Part Seven- Just One More Little Chore
The armoured van moved slowly through the thinning night traffic, the flanking guards on motorcycles weaving around its steel-plated sides. Inside the cab, two beefy men sat in silence, the insignia on their smart blue uniforms proclaiming them to be in the employ of 'Triplesafe Delivery- The First And Last Word In Security'.
Eddie Van Halen played loud on the stereo, occasionally faded out by crackly broadcasts from Triplesafe HQ. The larger of the two men, whose bristly black mustache and greying eyebrows made him resemble a belligerent 250lb badger, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
'We still running late, Hank?' he said, eventually.
His companion, who couldn't have looked more like a 'Hank', looked at the cluttered dash and grunted. 'Couple minutes, maybe.'
'We'd better make it up.' said Badger, letting out the clutch like it had personally offended him. 'You know how these science guys are. You'd think the goddamn thing was gonna explode as soon as it's one second past due.'
There was an uncomfortable pause. The van rumbled on, the accompanying purrs of the motorcycles blending with the bass growl of the engine. On the stereo, Eddie began to get quite enthusiastic.
'Nahh.' said Hank, eventually, and the tension eased.
Silence prevailed for a few more minutes. The van turned left into Lenox Avenue, a long, deserted stretch of road than ran up the side of Central Park. There was only one other vehicle in sight, which Badger still managed to cut up. The car turned off up a side street, flashing its lights angrily.
Alone on the street, the Triplesafe van stopped at the red light on the corner, the motorcycles pulling smoothly up alongside the driver's cab. Hank leaned out of his window, spitting his gum at the asphalt.
'You okay there, buddy?' he called to the guard on his side. The man grinned and opened his mouth to answer. Then, abruptly, his gaze flicked to a point above the cab roof, and the grin switched for an expression of absolute horror. Hank turned to look…
…and the world suddenly became a very eventful place indeed.
CLAAAAANNNNGGGG.
With a force that buckled the window struts and shattered the windscreen, a hissing, blurred thing slammed into the cab from above, punching through the roof and piercing the footwell between the two drivers. Hank and Badger, moving surprisingly fast for men of their size, threw themselves away from the impact, scrambling for the deadlocked cab doors. The men on their bikes stared, years of training lost in a moment when the yellow streetlights revealed their attacker in a hellish, sulphuric glow.
The van rocked, the heavy-duty suspension grappling with the extra weight. The medusine shadow atop the roof reared up, taking most of the upper half of the cab with it. The doors fell from their ruined hinges, and Hank and Badger hit the ground rolling, their yells drowned out by the echoing impacts. More tentacles smacked down, propelling the shape towards the back of the van.
Badger recovered first, screaming over the racket that tore holes in his words. 'Wh------------ell's that?! Thing's go----------------ing eight arms, Ha------------!!'
'---------------------n the papers, th-------------------------c Ock" frea---------------lew up the city!' bellowed Hank. 'What you wai---------------------or? Shoot the---------------ing l--------------ic!!'
The guards didn't need to be told twice. They needed to be told five times, ordered over the pummeling din, before they finally got the message and drew their weapons. Steadying themselves on the pillions of their bikes, they took aim, and fired.
It was doubtful whether the first round of bullets had even left the gun barrels before the arms moved. Two of them swept around, folding across their owner's body, and the other two angled sharply downwards towards the armed men. Bullets pinged and whined against the tarnished tentacles, sparking harmlessly from the tough metal segments with a series of angry spak noises. Their tapering heads closed to create maximum weight, the snakelike things whirred inches from the ground and connected with the guard's motorcycles. The bikes hurtled across the road and into the opposite wall, where they exploded prettily. Their former owners were knocked flying, landing in a tangle of limbs against the sidewalk.
The arms resumed their hammering.
'Ho-----------------ary Moth------------of G---------' breathed Hank.
On top of the van roof, Otto gave a contemptuous sniff. He'd expected the ambush to be relatively easy, but this was almost insulting.
His smart arms grasped the frame of the rollup hatch at the back of the van, tearing into the reinforced layers of steel like paper and pulling upwards. The sound this produced was like a platinum-tipped fingernail being dragged down the biggest blackboard in the world. One of the van's ex-drivers folded up in a heap, the noise having apparently struck an odd frequency in his brain. The other, hands clamped over his ears, took one last look at the chaos, decided that he wasn't getting paid enough for this sort of thing, and ran for it.
Slowly, the hatch was ripped away, exposing the van's interior. There was a bench, built along one side, and, in the far corner, a frightened man in blue overalls. In his hands, an industrial-strength package case gleamed dully.
Otto landed in the ragged gap he'd created, framed by the flickering light of the petrol fires. Tonight, because his special goggles were still in progress, he wore small oval-lensed shades. He knew the alien, impassive appearance they gave him, and behind the tinted glass his eyes narrowed in satisfaction as the man cowered.
A tentacle flicked over his shoulder, pincers extending to grip the handle of the package case. Otto readjusted his balance slightly, giving the man a deadpan look.
'That's mine.' he said.
Retracting, the arm hit a sudden snag. The case was handcuffed to the guard's wrist. Otto felt a stab of anxiety, but it was quickly overridden by a calm metallic murmur of a thought.
There was more than one way to skin a security guard…
'Unlock it.' The man made a shaky movement that might have been a refusal. 'No? Then-'
'Hey, Doc!'
Something falling, twisting, spinning out of the night sky-
'Didn't anyone ever teach you to say "please"?'
WHUNNNGGG.
Even when your spine is cushioned by a hefty metal brace, being on the receiving end of a fast-moving van door aimed at your back is no laughing matter. Otto pitched forwards, the dented metal panel tumbling over his shoulders, and his arms caught him and shoved him back upright. He spun around, all four robotic heads snapping open to spot this new threat.
'You!!'
'You were expecting maybe Abe Lincoln?' Balanced on his heels on top of the streetlight, Spiderman flung out an arm. A burst of web snickered out from his wrist, catching one of the claws as it rose to meet him. The snared digits floundered, and Spiderman leapt from his perch with razor-edge finesse, using the arching tentacle as a skyhook to throw out another line.
Otto's first reaction at the sight of his enemy's lithe figure had been one of dread. With the prize so nearly within reach, was he about to be forced to give it up again? He wanted to fight Spiderman, oh yes, in fact it was pretty close to being all that he did want, but not now, not like this…Assailed by their host's fear, the smart arms were momentarily at a loss.
But then the infuriating bug used his creations like some kind of swingset…using his weapons, his allies, against him…
In the Dali-esque medical nightmare of Otto's metal-fused backbone, ligaments bunched. The tentacles extended with the force of a crazed elephant, swatting the superhero out of the air. One claw clamped around his leg, the other around an arm. Suspended ten feet from the ground, Spiderman flinched as he began to feel a slight pull in either direction…
'I'm going to tear you apart.' said Otto. It wasn't a threat. It was a description of the future. He tensed…
The target is escaping. The cautioning hiss in his head startled him. Rectify this.
He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see the guard dart out of the ruined van and dash away up the street. A lower claw chased behind, fueled by desperation and the rage he felt at allowing himself to be distracted- again!- from his goal. It grabbed the man by the scuff of his overalls, dragging him into the air. Otto turned his attention back to Spiderman…
…who wasn't there.
'Over here!' called a voice from above. The hero was hanging off the wall, just out of range. Otto was really mad now, and in no mood for this deadly version of Keep-Away. He wanted so badly to silence that taunting voice-
Focus, Otto!
His arms sounded as urgent as they ever did, and in a flash Otto realised he was on the edge of making yet another emotion-led mistake. On this occasion, however, he'd realised in time.
Turning his back on his adversary for a few precious moments, he allowed the smaller manipulators of one claw to encircle the handcuff chain that attached the dangling guard to his case. The links crumbled under the extreme pressure, and the claw's heart light glowed triumphantly as the case slid into its grasp.
Yes!
Behind us!
Otto ducked, his tentacles sweeping up over his head to 'help' the leaping Spiderman on his way to a swift meeting with the nearest wall. Hitting it hard, the hero gasped as the air was driven from his lungs. Humming forwards, the smart arm heads propelled into the young man's body before he could roll away, yanking him up off the ground.
Peter choked, trying to breathe around the claw at his throat. Reflexively, his hand came up, the fingers twitching to send a stream of web into his enemy's face.
The arms spasmed, their host falling back, gagging and trying to clear his sight. As Otto clawed the sticky threads from his shades, Peter dodged away from the wall, shooting out a line for added momentum.
'Looks like we got off on the wrong foot.' he panted. 'Here's the right one!'
Lights exploded in Otto's vision. Being kicked in the ear is no joke either, especially when the owner of the foot is gifted with super-strength and resents being strangled. Through the stars, he was dimly aware of a wrenching sensation in one of the tentacles.
Peter, the metal case under one arm, swung into the air and got precisely three metres before an outraged yell from below told him he was in trouble. A fraction of a second later, something snatched his leg, and the world flipped over.
The case tumbled end-over-end towards the ground, until it was neatly fielded by a claw which wrapped around it, bearing it gently to a safe level. Meanwhile, dropping his opponent from as much height as he could attain, Otto followed through with a swift, vicious sideswipe that sent his enemy tumbling away behind the cover of the wrecked van.
The night's silence crept back in. Slowly, Otto prowled along the side of the van, the camera eyes at the centre of his upper claws sneaking around the corner. Nothing.
On the other side of the vehicle, Peter breathed out as heavily as he dared, a hand cradled to his bruised ribs. He didn't intend to risk stepping down onto the ground, not trusting the space between the body of the truck and the tarmac. Anything could fit under there. He continued crawling along the blue-painted vertical surface, his fingers finding purchase on the riveted metal. Just please, he prayed, let me be going the same way as him…
'Don't do this, Doctor Octavius.' he called. 'Just give me the case and we'll talk.'
Otto carried on moving. His arms tracked the sound of the young man's voice. Just a little further…
'I've got nothing to say to you.' he snarled.
Now level with the remains of the driver's cab, Peter regarded the mess, an idea forming in his mind. He let the notion grow, while trying for a second time to appeal to his opponent's better nature. Wherever that's got to.
'Please listen to me.' he said. 'You could be so much more than this.'
At the rear of the van, Otto hugged the case against his chest and smiled. He could practically feel the Mindmap Chip, speaking to him through the metal. It spoke of possibility, and power…
'How right you are.' he said.
His arms were pinpointing the target exactly now. Around the front, near the driver's side, and not moving away. Slowly, his upper left tentacle curved over his shoulder, the head opening and folding back, and there was a rapid metallic shiiinnng as something new ejected from the centre of the segmented claw.
It was long, because it had been designed to penetrate to the heart of white-hot fusion clusters. It was tempered, to increase conductivity, and it was serrated, because a straight edge would have distrupted the flow of hydrogen particles over its surface.
Removed from the sterile environment of the laboratory, however, there is only one possible use for such an instrument, and that is as a bloody massive knife.
He was conscious that nothing was stopping him from just walking away- in fact the smart arm intelligence was haranguing him on that very subject. He had the chip, and his enemy was hiding. He could just turn, and leave…
…But then his head filled with pictures, pictures of rustling, lie-riddled paper. Spiderman Saves City, he thought, and the acid burn of pent-up injustice rose in his chest.
He was very close. Just one more cue, one more little sound, and he'd know precisely where to aim. All of a sudden, a sentence occured to him, a nasty little group of words that would surely provoke a reaction. He leaned forwards, into the wire-strung gap between the truck and the cab.
'I know who you are, Parker.' he hissed.
Slipping out from under the front wheels, where he'd been busy for the best part of a minute, Peter drew in a sharp breath. He thought of MJ, and his grip tightened on the chunky pair of objects he'd found in the cab. They made it easier, those words. They helped to take the edge of guilt from the thought of what he intended to do.
'I know.' he said, tensing against the huge wheel arch. 'But the question is, Doc, do you know who you are?'
Otto made an incoherent noise in his throat, and leapt. Two claws propelled him over the dented hood, the bladed arm striking forwards. And a moment too late, he smelled the hot blue fug of electricity, saw the sparks-
And Spiderman dropped, falling from the gaping hole where the cab roof had been, the jumper cables in his hands haloed in humming energy. Time seemed to stretch as webbing whispered from his wrists, each strand taking a heavy crocodile clip with it. Gluing them directly to both of Otto's upper tentacles.
Web does not conduct electricity. But, guess what, kids? Metal does.
SSssSShhhhhHHZZZzzzzzzZZZZZ
Otto screamed. Above him, his arms thrashed, arching helplessly to their fullest extent with the tortures of the current that the cables forced through them. Impossible to think, impossible to move, his body jerked like a tangled marionette in the grip of his creation's greatest weakness.
But Spiderman wasn't finished yet. As soon as the clips had left his hands, he had occupied himself with forming a coating over one hand, a thick glove of insulating web which, when finished, allowed him to pick up the other object he'd found in the cab.
Hefting the crowbar, Peter took careful aim, and swung it with all his strength.
Trailing a wreath of sparks, the thick length of metal sang through the air and struck neatly about halfway up the top left smart arm. Struck and stuck, finding a niche of just the right size between two shuddering segments, and wedging there.
The results were catastrophic. Sensing, through the unbearable disruption, that something was amiss, the vertebrae-like arm made a last-ditch effort to dislodge the tool. Unfortunately for the complex machinery, this entailed trying to contract and stretch out at the same time.
There was an utterly horrible noise. Pieces of metal shrapnel, yellowish and dull grey, flashed through the electric haze that surrounded the convulsing figure. The crowbar clattered to the ground, barely audible under the buzzing voltage.
Finally, mercifully, something in the oily depths of the van's engine blew. Everything went still.
Cautiously, Peter edged closer to his enemy's twitching, prone body. His own figure was tensed, ready to act in a heartbeat, but his voice was quiet, and carried with it a wary edge of respect.
'…Doctor Octavius?'
There was no response. Peter leaned over, reached out a hand-
A claw grabbed it. There was a solid thwack of discharging electricity, and the young man crumpled to the sidewalk.
Otto opened his eyes. His hair, predictably, was standing up on end, but this was the only part of his appearance that was even remotely amusing. His tentacles twisted and shuddered with latent shocks, the two lower claws pushing him upright with a urgent lurch. Another was functioning just about enough to manage to jerk inwards and pull the case from his numb fingers, bracing it securely against his ribs.
And the fourth arm was…dead. It trailed on the ground, a limp useless weight. Parts of it were smoking.
Parts of Otto's brain felt like they were in a similar condition. He was only capable of standing at all because the smart arms had absorbed most of the voltage, preventing him from becoming a human charcoal briquette. This was the third time something like this had happened, and though it had been much worse before it didn't get any more pleasant with practise.
We must leave.
Otto turned, looking down through blurred, red-hazed eyes at Spiderman's unconscious body. The dead weight of his broken tentacle dragged behind him, bent and blackened segments rasping on the concrete. Wasn't there…something…he was supposed to be doing?
We must leave NOW.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens started to wail. With a final glance at his fallen enemy, Otto stumbled away up the nearest side-street, taking his confusion- and the Mindmap Chip- with him.