Chapter 2

The moment the tip of the pencil hits the paper, the tip snaps. The graphite scatters over the page and there's a sigh over crackling fire, the adjustment of a seat, and crumpled, moving paper that litters the floor.

He decides it's best to switch to pen. Red ink glides along the paper until it hits a divot, and then there's a wet, squelching noise as it comes to a stop and spills. It pools in a quickly deepening stain on the page and he pauses, incapable of thinking something odd: Do pens bleed?

The next thought makes him laugh. Is he going insane? Do pens bleed…, who thinks like that? Anything would bleed if you poked it hard enough. Anyone, especially if they were to have been dropped from a large height. And... after they broke, the fragments would be everywhere, just like his broken pencil, and the noise would sound just like his pen.

Snap.

His pencil is a broken, fragile little thing. It was so sharp, promising and young. But now it's just... broken. He picks it up and breaks the rest of it. Into little pieces, first by half, and then quarters. Just like that. Should have dropped it from high up. Just to see what would happen. Maybe someone would try and catch it?

He is not going insane. In fact, he has become increasingly sane as the years pass by, and it's a pleasant change of pace. It's the old age, you see – it's finally caught up to him and now bears a steady jog beside him, putting the world into perspective like the slow haze of an IV drip, but clearing out the previous drug from his veins. Allowing him to appreciate the fact that he's old now, and of all things, that's quite the accomplishment with how many other things he's been in the past. Dead, being one of the many things that just didn't stick.

Among the others, he has been a convicted felon and a murderer – an acquitted and alleged murderer. He's also been a domestic terrorist – allegedly – and drug dealer – also allegedly – and a key person of interest in several crimes, including, but not limited to mass murder and disappearances of several people, destruction of property, extortion, laundering, black market weapons deals, tax evasion, and… parking violations – hey, you can't fight City Hall.

One word that had been used to describe him is 'crime lord'. It's a bit garish, but it fits. He's always preferred 'entrepreneur', because he's a man of so many hats. He is also a captain of industry – or was, at the height of his career. He is a very charming man, or so he's been told, and is imposing by charisma if not by stature. He is a man with connections, and is in part responsible for the country's security against all threats supernatural and extraterrestrial. He is the man who helped beat back an alien invasion, but despite that…

He is a has-been-husband and widower, and a failed role model. He is a failure of a parent, and a disillusioned scientist who looks down on the naïve and unambitious. In the past people have crossdressed to get their rocks off – he chooses to be a monster for his cheap thrills.

In the end, he is a nothing more than a cockroach that always manages to walk away from the last nuke that's been dropped on him, and death is a running joke to him as a result, because he's a monster with red hair, lots of money, a good suit, and the good sense to know the importance of having very, very good lawyers and a downright phenomenal PR team.

His name is Norman Osborn, 'money' and 'secrets' are written across his promise-dripping smile, and he is, or was, the 'Green Goblin'. All he had wanted to be called in the beginning was 'Mr. Coffee', but he knows more than most that things don't always work out the way you plan… The country still wants him to run for office though, and it's no wonder, really – sheep have an instinctual need for a good herder.

The letter he's writing, the words are hard to come by but all they need is a good ol' college try, so he starts again. And again, and again. The floor of his study is absolutely littered with attempts and failures already, but none of it is trash. "Attempts are never trash and failures never pointless," he is on record saying. They are progress, and progress is a great height built by the millimeter, and it so easy to fall from. But with enough tenacity, with enough masculine determination, one can reach those heights.

Not everyone can be that one, but he can. And so he trudges along.

The fireplace crackles despite it being close to summer. The Manhattan is weather fairly pleasant, and this high up the temperate winds race along his shaded windows. His air-conditioning is on and he's wasting his money on gas and electricity for it, but it's only because he has money to waste. Saving it would be the true waste, wouldn't it? Especially when, after this letter, he's going to die.

"I hope you're well," the letter reads, to his future murderer. "I know you'd wish me the same if you could…

"The pressure for me to run for office is increasing, this year more than ever. The public wants my stance on the 'gifted' – the new PC word they've come up with for mutants, I'm sure you understand – and people like you. There is some argument on segregating the two, however… and here I thought as a nation we were beyond that. In your case in particular, I do think that it – that word, Gifted – Is appropriate."

"But you know me – I'm no politician. I'm a business man second and an inventor, first. I see a crowd of politicians and I want to see what their faces look like as the building collapses on them. That is my stance, but no one ever seems to remember. Science and politics are diametrically opposed because of this, I think. Memory and retention is everything for the former. For the latter, sweet words and platitudes rule the day. It is not a venue for men like us. Men of meaning, and action."

He pauses. Sighs.

"Dear Peter—

No.

"Hello, P-

No.

"So I met this blonde, the other day. Pretty, young and sweet, with luscious, supple legs and a thing for older men… You would have liked her. She reminded me of that awful girl you used to like… What was her name? Gertrude? Gwyneth?"

…Maybe.

"Peter, I hope you're doing well this time of year as well, as I always hope you do at every other point in the year. I've heard through the grapevine that you departed from that 'pest' control business of yours – and sold it off for quite a hefty profit. As happy as I am for you, it is quite the shame – I was intent on buying a good deal of Reilly-Watson stock come the next fiscal year. You know I have the utmost faith in your endeavors, as shown by your success, but I would never have hesitated to lend a hand if you had needed some… help. But you have consistently shown that you don't."

"What you have done, I am not surprised in the slightest. I've always known what you were capable of. And I am proud of you, son, just as I know your family would be."

"Now, I don't know if you've received my past letters – I won't dwell on , I won't ask you to reply, merely to read this one. I think it'll be quite the attention grabber for you, to be honest. Regardless of our history, know that I am honored to have had at least some small part to play in you becoming the man you are today. You have given my life meaning, old friend, and it is because of that, because of you, that I have endeavored to change myself."

"I never spoke of it in our previous, one-sided, correspondence because I did not feel the time was right. Much like a cake, or bun, it was not ready to be taken out of the oven. But seventeen years should be enough for any bun - hopefully it just isn't too blackened from neglect. The taste would be quite unpleasant and venomous, otherwise."

"Our last meeting was not… as I wished it was. After, I found myself listless, lost, and broken. I have done many things, many awful things, but I truly did not mean for what happened between us. I went too far, and it remains, to this day, one of my most raw failures. It is because of that, I sought to take responsibility in some small way, and in doing so I found myself in possession of… the most wonderful child."

"A baby whose mother had passed in childbirth. I believe it had something to do with a bad nurse and potassium, you know how it goes… so difficult to find good help these days. Tragically, she was born unhealthy. I'm told it was something from her father's side of the family? But I, in trying to be a better man than I have been, a good man, took her in."

"There were some difficulties, of course. A relative of the father, his brother, likely – some large and lumbering, facially unfortunate, Quasimodo-type brute – tried to take her from me. I could not allow this, and so I called upon an old friend of ours. You remember Doctor Miles Warren, I'm sure."

"Luckily things were settled relatively peacefully with this relative, once it was explained that he was quite mistaken, and that the child in my possession was not, in fact, the child he sought. That confusion cleared up. I was able to begin my new life as a family man. I know I failed with Harry, after his mother passed, but with you as my example, Peter, I knew I could do better. I could make progress. As a scientist, I'm sure you understand. I remembered that your late Aunt's sister's name was 'April', and so I named her just that: April. And, she enjoys the rain, in case you were wondering. Just like you, actually."

"I could not bring myself to give her my name, and so I registered her as 'April Fitzpatrick'. That was your mother's maiden name, if I remember correctly. And I must say, she has brought me so much joy over the years. To see her grow – she bears a striking resemblance to her father in temperament and in her eyes, though she looks so similar to her mother everywhere else There were difficulties when she was an infant, sadly, but fortunately an old flame of her father's was all too happy to lend us a hand and watch over her. Tragedy struck however, and I am not sure if you are aware, but as it turns out, that same old flame was also familiar with an old friend of ours – Eddie. I hear that after parting ways with his partner, and a rather vicious battle with cancer, he was found having opened up his wrists in some dark alley on 3rd Street. A shame."

"But to veer back to happier things. lately, my little girl has been desperate to meet the man who conceived her. The one that walked out on her and let her mother die – in his own eyes, of course. As much as I have come to care for her, I could not, would not, and shall not try to take that man's place or keep this wonderful young woman from her father.

"For her birthday I've gifted her a bus ticket – I'm sure you can think of something far more spectacular. After all, you are a far better father than I could ever be, Peter, and it is my understanding that you have an upcoming birthday party to plan, yourself. I'm not sure what could possibly top a father's love, but I do hope this will help bring some small amount of joy to her. And to you. The both of you.

"Please, for the both of them, do wish them a Happy Birthday, from me. Sincerely Yours, Your Lifelong Friend," and he signs his death warrant with a smile on his face, "Norman Harold Osborn."

Norman looks over the letter and hums. Not bad. A little mushy. Brings a tear to the eye, really. But what's a little sentiment between two old friends…

He stacks the pages and calls out, "Sarah!"

It only takes a small amount of time for her to come in, and when she does she peeks her head through the door to his study with a polite little knock. The fire makes her hair cast a long, dark shadow that looks the opposite of her bright, blonde hair, and even her eyes shine blue in the dimmed room. Norman looks at her fondly as she responds – she looks so much like her mother…

"Yeah, Dad?"

He takes a moment to put the letter in an envelope and seal it with his crest – a grinning goblin's face in dark red wax, and then he stands up from his chair, putting on a show of just how weak his knees are. They buckle and creak and his spine cracks. His hand trembles as he reaches up to steady his glasses while he hands her the letter., but she's only concerned with steading him and making sure he's alright. So like her mother…

"Thank you, sweetheart. Take this for me, would you? I'd like to get this sent off before tomorrow," he says, with a kind, weak smile.

It's one that only she and her sisters are allowed to see, because to the world Norman Osborn must be strong. But to his family he can be himself. A tried and tired old man who merely wants to make up for his mistakes and raise his family until they no longer need him. And then he can rest in peace.

She's immediately concerned with his wellbeing, as she always is, being the one of her sisters to take the most after her mother, and the others taking after their fathers. "Do you need anything?" she asks with a small frown.

"No, no, just… Time," he says, and his smile creaks against his wrinkles as a pained look appears on her face, before she can hide it. Such a sweet girl. "Where's Gabriel?"

Sarah takes the papers gingerly. "She just went out."

"And April?"

For a second, Sarah frowns. Norman can't help but grin – the twins, Sarah and Gabriel, are almost inseparable. But the real sibling rivalry is between her and April. But, he doubts that will be the only one for long.

"We got a call from her earlier- but I didn't want to interrupt you. I know how much you value your time," she says, her head down.

Norman shuffles to the exit of the study. "And I do appreciate it, young lady," he says with a slight rasp.

"She said that she's about to arrive in town." Her frown deepens and all of the warmth just leaves her voice. "Are you sure it's safe for her, there? With him? After what he's done to us- to you?"

"Calm down, Sarah," Norman says, and puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Hush. April can handle herself. She'll be fine."

"I just don't understand! You know what kind of person that man is. He almost killed you- and he abandoned us- our mothers-"

They walk out of the room together. Norman doesn't meet her eyes as he speaks, because otherwise, she'd see the manic smile stretched across his face. "Every man deserves a second chance, Sarah. Every child deserves to meet her father."

She braces him, just in case he were to fall, and he smiles gently at her. "You're the only father I'll ever need, Dad," she whispers.

"Attagirl."