn's residence," Ratha continues.

Harrow cannot help the immediate response- his insides freeze. It does not matter if Norman Osborn is on his deathbed- one does not want to be called to face him.

"He wishes for his son, Harry, his only heir, to meet the head of OsCorp's genetics lab."

Harrow nods. "At what time? I'm… busy"

"The sooner you can make it, the better. Mr. Osborn does not have the luxury of time" With that, Ratha walks away, his footsteps echoing through the halls.

Harrow sighs, massages his temples, and takes another sip of his coffee before he begins to stuff scattered files into his briefcase.

Osborn's mansion sits on a hill in a quiet corner of Brooklyn. It's a marvel to behold, of course- it's Norman Osborn, after all. Large stone columns stand proudly, unwavering under the weight of the marble roof. An intricate crest is engraved upon each column, making the territory's owner known to all.

A butler pulls the door open and Ratha steps inside, followed by Harrow. They are greeted by an unwelcoming, hostile darkness. The lights on the crystal chandelier overhead are dimmed, creating strange, eerie shadows in the corners of the front hall that dart at the corners of their eyes.

Harrow imagines that Osborn has adopted this domain as his disease progressed; considering the deterioration of his ocular tissues, any illumination would pain him.

"He is sharing a moment with his son," the butler whispers.

But, as those words leave his lips, a shout from behind Osborn's sealed doors slices through the air.

"That is the Osborn way- whatever is inconvenient, get rid of it! You threw me away!"

The voice is young and powerful- Harrow immediately recognizes it as Harry's, since Norman's voice has become all but a rasp.

The butler uncomfortably shifts his gaze away, and the three men remain silent for minutes.

Finally, the bedchamber doors creak open, and a young, well-groomed man- Harry- emerges. His skin is sheet white, his fingertips trembling, his eyes glazed over with distance possessed only by a haunted, tormented man.

"Mr. Osborn," Ratha says, stepping forward and extending his hand. Harry's arm remains firmly at his side, a mechanism carved clumsily out of stone.

"I-it's in me," he stammers, his breaths turning shallow and rapid.

Harrow frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Re-retroviral hyperplasia," Harry mumbles, staring intently at his palms. Suddenly, his head jerks upwards. "You are scientists, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," Harrow answers.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He demands, his voice rising. "This disease- look what it's done to him!" He glances back at the door. "It- it can't happen to me. Not me, too. And he just hid it from me, my entire life! He-"

"Your father only sought to give you an enjoyable childhood," Ratha interjects.

"My father never cared about me," Harry snaps. "No, he would be glad-"

"Mr. Osborn," Harrow tries to speak calmly. "Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Stefan Harrow, head of OsCorp's genetics lab, and the leader of the team to develop a cure for your condition."

"Well, haven't you done a fantastic job," Harry's eyes narrow. "He's got- what, hours?"

"Experimental treatments have given your father more than forty years he otherwise wouldn't have had," Harrow says, firmly but gently. "I assume he gave you his research file?"

With his hand still shaking, Harry pulls a flash drive from his pocket.

"The twitching is easy to take care of," Harrow comments. "I will give you a bottle of the pills."

"Twitching isn't what's killing my father," Harry spits, his words full of venom.

Harrow sighs. "My point is, we were able to prolong your father's life and control his symptoms, and science will only continue to progress."

"Mr. Osborn requested to speak with us," Ratha gestures to the closed doors.

Harrow turns to the younger Osborn. "We will be with you in several moments. After business is taken care of here, we will take you back to headquarters in Manhattan."

The butler opens the doors, and the two men step into the bedroom.

Osborn's lair is even darker than the outer chambers. It takes a moment for Harrow's eyes to adjust, and when they do, he can't help but wince.

Norman Osborn is more like a heap than a man. His skin sags, weighted with rough, dry patches that have scabbed over green. Deep bags hang under his bloodshot eyes. He is suddenly stricken with a coughing fit, and he tremors violently, a thick, green pus dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"I assume the boy has already gone whining to you," Osborn croaks.

Ratha nods. "He demands the cure we obviously do not have."

Another fit of coughing follows. "Regardless of any decisions he makes, you must continue with your own plans," he rasps when the fit abides. "His narrow-sighted concern for his own well being cannot lay waste to my intentions."

"Yes, sir," Harrow responds flatly.

"While he may be my heir, do not be deceived. You," Osborn stiffly nods at them, "Are in charge. The board is filled with fools who only care about OsCorp on a capitalistic level. It lies with the two of you to ensure that OsCorp fulfills its purpose, the reason it was created."

This is interrupted by yet more coughing. Once, years ago, Harrow cringed. But when he received his promotion after Connor's incident, he knew what he was getting involved in. Now, he is unfazed. Rather, he expects it. It's easy to deal with conditions that unfurl themselves straight off of the page of a text book. It's harder to deal with those that are divergent.

"You know how to pull strings," Osborn says when he recovers, gasping for air between the words. "Go behind the board's back. Place some money in front of those fools, and they won't bother to look over their shoulders. My son may be more… problematic. He's too stubborn to be so easily manipulated. If you must, get him out of your way, one way or another."

"That can be managed," Ratha replies, adjusting his tie, for this is ordinary business to him, to both of them.

"And the experiments. Parker's boy. The girl."

Harrow inhales sharply, forcing his tone to be even. "We are working on recovering them, sir. But they've been sought out and now employed by SHIELD. As difficult as a recovery would have been before, it is impossible now."

Osborn does not speak, but a thin-lipped grin creeps across his face. With visible effort, his eyes close.

He does not use that raspy drawl again.