Author's Note: ::clears her throat loudly and waves her hand:: You won't hate me for the way this chapter ends. ::waves hand again:: You will review this fic. ::waves hand yet another time:: These aren't the droids you're looking for... Err... Sorry. ^_^* But you can't blame me for trying, can you? After all, it -did- work for Artoni. Anyway, you know the deal. Enjoy.
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Peter followed Norman slowly, staying behind him with his eyes slightly downcast. He couldn't look at the man before him. If he glanced up, he saw the back of his jaden enemy from not so long ago. It was discomforting, in so many ways, and, to prevent this feeling, Peter kept his gaze at the elder man's feet, following him up the stairs, down halls and round corners.
"You're right. This place is like a maze." He stated softly, glancing at the paintings that adorned the walls.
The elder Osborn nodded, his gaze finding a painting here or there that told him they were getting close to his former bedroom. For a moment, he considered admitting to Peter that he had gotten lost last time he had been up in twisting expanse of corridors, but he quickly decided against it. What little pride he had regained since his death simply wouldn't allow it. And beyond that, they were standing before the closed cherry wood doors of the room before he even had a chance to open his mouth.
"Here we are," he answered instead, pushing the door aside somewhat hesitantly, before leading them both inside.
A chill ran up Peter's spine the moment he stepped into the room, and again, he was reminded that something wasn't right about any of this. Goosebumps forming on his arms and the tiny hairs on his neck standing up, the genius was put on full edge as he glanced slowly around the room. And then he saw them. The collection of masks that Mr. Osborn had spoken of.
"Is that them?" It was a stupid question, this he knew. But there was that need, the constant drive to assert his assumption and the hope, deep down, that he was wrong. They were simple masks, nothing but carved wood, this he knew and understood. He'd made one before, as all elementary students did. This, however, did not stop the shivers that racked his body softly as he stared at their hollow eyes, their stoic expressions and their delicately painted markings.
"Those are very unique and interesting masks, sir." He stated softly, throat clenching as tried desperately to get the words out.
"Yes," Norman responded absently, his eyes catching the mirror on the far side of the room. For a moment, his twin on the other side of the glass went rigid as his own limbs stiffened, and then with a deep sigh he relaxed once more. No disembodied voice this time.
Stumbling over to a leather armchair that sat next to the small bar, the elder man flopped down on it, suddenly tired. "Feel free to look around the rest of the room, Peter. I think I'm going to sit down for a moment."
Hair falling into his eyes as he nodded, Peter moved over to the masks slowly, extending a shaking hand to make contact with one of the masks, from what he assumed to be Africa. Electricity shot through his fingers as he slowly caressed the exterior of the mask, tracing the designs carved into the wood.
"How long ago did you purchase these?" Walking around the rest of the room, tracing his hand along anything in its path, Peter couldn't help but feel a little out of place, what with the lavish decorating and the expensive furniture. But he shook his head, turning to Osborn, sapphire eyes shining with curiosity and worry.
"Are you alright?"
"Just a little tired," Norman responded, his tone reflecting weariness. "I think it may be the shock from all we accomplished today." Meeting Peter's eyes with his own, he offered the college-aged boy a small, disarming smile, "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine in a minute or two."
Peter nodded, standing nervously in front of Osborn, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Why he was nervous, he didn't know or understand. All that he could think of was Norman staring at him, boring holes through him, even though he knew the elder man wasn't doing that at all. Slowly, with apprehension building, he turned around to look at the masks once more. He'd rather face their creepy and empty gazes, rather than the hollow and once crazed eyes of Norman Osborn.
Sighing inwardly, Norman allowed himself to sink deeper into the burgundy leather of the chair he had collapsed into. For a moment, he simply sat there attempting to relax completely, his eyelids fluttering closed and then with another sigh - this one out loud - he forced himself to sit up straight. If he had sat like that for too long, the rusty-tressed man had the feeling he would have fallen asleep... and that was the last thing he felt Peter needed. Closed in an unfamiliar place, with far from comforting masks all around him.
His winter-gray reopening with a great deal of effort on their owner's part, Norman immediately spotted a long-forgotten issue of the Daily Bugle sitting in the open storage area behind the bar. Reaching for it, he pulled it into his lap and began to thumb idly through it, glancing up once or twice to see if Peter was ready to go yet. Finding that the young genius wasn't he decided that if he couldn't catch a quick nap, then he could at least attempt to catch up on a little more of his past. And, coincidentally enough, a piece of the puzzle sat neatly on the front page.
'Oscorp board members killed at World Unity Festival,' the paper read in huge, black letters. Then, in a slightly smaller font right beneath the headline, 'Is Norman Osborn next?'
Scanning the article over with a frown on his face, he sighed at its end. Well that hadn't told him anything he hadn't figured out earlier in the day with Peter. But still, it was a little unnerving to see that kind of news in print - especially when the paper reminded him that the killer had never been caught.
* And who would do such a thing? * he wondered, his eyes still focused on the paper. * Who would kill a handful of innocent people and then just disappear? * Looking up slowly, the former CEO of Oscorp once more caught his reflection in the gold-trimmed mirror. And as his eyes met his mirror twin's, the answer came to him.
* We killed them. * the formless voice that had haunted him twice already that day hissed in his ear.
Fear trampled through his mind like a stampede of animals, hailing from the same place his beloved masks had come through. Not this. Not now. Not with Peter standing only a few feet away. And what did the voice mean when he said 'we'... Certainly he wouldn't have killed his own board members... would he? Doubt sang in harmony with the chords of cold fear that raced up his spine.
"We?" he managed in a small voice, the back of his throat suddenly as dry as cotton.
* Remember? * the voice taunted. * Your little accident in the lab? *
And in truth... he -did- remember. It all came back to him in a rush, banishing the fear and doubt back to whatever abyss they had crawled out.
He was the Norman Osborn, head of Oscorp. True, that much was a fact, but there was more to that self-assigned definition of himself that he had imagined. So much more. Like the fact that deep within his subconscious lurked the fiend known to almost all New York as the Green Goblin. And that fiend had saved his life... had dug him out of the grave when his alter-ego realized they were in a coffin that had sat underground for a little more than two weeks. That fiend was his savior. And that darker persona that dwelled in his head hated Spider-Man - the man the people of the city called hero.
Wait. Back up.
Spiderman?
Wildly, Norman's eyes flicked to Peter's back. Yes. Peter Parker was Spiderman - he remembered that now too. He remembered it all now. An animalistic sneer distorting his features, he bitterly recalled how Parker had failed to save him when he had escaped from the Green Goblin and obtained a fleeting second of himself back. Parker. His surrogate son had turned him away. It was enough to drive one mad with fury. And what better way to handle that building rage, then by letting his alter ego out to play.
Mentally stepping aside, he allowed the Green Goblin have the control he had been demanding since he had come to Norman in his office earlier that day. And the first thing the Goblin did was reach for a knife - used for slicing lemons and limes - that hid under the bar, pure malice sparkling in his soul-less depths. Then, sliding out of the leather armchair with unnatural grace, he stepped behind his mortal enemy and raised the blade over his head, poising himself for a crippling strike.
A sneer.
"Honey, I'm home."
And then the knife came down.
---------------------------------------------------
Peter followed Norman slowly, staying behind him with his eyes slightly downcast. He couldn't look at the man before him. If he glanced up, he saw the back of his jaden enemy from not so long ago. It was discomforting, in so many ways, and, to prevent this feeling, Peter kept his gaze at the elder man's feet, following him up the stairs, down halls and round corners.
"You're right. This place is like a maze." He stated softly, glancing at the paintings that adorned the walls.
The elder Osborn nodded, his gaze finding a painting here or there that told him they were getting close to his former bedroom. For a moment, he considered admitting to Peter that he had gotten lost last time he had been up in twisting expanse of corridors, but he quickly decided against it. What little pride he had regained since his death simply wouldn't allow it. And beyond that, they were standing before the closed cherry wood doors of the room before he even had a chance to open his mouth.
"Here we are," he answered instead, pushing the door aside somewhat hesitantly, before leading them both inside.
A chill ran up Peter's spine the moment he stepped into the room, and again, he was reminded that something wasn't right about any of this. Goosebumps forming on his arms and the tiny hairs on his neck standing up, the genius was put on full edge as he glanced slowly around the room. And then he saw them. The collection of masks that Mr. Osborn had spoken of.
"Is that them?" It was a stupid question, this he knew. But there was that need, the constant drive to assert his assumption and the hope, deep down, that he was wrong. They were simple masks, nothing but carved wood, this he knew and understood. He'd made one before, as all elementary students did. This, however, did not stop the shivers that racked his body softly as he stared at their hollow eyes, their stoic expressions and their delicately painted markings.
"Those are very unique and interesting masks, sir." He stated softly, throat clenching as tried desperately to get the words out.
"Yes," Norman responded absently, his eyes catching the mirror on the far side of the room. For a moment, his twin on the other side of the glass went rigid as his own limbs stiffened, and then with a deep sigh he relaxed once more. No disembodied voice this time.
Stumbling over to a leather armchair that sat next to the small bar, the elder man flopped down on it, suddenly tired. "Feel free to look around the rest of the room, Peter. I think I'm going to sit down for a moment."
Hair falling into his eyes as he nodded, Peter moved over to the masks slowly, extending a shaking hand to make contact with one of the masks, from what he assumed to be Africa. Electricity shot through his fingers as he slowly caressed the exterior of the mask, tracing the designs carved into the wood.
"How long ago did you purchase these?" Walking around the rest of the room, tracing his hand along anything in its path, Peter couldn't help but feel a little out of place, what with the lavish decorating and the expensive furniture. But he shook his head, turning to Osborn, sapphire eyes shining with curiosity and worry.
"Are you alright?"
"Just a little tired," Norman responded, his tone reflecting weariness. "I think it may be the shock from all we accomplished today." Meeting Peter's eyes with his own, he offered the college-aged boy a small, disarming smile, "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine in a minute or two."
Peter nodded, standing nervously in front of Osborn, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Why he was nervous, he didn't know or understand. All that he could think of was Norman staring at him, boring holes through him, even though he knew the elder man wasn't doing that at all. Slowly, with apprehension building, he turned around to look at the masks once more. He'd rather face their creepy and empty gazes, rather than the hollow and once crazed eyes of Norman Osborn.
Sighing inwardly, Norman allowed himself to sink deeper into the burgundy leather of the chair he had collapsed into. For a moment, he simply sat there attempting to relax completely, his eyelids fluttering closed and then with another sigh - this one out loud - he forced himself to sit up straight. If he had sat like that for too long, the rusty-tressed man had the feeling he would have fallen asleep... and that was the last thing he felt Peter needed. Closed in an unfamiliar place, with far from comforting masks all around him.
His winter-gray reopening with a great deal of effort on their owner's part, Norman immediately spotted a long-forgotten issue of the Daily Bugle sitting in the open storage area behind the bar. Reaching for it, he pulled it into his lap and began to thumb idly through it, glancing up once or twice to see if Peter was ready to go yet. Finding that the young genius wasn't he decided that if he couldn't catch a quick nap, then he could at least attempt to catch up on a little more of his past. And, coincidentally enough, a piece of the puzzle sat neatly on the front page.
'Oscorp board members killed at World Unity Festival,' the paper read in huge, black letters. Then, in a slightly smaller font right beneath the headline, 'Is Norman Osborn next?'
Scanning the article over with a frown on his face, he sighed at its end. Well that hadn't told him anything he hadn't figured out earlier in the day with Peter. But still, it was a little unnerving to see that kind of news in print - especially when the paper reminded him that the killer had never been caught.
* And who would do such a thing? * he wondered, his eyes still focused on the paper. * Who would kill a handful of innocent people and then just disappear? * Looking up slowly, the former CEO of Oscorp once more caught his reflection in the gold-trimmed mirror. And as his eyes met his mirror twin's, the answer came to him.
* We killed them. * the formless voice that had haunted him twice already that day hissed in his ear.
Fear trampled through his mind like a stampede of animals, hailing from the same place his beloved masks had come through. Not this. Not now. Not with Peter standing only a few feet away. And what did the voice mean when he said 'we'... Certainly he wouldn't have killed his own board members... would he? Doubt sang in harmony with the chords of cold fear that raced up his spine.
"We?" he managed in a small voice, the back of his throat suddenly as dry as cotton.
* Remember? * the voice taunted. * Your little accident in the lab? *
And in truth... he -did- remember. It all came back to him in a rush, banishing the fear and doubt back to whatever abyss they had crawled out.
He was the Norman Osborn, head of Oscorp. True, that much was a fact, but there was more to that self-assigned definition of himself that he had imagined. So much more. Like the fact that deep within his subconscious lurked the fiend known to almost all New York as the Green Goblin. And that fiend had saved his life... had dug him out of the grave when his alter-ego realized they were in a coffin that had sat underground for a little more than two weeks. That fiend was his savior. And that darker persona that dwelled in his head hated Spider-Man - the man the people of the city called hero.
Wait. Back up.
Spiderman?
Wildly, Norman's eyes flicked to Peter's back. Yes. Peter Parker was Spiderman - he remembered that now too. He remembered it all now. An animalistic sneer distorting his features, he bitterly recalled how Parker had failed to save him when he had escaped from the Green Goblin and obtained a fleeting second of himself back. Parker. His surrogate son had turned him away. It was enough to drive one mad with fury. And what better way to handle that building rage, then by letting his alter ego out to play.
Mentally stepping aside, he allowed the Green Goblin have the control he had been demanding since he had come to Norman in his office earlier that day. And the first thing the Goblin did was reach for a knife - used for slicing lemons and limes - that hid under the bar, pure malice sparkling in his soul-less depths. Then, sliding out of the leather armchair with unnatural grace, he stepped behind his mortal enemy and raised the blade over his head, poising himself for a crippling strike.
A sneer.
"Honey, I'm home."
And then the knife came down.
