Hello, friends, and welcome to Chapter Seven! I hope you're ready for things to get heavy, because I'm dropping a thousand ton weight on you with this one. Seriously, though, I hope you guys enjoy it. Please read and review, and, as always, I humbly thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: All characters owned by Marvel.
Chapter Seven
Carol's eyebrows shot into the air, and her face went slack-jawed. "What are you talking about?"
Strange rubbed a hand over his goatee. "I can't be certain of everything," he said. "I don't know the details of how he became affected by Octavius the way he was."
"Then tell me what you are certain of," Carol said.
Strange sighed. "Octavius was a scientist, gifted in robotics and nanotechnology. Most likely he used some kind of robot to achieve his takeover of Peter's mind."
Carol's brow furrowed. "What's your point?" she asked.
"The point," Strange continued, "Is that Otto Octavius himself was not in control of Peter's mind and body."
"Then who was?" Carol asked.
"Peter," Strange said. "Except that he believed himself to be Otto Octavius."
Carol raised her palms in front of herself. "Back up," she said. "Maybe you should start from the beginning? How could Peter believe himself to be Octavius?"
Strange pursed his lips and hummed. "Our being, what makes us the individuals we are, is split into three parts, but all the pieces work in concert to constitute the whole, understand?"
She nodded.
He reached out and placed his hand on her forearm. "The first is the body, the physical, tactile thing that performs actions."
"Okay, that part's easy," she said.
"The second is the mind," he continued. "Which is the plane wherein all thoughts and emotions are generated. This is measurable brain activity, wavelengths. Cognitive thought, consciousness, memory, motor function. All of this is in the mind."
Chewie (Carol's "cat" she rescued from her ship after Peter left the party) jumped into her lap and bumped her fist with its head, demanding attention. "I think that makes sense," Carol said, absentmindedly scratching around its ears.
Strange stared into her eyes, and his seemed to flash for a brief second. This is also the plane that telepaths tap into in order to read minds or influence others, he said.
"Okay, thanks for the warning, but I get it now," she said. "What's the third?"
"The third is the soul," Strange said. He held out his open palm, his fingers cupped up into an uncapped cage. A small, bright ball appeared between them. "The soul is grown as we live, by every thought in the mind and every action taken by the body. The soul is the very essence of who we are."
Carol blinked at him. "Mmm… kay…" she said. "So how does all this matter? For Peter, I mean."
Strange closed his fist, and the ball of light faded away. "Well," he said, "Octavius was a scientist, and there are limits to what science can do. Specifically, there is no way that science—machines and mathematics—can affect the soul."
He leaned forward. "However, what science can affect, and as we've seen with many of us, including yourself, is the mind. Memories can be altered or removed completely, cognitive thought can be erased or shut down altogether, dormant personalities can be awoken by rage and radiation."
"But what about Peter?" Carol asked, her voice rising in volume. "You're not saying he has some split personality, are you?"
Strange shook his head. "No, nothing like that," he said. "What Peter believes is that Octavius possessed his body, that he was forced to watch from inside while a madman used his flesh to perform horrible deeds."
The Sorcerer Supreme ran his palm over his goatee and sighed. "The reality is much worse. In order for an actual possession or 'body swap' to occur, the souls would have to be removed and replaced in the opposite bodies. There is no machine on Earth or anywhere in this universe that can manage this."
Carol shook her head. "Then what happened?"
"I only have suspicions," Strange said. "But what I speculate is this: Octavius used some kind of machine to transplant his memories onto Peter's mind."
"But how would that make Peter believe Octavius possessed him?" Carol asked.
"Consider," Strange said. "All that we have to inform our decisions, to give us information about how we should act in a given situation, are our memories. If all of Peter Parker's memories—his childhood with his aunt and uncle, his early years as Spider-Man, his relationship with you—are blocked, or removed, then the only memories he will have access to will be those of Otto Octavius, thus making Peter Parker speak, think, behave, and believe as Otto Octavius would."
"Prior to using the machine, however," Strange continued, "Octavius would leave some of Peter's memories open and available, so as to still have some recall of Peter's past; something that he could draw from in order to maintain the façade of still being Peter Parker."
Carol pinched the bridge of her nose. "But you spoke with him, didn't you? You saw some aspect of Peter inside his mind when you went in there."
"Remember how I said the soul is grown?" Strange said. "It takes more than a few months of running around believing yourself to be a villain in a hero's body to alter a lifetime of selflessness. I was speaking to Peter's soul."
Carol rose from her seat, dropping Chewie to the floor, and began to pace. She knew Strange was right, in what he'd said. But it was terrible thing she was going to have to do. "I don't like lying to him, Doc. He doesn't deserve it."
"I know he doesn't," Strange said. "He deserves the truth. But you know what will happen if he gets it."
She nodded. "Yeah, I do."
They stood in silence for a few moments before Carol asked, "What happened to Octavius, Doc? The real one?"
"He's dead, Carol," Strange said. "Dead and gone."
"You're sure?" she asked.
"Now that his memories are purged from Peter's mind, he must be," Strange said.
Carol sighed. "I suppose that'll have to be good enough."
Strange moved to leave, but turned in the doorway. "I'm sorry to lay this burden on you, Carol," he said. "But someone had to know the truth. Someone close to him. If he ever comes to it on his own…"
"He won't, Doc," Carol said. "Don't worry."
Strange walked through the doorway, and Carol started back to her room. "C'mon, Chewie," she said. The cat plopped along at her heels, purring its way down the hall.
Neither of them heard the short burst of pressurized air from the corner above them, or the pair of silent feet that touched the floor.
XXXXXX
Carol laid in bed for an hour, hating herself and Strange and everything about what he'd told her, before deciding that Peter's wishes be damned, she wanted to see him. So, as the clocked ticked over to 3:31 in the morning, she shot out of the tower's window and landed at the street entrance to his apartment by 3:32.
She'd expected him to be either swinging about the city or sleeping, but was surprised to see light glowing from his window. She hoped he hadn't let Octavius's girlfriend stay; she knew it was a possibility, of course, Peter was too kind-hearted to toss someone out onto the street, but if he'd done that he should've come back to stay at the tower.
Last time Carol had been hoping to surprise him, but this time she just used her key to open the door.
The second the door opened, it hit her.
The smell.
She hadn't smelled that in years, she'd been so careful.
Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey. Well aged, she knew.
She shouldn't be here. Couldn't be here, it was too dangerous.
She remembered smashing through the wing of a 737, barely catching the damn thing in time before it crashed. The headlines read, "Drunken Ms. Marvel Destroys Commercial Airliner, Nearly Kills 145."
"Carol, my darling," she heard from the kitchen. "Come sit with me."
She could barely make out the words.
The thick brown bottle swung precariously over the floor. Peter was holding onto it with a fingertip. There were only a few sips left, and the glass in front of him was empty. "Peter," she said, taking a step forward, "What are you doing?"
"Toasting… something," Peter said, pouring himself another glass.
"Okay, Peter, I know you're upset right now." Carol reached down, her hand trembling, and took the bottle. "But this isn't you."
He snapped up, the speed she so often forgot was there startling her. "What do you know about who I am?" he asked.
She held up the bottle. "I know what this is," she said. "I know the appeal. And I know why you're doing it. Better than most. I know what it's like to have someone in there, messing around in your mind."
Peter walked into the bedroom, his equilibrium perfect in spite of his intoxication. "I know you think you do, Carol, but you don't. Not this time."
Carol followed him, setting the bottle on the counter. "Did you really just say that to me? Knowing what I've been through?"
"At least you have someone else you can blame," Peter said. "Mine's all on me."
"What are you talking about, Peter?"
"I was there, Carol!" he shouted. "I heard the whole thing between you and Strange!"
Her breath stopped.
"I was there because I needed… I wanted to come see you, but I couldn't because every time I look at you, I…" Peter sobbed through his breath, and rubbed his eyes. "And then there you were, and you were talking to Strange, and I heard…"
His eyes snapped up. "I heard everything."
"It wasn't your fault, Peter." She knew the words were useless the moment she said them, but she knew they needed to be said.
Peter Parker, Spider-Man. Fueled by the death of his Uncle Ben. A death he could have prevented, had he just acted, rather than stood by. Fueled by the death of Gwen Stacy, his first love. A death he could have prevented, had he only been faster.
Peter Parker. Fueled by guilt.
"Everything that happened while you were gone, everything that I thought I might actually be able to absolve myself from, it…" he paused, taking a breath through his sobs. "It was all me. Do you understand?"
His fist rose, and beat on his chest with every word. "It's all on me!"
Carol thought about stepping forward, trying to comfort him, but she didn't know where to begin. Her body felt rooted to the spot, watching this man she cared for suffer and being incapable of helping him.
Peter's hands went up to his face, trying to wipe the tears away. "Everything that I've done, it's on my hands. Carol," he looked up at her, his hands open before his face. "There's blood on my hands. I killed a man. I saw it, tonight, I watched it happen. Like I was watching a movie, I saw a rifle in my hand and I saw my finger pull the trigger."
She crossed the room, trying to close the distance between them, but he pulled away from her. "Peter," she said, "Explain to me how Octavius tricking you into believing you're someone you aren't means this whole thing was your fault."
The top of the dresser next to the wall caved in as Peter's fist slammed down. "Because I should've been stronger!" he shouted. A picture of Peter with his aunt and uncle flew off the dresser and cracked at Carol's feet. "I should've been able to get past it! Or fight through it! I should've been better! I should've been…"
His voice trailed off. He walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the brown bottle off the counter, pouring the last of the whiskey into his glass.
Carol tried to look in his eyes, but he kept avoiding her gaze. "Peter," she said. "Look at me."
He stared at the bottom of her chin.
"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said, taking her military tone. "Look at me."
He shook his head.
Carol realized that the entire time she'd been there, he hadn't looked her in the eyes. Not once.
"You mentioned something happens when you look at me," she said.
He nodded, sniffed.
"What is it?"
Peter crossed the room to the bookcase, the one larger piece of furniture he owned. It was full of science books, texts he'd used as both a student and teacher. He set the glass of whiskey on the old black shelf and rested his wrists against the wood. His forehead pressed against it, and he spoke to the floor. "The first night that 'Octavius' had control of my body," he said, "There was a lot to sort through. 'He' came back to this apartment, and sat on the edge of the bed in there, rifling through Peter Parker's memories, learning everything about me so 'he' could more effectively play the role."
Carol's hand moved to her mouth, and tears began to streak down her face.
"I started with the most recent memories first," he said. "With this whole new filter on what I was seeing. And every time I came to a memory of you and I together…"
Peter's voice was cut off by his sobbing. "I replaced myself with him, in my mind. And then I…"
Carol started to head toward him, her arm outstretched; she wanted to hold him, to let him know he wasn't going through this alone.
"Every time I look at you, Carol, I see it all over again," he said. His voice was stone, ice cold. "I can't look at you."
She'd heard that tone before, plenty of times. And she knew what it meant. Her arm dropped back to her side, and she took a step backward.
"Do you want me to go, Peter?"
The words hung in the air like the scent of fire. They permeated everything in the room, slunk their way into every pore and nook. There was hesitation in the silence that followed, but Peter never looked away from the cadre of books in front of him.
"Yes."
Peter's shirt tightened around him as he gripped the bookshelves, the old wood creaking against the pressure. Carol could see the outline of his back in the fabric, the lines across his body evidence of all he'd sacrificed for her. She remembered how damaged he was then, the stone shrapnel jutting out of his body, blood flowing freely.
But she knew that was nothing compared to now.
"Peter," she started.
"Go," he called, turning his head to give her a sideways glance.
She took another few steps back, then turned and walked out the door. Walking into the night, she shot into the air after a few steps, desperate to see someone, anyone, just to prevent herself from finding a bar and drinking everything behind the counter.
Peter watched her as she flew past his window, then downed the last of his whiskey. He slunk to the floor, holding onto the glass by a fingertip, his arms propped up on his knees.
"Go find someone who can make you happy," he said.