Hello, friends, and welcome to Chapter Twelve! Hard to believe it's been just over a year since I started this story. Time flies, eh? So, this chapter will be the one where those of you who read the first part, "Doomed," will start to see the connections. If you haven't read that one, I recommend that you do. As always, please read and review, I really appreciate the feedback; it only helps me grow as a writer.

Disclaimer: All characters owned by Marvel.

Chapter Twelve

The news reports had not been kind.

"The medical examiners are calling this crime 'brutal' and 'sadistic…'"

"Investigators are still having difficulty gathering evidence from the crime scene…"

"The search continues in the Boston area for a potential second victim of what some are calling the 'Spider-Slaying…'"

J. Jonah Jameson had never had so much ammunition. Nor as much validation in using it.

"This monster and I have been at each other's throats for years," he said, standing before the dozen microphones plugged into the podium bearing the seal of the great city of New York. "The fact that he's finally shown his true colors and attacked me through my family should be all the evidence needed to bring him to justice."

Flashbulbs clicked regularly in the room, and rather than a mad-cap rush to have their questions answered, the reporters gave respect, if not to each other, than to the man standing on the stage. Regardless of their opinions of him as a mayor, J. Jonah Jameson was a giant in their industry, and they treated him as such.

After several questions on the details of the murder, which of course the mayor wasn't going to answer, a young, spunky reporter with pixie-cut blond hair stood, her hand in the air for only half a second before her mouth started moving. "Mr. Mayor, Norah Winters, Fact Channel," she said. "Do you have any comments regarding the Avengers' reports that Spider-Man cannot be responsible as he's been held captive by an unidentified supervillain for some time?"

Jameson's face burned, and the meaning of the term "hot under the collar" suddenly became apparent to everyone in the room. "I don't care what those reckless, good-for-nothing vigilantes have to say! All I need is the evidence in front of my face!"

Most would've expected her to sit, or turn over, but Norah pressed on. "Then what do you make of the recent city-wide broadcast, which we've had experts endorse is not doctored footage, appearing to confirm exactly what Captain America and the Avengers…"

"Enough!" Jameson shouted, his forehead glistening with sweat. His skin had shifted three shades redder, veins were raised against his temple and blood vessels were visible in the whites of his eyes. "He probably made that video to try to cover his tracks! In cahoots with Chameleon and Mysterio the whole time! Hell, Chameleon was already impersonating that, what was her name, Captain Marvel! It's not a stretch to think Spider-Man could've had someone else dress up as him to show up at the end of the tape!"

He'd burned like a nova, white-hot and bright, and just as quickly Jameson calmed. "All I know is this," he said. "My father was found in his home in Boston, an elderly man, his limbs stretched to their limits by webs attached to the ceiling and floor of the house. He was tortured, beaten… several of his bones broken. And in the end, he was strangled to death with another web, wrapped around his windpipe like a garrote."

A small tear formed in the mayor's eye.

"I'm probably not supposed to tell you all that. It's an ongoing investigation. But I'm saying it anyway, because I want all of you to understand something." Jameson paused for a moment, looking off to the side of the stage, where his wife Marla would've been standing, had she not been killed by Alistair Smythe's Spider-Slayer. "Even if everything Captain Rogers says is true—and, please understand, if there's one of these so-called heroes I respect, it's him—it was still someone related to Spider-Man that killed my father. I can't speculate on their reasons. I have some ideas, but they're fairly far-fetched."

Carol stood watching the press conference in the common room of Avengers Tower. Tony had replaced the television on the condition that Carol had to buy the next one she punched through. "Death and destruction surrounds him," Jameson continued. "In my own life, I've lost more people than I care to admit. Some of that is on me, but," he paused again, took a breath. "At the very least, I would call for him to hang up the webs. Stay home. Let it go. Too many people die around you."

Norah Winters sat back down, and reporters continued pressing Jameson for information, but he excused himself to join the motorcade to his father's funeral service. "Let me make something perfectly clear," he said, returning to the podium after stepping away for a moment. "No scum-sucking murderer, Spider-Man or not, is going to keep me from laying my father to rest today."

The news coverage returned to the studio, and Carol turned to the woman beside her. "May," she said, wrapping her right arm over the older woman's shoulders, "I'm so sorry."

May watched as the news helicopters hovered over the motorcade, saw Jameson enter a black limo behind the hearse. "I should be there," she said.

"It isn't safe," Carol said. "We offered protection for Jonah too, but he flat out refused; said if we kept pushing him he'd have us all brought up on harassment charges."

Carol felt a heavy sigh wrack the frail body beneath her. It was the first time she'd ever felt like May was weakening.

"Still," May said. "Jay was my husband. I should be there to say goodbye."

"Octavius will be counting on it," Carol said. "Peter may have taken Chameleon out of commission, but Mysterio is still with them. He could make the entire group see whatever he wants. They could grab you, capture you, or just kill you outright. I won't have that."

May nodded.

Together they walked back to Tony's workshop, where he was still trying to crack into Octavius's Neurolitic Scanner. Steve was standing next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, watching.

"Any progress?" Carol asked.

"Sort of?" Tony said, looking up from the table for a moment. "I've cracked the security, so we're able to access the device, but I have no idea what Peter was looking for, so I don't know where to begin."

Steve took May's arm from Carol, and sat down with her on a sofa against the glass wall.

"Mrs. Parker," he said. "I want to assure you we're doing everything we can to find Peter."

"Oh, Captain, you don't have to tell me," she said. "But thank you."

She leaned against him and let the tears come, and Steve wrapped his other arm around her.

Carol smiled at the sight. Peter had always looked up to Steve, and it would warm his heart to see how much Steve was taking care of his aunt. She turned back to Tony. "What are our options?" she asked.

Tony removed the black goggles over his eyes, and dropped his tools to the table. "Well, if we're working from the assumption that Octavius is alive, at least in some fashion…"

He gave her a sideways glance and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe we should go see the doctor and get a second opinion?"

XXXXXX

Peter leaned against the machine binding him, watching the caravan follow his step-uncle's funeral procession. Octavius stood to his right, Peter's mask in his hands.

"Another one down, huh?" Octavius said. "Admittedly, he wasn't who I was looking for, but I think there is some poetic symmetry here, don't you?"

Seething, Peter turned his head, his eyes trying their best to burn through Octavius's smiling face. "You're sick."

"Not in the slightest," Octavius said, giving a mock frown. "I'm committed. And driven. But not sick."

Peter found himself shaking, speaking through gritted teeth. "You're gonna pay for this."

"Oh!" Octavius started. "Please do the supervillain monologue, I've always wondered what it sounds like from this end!" He slipped the mask over Peter's face, then turned off the television. Pushing a button on the side of the device, Peter's prison started moving down a pre-laid track toward the door. The machine's feet pushed the thick metal open, taking Peter into a short darkened hall. After a left turn, Peter found himself in a much larger room, where four men sat around a semi-circular table. In the floor at the center of the table was a depression, which Peter's prison sunk into as the device entered it.

There was little light in the room, but Peter was still able to make out the four faces before him. Rhino's was easy, with the massive horn jutting out of his forehead. To his right was what, at first, appeared to be an Osborn, but upon closer examination Peter saw that the skin on the man's arms—even his hair—appeared to be granulated. Sandman.

The final two were easy enough as well: Electro sat at the far left, and Peter might have been confused by him had sparks not fired off his fingertips as he lit a cigarette. Mysterio sat between Electro and Sandman, his massive fishbowl-shaped helmet reflecting what little light there was in the room.

Considering the empty chair to Rhino's left, which Peter could only assume should be occupied by Chameleon, and Octavius's presence beside him, Peter knew what he was up against.

A reborn Sinister Six. With some of its most powerful members.

"Superior Six!" Octavius began, and before he got any further Peter burst out laughing.

"You've gotta be kidding," Peter said, the giggles coming from somewhere deep in his chest. "Though I guess you never were very good with names, eh 'Master Planner?'"

Octavius leaned in, close enough that Peter could feel his breath though the mask. "That's right, Peter," he said. "Make sure to keep up that image. Laugh in the face of danger. They need to see you're not afraid. They don't know how scared you are. Not like I do."

Standing again, Octavius raised his hand to them for a second before crossing in front of Peter. "Friends," he said. "We need to have a discussion about the recent treatment of our guest."

"Guest?" Rhino said. "He was to be prisoner."

"Yes, of course," Octavius replied. "I was merely using a synonym. As you can see, he is clearly bound."

Electro sparked up, lightning coursing around his fingertips. "I still don't understand why we don't just kill him," he said. As rage consumed him, his voice fluctuated in frequency, occasionally replaced with static. "Do you guys have any… idea what I went through… Avengers? Especially… Marvel. Just because I can reform don't mean broken bones don't mother… hurt!"

Octavius raised his palm, meant to placate. "Because, Max," he said, "Spider-Man is already defeated. There is nothing more to fear from him. But as a worthy adversary, to all of us, he deserves a measure of respect."

"This is ridiculous," Mysterio said. "Even if you want to keep him alive, make him suffer or whatever, there's no reason to protect his identity."

"But that's part of the respect, Quentin," Octavius replied. "He wishes for his identity to remain a secret. Then we shall oblige him."

Octavius turned then, looking back into Peter's face. "As those around him perish, he will live with the knowledge that when we're finished, and everyone he's ever loved, including himself, is dead and gone, that I will steal his life."

The Superior Spider-Man turned back to his assembled allies. "The man beneath the mask will never have the satisfaction of knowing he was mourned, because to the rest of the world, he'll never have died at all."

Sandman had sat quietly, listening to Octavius's blustering, and his comrade's complaints, and his fist hardened into concrete. "Yeah, I'm gonna go with killing him now," he said, the solid block firing across the table like it'd been fired from a cannon.

It hit Peter square in the sternum, the force enough to knock the air out of his lungs and send tears instantly streaming down his face. Fire erupted in his chest, and he was sure something was either broken or severely fractured. A sharp pain was digging into his back also, but he couldn't focus on it because he couldn't get air into his windpipe.

"Enough!" Octavius shouted, standing between Peter and the rest of the table. Finally, after a few moments of struggle, Peter felt air pulling into his lungs, expanding his ribcage. He groaned against the pain from the broken blood vessels, knowing that oxygen to the brain was more important than avoiding the ache in his chest.

"Obviously you cretins are too small-minded to understand the purest revenge when you see it," Octavius said, pressing another button on the machine, causing it to back down the track toward Peter's cell. "Just trust me when I say you'll all walk away from this not only satisfied in your vengeance against Spider-Man, but also powerfully rich."

The needlepoint sharpness kept digging into Peter's shoulder blades as the machine settled back into the floor of the cell. Flexing his shoulders and back as much as he could, Peter could feel that the pain moved as he did; pressure on the outside of the skin rather than damage on the inside. Sandman's assault broke something in this machine.

Octavius reentered the cell, and Peter couldn't help but laugh at him again. Removing his mask, the Superior Spider-Man glared at him. "What's funny?" he asked.

"You," Peter replied. "You're talking about killing me and taking my life, saying I won't even have the satisfaction of anyone mourning me. You don't even realize that's what you've already done to yourself."

Octavius smiled. "What do you mean?"

"You're not really Otto Octavius," Peter said. "You have his memories, you think you're him, just like I did, but the real Octavius is dead and gone, burning in some fiery hell."

The villain's smile grew wider, and he approached Peter, closing the distance to mere inches. "I can understand why you think that way, Peter, I really can. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret."

Octavius leaned in, his lips nearly tickling Peter's ear. "I am Otto Octavius. Body, mind, and soul."

XXXXXX

"I'm telling you, it just isn't possible," Strange said. "There is no way that the Spider-Man we saw on that tape was the actual Otto Octavius. His soul is gone."

Carol followed him out of his study and into the living room, where Wong was serving Tony a cup of tea. "But how can you be so sure?" Carol asked.

"Because the ritual necessary to prevent a soul from moving on after death is nigh impossible to perform," Strange replied.

"How so?" Tony asked, taking of sip of his tea.

Strange sat down on the sofa across from Tony, and Carol planted herself next to him. "First of all," Strange said, "a soul can't just be attached to any random object. It must be bound to a body."

"So like how Harry Potter was a Horcrux for Voldemort?" Carol asked.

Strange sighed. Heavily. "Yes, Carol, kind of like that. Except for two differences. First, a soul cannot be split; it is as it will be for all time. Second, the host body cannot already have a soul present."

Tony stopped his cup midway to his mouth. "Wait. Are you saying this ritual requires…?"

"Human sacrifice, yes," Strange said. "A soul for a soul."

Tony put his cup and saucer back on the table.

"Another difficulty is that whatever damage is accrued by the body will still be present when the new soul takes hold. So, for example, if the host body were killed by a gunshot to the head, all that brain damage and blood loss would still be there when the new soul took hold. It would just be another death."

Carol leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "What about a clone? Would that solve the problem?"

Strange nodded. "That would be the easiest way, yes. A clone or homunculus would be a blank slate for the soul to inhabit, as the clone would have had no time to grow a soul of their own."

"Well that has to be it, then," Carol said. "Peter's been cloned more times than I can count."

Strange raised his hand to stop her. "That is not all," he said. "The other difficulty is how much mystical energy is needed to command a human soul from its host. I can count on one hand the number of people who could possibly perform this ritual without complication."

"Who are they?" Tony asked.

Opening his palm, Strange tapped against his fingers. "Besides myself, there is Baron Mordo, though he is locked away with his master Dormammu." He ticked three fingers with his index. "Brother Voodoo is also capable, though he would not perform such a ritual, and certainly not for one such as Otto Octavius."

"There's Wanda Maximoff—though her power is somewhat unstable for such a procedure—and…"

Strange's eyes went wide, his pupils and irises nearly vanished in the white. "By the One Above All…"

"Who?" Carol asked. "Who's left?" Strange stayed silent, his breathing the only sound echoing through the high-ceilinged room. "Stephen?"

The Sorcerer Supreme looked down at her and swallowed. "Doom," he said. "It leaves Victor Von Doom."