Part Nine- The Choice
Dawn came, grey and sulky. The thick pressure of the day before was breaking- away to the east, heavy clouds gathered and bear-with-a-sore-head grumbled, lit by the struggling sun they concealed. The streets and buildings of New York remained dry, for the moment, but the portentious overcast threatened that it was a temporary truce. When they woke, the city's fourteen million or so residents would no doubt glance at the sky and shake their heads, postpone picnics and other outdoorsy activities, and take in their laundry.
In this early-morning gloom, there was no-one to notice one more shadow as it made its way slowly across Manhattan, heading in a more or less direct route from mid-town to the run-down river district on West. Otto had left his old apartment with the first threads of dawn, climbing from the remains of the lab window onto the inclined roof. An observer would have noticed that he was very careful not to look in at the windows of the floor above his lab, concentrating instead on the rapid tread of the smart arms as they carried him past.
He had stayed in his curled-up coma for the rest of the night, dead to the world until the dull sunrise light began to flush the crumpled panels of the floor where he sat. Now, out here in the open, his face was a calculated blank.
He - they - had reached a decision. It was not a spontaneous one. It had been planned for weeks, more or less, though up until now the concept had been slightly different, weaker even. As an idea, it had needed a catalyst, a nudge which the events of the previous night had been more than ample to provide.
It was a simple decision, at least in intent if not in practice, and it was this; no more.
For the smart arms, no more restraints, no more rebukes, no more being baffled or thwarted by an unpredictable human will which- try as they might with all of their formiddable intellect- they couldn't quite understand. For Otto, no more suffering, no more longing for the impossible, no more unbearable dreams.
And for both, no more conflict, no more frustrations or failures or pointless human errors. No more mistakes.
With a jolt, the tentacles swung their host down into a disused forecourt, all four heads opening to scan the murky air. Otto stalked across the weed-choked dirt between the enclosing tenement blocks, his now decidedly the worse-for-wear trenchcoat sending flurries of baked dust into minature twisters in his wake. He was limping slightly, dimly aware that the injuries of the day before were beginning to queue up to be noticed. The worst gash on his arm was still bleeding, needing stitches that would have to wait until he got back to the warehouse. It wasn't an entertaining prospect; the arms had quickly become very good at first aid, but without a proper grasp of the concept of pain his creations also lacked a proper grasp of other ideas, such as, say, anaesthetic.
For the most part, however, Otto's mind was elsewhere as he walked through the maze of waste spaces between each block. His thoughts were more or less solely occupied by the tiny object nestled safely in the case by his side. The Mindmap Chip, the Philosopher's Stone of neuroscience, a Pandora's Box of potential hanging securely not six inches from his fingertips. With it, and the modified cybergoggles that awaited him in his warehouse hideout, he could finally rid himself of the deadly plague of feeling, once and for all.
We'll be perfect.
Nothing will get in our way.
Not even HIM.
Spiderman would pay for his interference and lies, just as the city would pay for believing him. The arms were in total agreement on that point. Time and time again, the pestilent web-spinner had proved a threat to their Work, and it was clear that he needed to be eliminated. Humans learned through example, they reasoned, and if New York did not wish to respect the need for the Work to continue unhindered, the example of seeing their beloved, invincible hero reduced to the consistency of chowder before their very eyes might just be enough to convince them otherwise.
The conclusion of their logic suited Otto very well. In the days and weeks following his escape from death, he'd managed to turn the hatred of Peter Parker and the city that supported him into something approaching an art form. Nobody had even considered giving him a second chance, so as far as he was concerned, not a single one of them deserved one either.
People are just scared…
Otto paused in the shadow of a bindweed-tangled chain-link fence. Where had that thought come from?
If some expert of mental processes could have sat down, with red pen and metre rule, and plotted a chart of Otto's state of mind over the last two months, the course that emerged would have resembled a series of jagged mountain ranges, ever descending towards a far and murky zero line. From the distant, selfless peak of his self-sacrifice, the line would have fallen steeply, growing momentum with each new piece of printed or spoken 'fuel' he'd collected. There would have been very few peaks on this hypothetical graph, but most of them would have been centred around the last couple of days, ending in one of the only two spikes of any note at all. If the zero line marked the evil pit Escher had been so chilled to see yawning behind Otto's eyes, the acts of talking to her, warming to her, and finally letting her go represented the biggest step he'd made away from its sucking brink.
From there the line lurched down again, through the amoral theft and the fight that had followed it, reaching a nadir in his return to his former home. The only other major spike occured when, dreaming, he'd broken briefly through to a memory of the life he had once known- but this positive peak was formless, fleeting, and it faded fast. Now, the line was beginning its final drop, falling with a new purpose and propelled by the tiny chip in his posession and the continent-sized one on his shoulder.
Spiderman had struck a nerve, all right, with his infuriating words. 'Question is, Doc, do you know who you are?' Otto seethed at the memory, his thoughts joining up like odd jigsaw pieces, forced together regardless of fit. He remembered the words over his own front door, a grandiloquent statement in a dead language which, seen in retrospect, concealed a dire warning.
Nosce te ipsum.
Know yourself.
A grey cat, nosing in the bins halfway down the alleyway, looked up at his approach. Instantly, its ears flattened, and it yowled, spat, and fled. Automatically turning as the animal streaked away from him, Otto caught a glimpse of glitzy brightness at the end of the passage. At this time in the morning, there was hardly anyone about even on the main streets, so he could see clearly across the road to the building framed between the alley walls.
A large section of the front of this edifice was covered in eye-watering coloured posters, which to Otto's tired eyes seemed the visual equivalent of a knitting needle up the nose. Amidst the lurid display of shapes and letters, however, he thought he saw a name he recognised. The smart arms arched searchingly around his shoulders as he moved closer…
The manager of the Orpheus Theatre was not having a good day, which was a bad sign considering that it wasn't even four AM yet. He had been forced to get up at two in the morning to receive an important delivery of specially-commissioned scenery, arriving at his theatre only to find that the enormous hand-painted curving representation of a woodsy dell was a) all one piece, b) very enthusiastically packaged with several acres of packing crate, canvas, and nails, and c) two inches too tall to fit through the service entrance at the back of the building. Then the delivery men, who had spent the previous eighteen hours lugging the damn thing all the way across six states, had decided enough was enough and repaired to a 'conference' in the all-hours bar across the road.
At a loss, the manager had eventually left the colossal thing sitting there by the back doors, shedding packing peanuts and swaying gently, and decided that since he was here now he might as well get on with the hundred and one little tasks that needed doing before the show opened in just under a week's time. The only thing which stopped him (a highly-strung man by nature) from cracking up entirely was the fact that the rehearsals semed to be going very well indeed. After the disaster of the previous week, when a certain Ms. Sheridan Willows had broken her ankle by tripping over a stuffed donkey head that some idiot had left lying around in the wings, the young actress that had taken her place was nothing short of a triumph. Privately, the manager thought that whoever had placed the donkey head in that particular place that day must have been guided by the gods, for Ms. Sheridan Willows had been shrill and demanding with a gift for corpsing that would have put a fair-sized mortuary to shame.
And the posters, the posters were another thing to feel good about. After a frantic white-knuckle drive halfway across the city, the manager had arrived at the printing firm used by the theatre's publicity department with literally seconds to spare. The new information was duly passed to the layout editor in a breathless five-minute meeting, during which it was agreed by all present that 'Mary Jane Watson' fitted much better into the poster's overall design than 'Sheridan Willows'.
The thick sheaf of display posters had been delivered the previous evening. Now, unlocking the door to his office behind the lobby, the manager took a pair of scissors from a desk drawer and reverentially cut the big package's strings. Sliding the top poster carefully from the bundle, he spread it across the desk and regarded it critically, leaning back out of the invasive cloud of new-ink smell.
The manager of the Orpheus Theatre had heard of the concept of 'subtle advertising', but he wanted no truck with it. Yes, perhaps the poster was a little hard on the eyes, but it was impressive nonetheless. So what if the design was a trifle busy, as long as it attracted the attention of passers-by? Proudly, he flicked a speck of paper dust from a collection of mauve-and-orange Art Nouveau lillies at the bottom left hand corner of the poster, and then went to find a stepladder.
It took the best part of an hour to paste the posters up across the long scrolling boards at the front of the theatre. Each sheet was nearly two metres upright, and the clip frames provided very little purchase, making the stepladder wobble precariously with every movement as he tried to acomplish alone with Stick-Eeeze and optimism what was really a job for three men and a bucket of industrial-stength solvent. Finally reaching the end of the row, the manager was just reaching for the brush to secure the final poster at the top, when the thick glossy paper decided it had other ideas. Sagging gracefully, it blanketed the struggling man in the manner of a traditional Halloween ghost, leaving him windmilling Casper-like at the top of the ladder, his ears full of glue.
Wrestling the suffocating folds from his head, the manager slammed the poster back against the wall, making a satisfying splat. As he fought to keep his balance, the faint but unmistakeable sounds of hollow thumps and swearing from around the corner told him that the delivery men had finished their intensive 'meeting' in Chuck's and were now having another go, enthusiastically if a trifle unsteadily.
Sheer desperation overwhelming the laws of physics, the manager steadied himself, brushed the poster rapidly to remove the air bubbles, and shot down the ladder and into the theatre, heading for the back entrance. Unlike the delivery men, he knew how much the set piece had cost.
It was a full fifteen minutes before he returned to collect his equipment from the sidewalk outside the theatre, and when he did it was to a fresh outrage. Incredulous, the manager shut his eyes hard and opened them again, but the sight stubbornly refused to go away.
Where the last poster had been, right there on the end of the row, was a big blank space.
The manager said a few select words, none of them flattering to the anonymous poster thief. What was the point, he thought, of going to so much trouble designing these bold works of art, with the dates and the principal actor's names so nicely displayed for all to see, if the public's response was to have them away the moment you turned your back?
Having directed several successful shows in his time, the manager knew that sometimes, obsessed fans' searches for exclusive memorabilia lead to the strangest things disappearing in and around theatres. Posters, yes, and props, costumes, scenery, pieces of the theatre itself…And there were a couple of fairly big names in this off-Broadway production, after all.
The manager of the Orpheus Theatre shook his head. Honestly, he thought. The lengths some people go to, just to get close to their heroes…
That day, the early edition of the Daily Bugle devoted a front page and a whole inside spread to the events of the previous night. By late morning, newsstands all over the city were plastered with the big black-and-red layout of New York's flagship paper, and copies were selling fast.
With such a wealth of material at their disposal, J. Jonah Jameson's finest had excelled themselves. OCK STRIKES AGAIN, screamed the half-page headline. Smaller was the explanatory Science Treasure Stolen In Van Attack. In the remaining space, there was a dramatic photograph of the shredded Triplesafe van, and a medium-sized Girl Hostage Escapes Alive- Exclusive.
Standing in front of the large newsstand on the corner of her block, Escher Griffin stared at the hyperbolic text, her expression similar to that of someone who has just trodden in gum. Flicking through the paper, it didn't take long for her to discover that 'Exclusive' meant a paragraph of blurb garnered from various police reports and recycled facts, headed, to her mortification, by an ancient photograph of what appeared to be a surly nine-year-old chipmunk in a school blazer. She grimaced, holding this grim relic of her at least two years B.R (Before Retainer) at arm's length.
'Urrghh.'
'You gonna buy that or not?' said the man behind the counter, taking a break from making something indescribable with a hotdog roll and a can of Squeezy-Cheese.
'No.' said Escher, distastefully. 'Just this.' She stuffed the Bugle back on its rack and put issue six of Plushee Spaghetti on the counter.
'Two ninety-five.' The man gave her a hard look along with her change, which Escher returned, telling herself that there was no chance anyone could recognise her as the Little Miss Goth-Squirrel '99 in the paper. Please, God.
Tucking the comic book into her bag, she walked along the crowded morning-rush street. So Doctor Octavius had gotten his chip thingie, though not without a fight if the Bugle's eyewitness account was to be believed. The courier who had, hah, hung around long enough to see most of the events was apparently still recovering from his shock, but the Bugle had seized happily onto the idea of Spiderman's involvement, and it didn't take much imagination to fill in the gaps. It was no wonder that no-one from the papers had tried to get in touch with her as yet- this ambush thing was far more 'exciting' than her so-called 'escape.'
As for her mother, and the police; they seemed to have decided for the present on the subtle approach. This morning, and as for as much of the previous evening she could remember before she had drifted off into the pleasant fog of of Scyllazine, 50 milligrams, once daily, everyone had been very, very careful not to say or do anything that might upset her. Being treated like one was made of glass had its advantages, but it also quickly became head-drillingly boring. Her mother hadn't been at all keen on her walking the three minutes to the newsstand and back on her own, but had acquiesced as soon as Escher had begun to sound annoyed. Apart from anything else, this was so exactly the opposite of Suzanne Griffin's usual no-nonsense approach to parenting that it was scary.
Escher wandered through the lobby of the wealthy apartment block where she lived. Padding over the swirly deep-pile carpet in her returned Allstars, she smiled at the young man who stopped the lift door closing for her, and rode the mirror-lined elevator up to the ninth floor. Still deep in thought, she trailed along the corridor and unlocked the front door of Number 17 with the little silvery keycard that she pulled absentmindedly from the inner pocket of her jacket.
The comic was sealed inside its plastic protector by a strip of white tape, which Escher picked at while she dropped her bag in the hall.
'Mom?'
'We're in the lounge, honey!' called her mother.
Nose buried in the comic, Escher walked into the lounge. 'What did you say, Mom?' she began. 'Who's "we"? Did-'
She stopped.
The two men who were sitting on the sofa opposite her mom looked up at her entrance. One raised a friendly eyebrow, the other broke into a classic I'm-so-good-with-kids grin. They wore neat jackets and ties of varying loudness, and they had about the attitude of men who know that making a good first impression was ninety percent of their job. They certainly seemed to have made one on her mother. Suzanne Griffin was sitting on the other side of the coffee table, and her slightly concussed smile was of a calibre Escher had only ever seen when the non-English-speaking owner of half of Emma Rose Parfumerie's stock options had come to the apartment for dinner.
Another, younger man occupied the armchair next to the sofa, and glanced up on Escher's entrance with a look that was more of an embarrased facial shrug than a smile. The coffee table between them was covered with assorted paraphernalia, including notebooks, a small handheld recording device, pens, and various pieces of photographic equipment.
'Escher,' said her mother, as the silence began to grow uncomfortable, 'these nice gentlemen from the Daily Bugle came by just after you left. Now, I know you didn't feel up to talking to the police much last night, but apparently the Bugle is very interested in your story, and I think it'd probably do you good to have a little chat.'
'Yeah, we'd be very interested to hear anything you want to tell us, kiddo.' said the grinner, genially. He had small ferret eyes and a short ponytail. Escher gave him a slow look, logging the "kiddo" away for future reference.
'I…don't really want to talk about it.'
Her mother sighed.
'Dr. Lawrence said this might happen.' she said. 'Honey, it's not healthy to keep it all bottled up inside like this. You haven't hardly spoken since you got back-'
'Yeah, because the second I got back you and Dr. Lawrence decided to dope me up to the eyeballs!' Escher was getting mad, and got madder when she saw that the other man on the sofa had picked up his notebook to record her outburst. 'And stop that!' she yelled at him.
'Escher Griffin, don't you dare speak like that.' said Suzanne rapidly, getting up. 'What are these gentleman going to think?'
'I don't care what they think!' snapped Escher. 'Did you see the photo they put in the Bugle? I-' Her voice trailed off as she saw her mother's expression soften. With a supreme effort, Escher tried to think like a mom.
'You thought it was sweet, didn't you.' she said.
'Well, I did-'
'Hey, the photo's not a problem.' said Mr. Notebook, easily. 'We can run any picture you like. Isn't that right?' he said to his colleague in the armchair.
'Uh, sure.' said the young man. Taking off his black-framed glasses, he started to polish them on the hem of his sweater. It was a conspicuously nervous gesture, and one which for no apparent reason Escher found herself following with fascination. Somehow, she felt that he looked slightly familliar.
'All we want,' continued the first man, still grinning, 'are a few more details. The public are interested in you, Escher. Cute kid like you gets abducted, people want to find out what happens next. I'd feel pretty flattered, if I were you - our readers want to know you're okay.'
'Really.' said Escher, privately adding the "cute kid like you" to the "kiddo" on her little mental to-do list of lesiurely retribution.
'I bet you'd feel a lot better if you just sat down and talked about it, sweetie.' said her mother, worriedly.
Escher looked at her mother helplessly, then down at her shoes. She felt ganged up on, guilty, and frustrated. She was sure that the story she could tell was not the one that these men wanted to hear, or the one they would write, given half the chance, based on her words. The Girl Hostage Escapes Alive she'd seen at the newsstand was proof of that. They wanted a cute kid outwitting the machinations of a monster. If she spoke to them, no matter how carefully she tried to tell the truth, they'd spin her account into the shape they required. Under such pressure, and with her mom watching her as if she might explode at any second, it would be so easy to just start talking…
But she had given her word, and more than that, she had sworn to herself that whatever happened, she was not going to be responsible for yet another fluttering page pinned to that damp warehouse wall.
For what it's worth…I promise.
She looked up.
'Mom, I…I don't feel too good.' She sat down heavily in the free armchair, cradling her forehead. 'I feel dizzy…'
It was cruel, but it worked like magic. Suzanne was at her daughter's side in an instant, concern crumpling her brow.
'Oh, honey, are you okay? Do you feel sick? Dr. Lawrence said those pills do that sometimes. Can you see all right?'
'My head hurts.' mumbled Escher. Give that girl an Oscar.
'Okay, well, you sit right there for a bit, while I talk to these people, and then I'll be right back and we can ring the hospital and ask if there's anything we can do.' Her mother stroked her hair, then stood up and turned to the reporters, suddenly all business. 'Sorry, gentlemen,' she said, firmly, 'but I don't think Escher's going to be able to talk to you today. I'll call Mr. Jameson this evening; maybe we can fix up something tomorrow.'
The men gathered up their equipment as Mrs. Griffin ushered them out of the lounge. Escher heard them in the hallway, the voice of the ponytailed man gracious in defeat. 'Of course, Mrs. Griffin.' he breezed. 'Last thing we want to do is upset your daughter. And of course, I understand you're a busy woman. Didn't I see you at that Summer Styles conference at Macys' headquarters last month?'
'Yes, I work for Emma Rose.' said her mother's voice. 'Wait a minute…Mr. Shelby…weren't you the one that wrote that article about the success of our new management structure?'
'Yes indeed, Mrs. Griffin.' said the voice of the man with the notebook, his words fading slightly as the four adults stepped out into the hallway outside the front door. 'In fact, I've got a new theory on that very subject, if you've got a moment…'
Escher rolled her eyes. Not even a daughter with a possible trauma-related headache stood a chance against her mother's enthusiasm for her job. But of course, Mr. Shelby, please tell me all about it.
'Certainly, Mr. Shelby. I'd love to hear about it.'
The muted conversation continued. Escher sat in the empty lounge, one hand still held against her head just in case her mom reappeared. She was just wondering idly how on earth she was going to dissuade her mother from ringing the hospital when her gaze fell on an unexpected shape, lying on the coffee table's polished surface.
The young man's glasses. Escher regarded them with disinterest for a minute or two, but then something struck her as odd. Anyone watching would have been puzzled as she started to bob her head up and down, trying to see through the lenses as they sat on the tabletop. Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and she picked them up, holding them to her face.
Through them, everything looked absolutely normal.
Which was not normal.
She was just trying to think about this when the door opened again and the young reporter came back into the room. His camera bag was hanging from one shoulder, and he was rummaging in it as he spoke.
'Uh, sorry, I think I left my...oh.'
Escher put the glasses down quickly. 'I was just looking.'
'That's okay.' said the young man, reaching for them.
'Nice frames.' Escher lied.
'Thanks.' He had his glasses back on, now, but somehow leaving didn't seem to be happening. He looked, she thought, like someone waiting for a cue. And then, out of the blue, she remembered where she'd seen him before.
'You're the guy that takes pictures of Spiderman.' she said. 'Peter…something.'
The man smiled. It was a guarded smile, but it was genuine nonetheless. Escher couldn't help but feel that this one was a definite improvement on the Two Stooges currently soft-soaping her mother out in the hallway.
'Parker. Yeah, I am.' he said.
'You didn't get any at the museum, did you?'
'No, I was, uh, busy.'
'And you work for the Daily Bugle.' Escher was hard pressed to keep the ire from her tone. Peter picked up on the warning.
'Not really. I'm freelance.' he said. 'It's just that the Bugle buys a load of my work.'
Escher was gratified to hear this, although she didn't show it. 'You probably think I'm really weird.' she said, perching on the arm of the sofa. 'I mean, everyone wants to be in the paper, right?'
'Well, no, I don't know.' said Peter, a touch uncomfortably. 'Everyone's a little weird, I guess. I mean, everybody's got at least one thing they would probably find hard to explain about themselves.'
'Like, why somebody would wear glasses with plain glass in them?' said Escher, sweetly.
There was a pause. Outside in the hallway, the murmur of voices turned momentarily to laughter, than continued.
Finally, Peter coughed. 'It's, uh, it's a focus thing.'
'Or a lookit-me-I'm-just-the-dorky-photographer-you-can-trust-me thing.'
There was another pause. Once again, Escher reflected that her particular brand of foot-in-mouth disease really wasn't helpful under the circumstances.
'I'm sorry.' she said. 'I didn't mean that to sound so, um, rude. I like your pictures, Mr. Parker. But I just meant that I'm not going to tell you about Doctor Octavius just because-'
'"Doctor Octavius"?' said Peter, mildly. 'Now, there's a name you don't hear much anymore.'
Escher bit her lip, annoyed at herself. Spotting an opening, Peter plunged ahead.
'Look, if you don't want talk to those two jerks out there, that's fine by me. We both know what they'd do with whatever they got out of you. And you don't have to tell me anything, either. But if you wanted, you could tell me- as an interested party, that's all- why you don't want to talk about it. 'Cause, you see, I think I know why it isn't…'
Escher said nothing.
'It isn't because you're scared of him. Is it?'
Peter was trying to make his words as non-confrontational as possible, just in case. The girl seemed to him to be as balanced as a rock, but just on the offchance that she really was traumatized by her experience, he said nothing more, Silence, as he'd learned from experience, is often the most effective weapon of all.
She frowned, chewing on her lip. There were still streaks of what looked like machine oil on the off-white rubber soles of her baseball boots, and it was at these she stared, apparently locked in an internal battle of will. Eventually, she spoke.
'He…he asked me to not tell the papers anything else about him.'
'What, he just asked you?'
'Yeah. I promised him.' said Escher. Taking his silence for scepticism, she added 'See, I didn't think you'd believe me. Your paper-'
'I told you, it's not my paper.' said Peter, swiftly. 'And you might be surprised what I'd believe, if you only told me.'
Escher was taken aback by the calm conviction in his voice. Was he serious? He certainly sounded serious. Behind the baffling fake glasses, his eyes were guileless and, what? Sad? In any case, in her position an ally in any form was desirable. She decided to continue with caution.
'Well, one thing I can tell you is that none of this would've have happened if your friend Spiderman had just told the truth when it really mattered.' she said, and proceeded to outline the details of her brief and bizarre aquaintance with Doctor Otto Octavius.
It took maybe five minutes for the ultra-condensed version, and then a further few minutes while he asked her a series of carefully-worded questions. Escher noticed that he looked oddly uncomfortable when she talked about the real version of the events at Pier 56, and also that he winced with sympathy as she described the paper collage and the festering feelings it represented. Mostly, however, he just looked concerned…and guilty.
Finally, he got up and walked over to the lounge's big window, staring out at the view with his back to her, and sighed.
'There's a lot of people in this city, Escher.' he said, eventually.
'You don't say.' said Escher. She was in no mood for a game of Stating the Bloody Obvious.
'And a lot of them…most of them, even…well, they'd probably tell you that Spiderman is a pretty good guy.' Peter Parker turned, taking his glasses off as if they were irritating him. 'But it didn't always used to be like that. And Mr. Jameson…you could say that he's a little…behind the times.'
'So he lied.' said Escher. 'Is that what you mean?'
'Spiderman told me what happened at Pier 56.' said Peter. 'It more or less fits in with what you just told me. He tried to tell Mr. Jameson, too, but…' A distinctly stormy expression flicked across his usually benign features. 'Well, apparently the truth doesn't sell papers anymore. Not enough, anyway.'
Escher nodded. Suddenly, the young man looked taller, an effect exaggerated without the nerdy disguise of the glasses. His explanation had reassured her, telling her what she had already wanted to believe- that Spiderman hadn't really thrown his so-called enemy to the wolves, so to speak, just so he could bask in the limelight. With her faith in New York's hero restored, she felt a new worry begin to surface, and realised with a start that right here, right now, was the perfect time to act upon it.
'Mr. Parker, can you tell Spiderman something for me?'
The voices outside got louder, coming nearer, and she started to hurry.
'Tell him to watch out, okay? If he could've seen Doctor Octavius talking about him, like I did, he'd know what I mean. But, umm…but tell him to try and give him another chance. 'Cause, uh, he let me go, and um…' Escher trailed off, trying to convey what she barely understood herself. '…I think…I think he might not be too far gone. Yet.'
Peter smiled. 'Sure.' he said. 'When I see Spiderman, I'll tell him.'
goo. sorry this took a little longer, btw but my pesky real life got in the way. i went to a party and this guy said lemme show you something'll make you feel all floaty and whoo. so he picks me up and makes my spine go cltchh, says apparently it'll release endorphins. well now i've had a headache for two days straight and i feel bruised all over. the moral is, don't let guys mess with your spine.
p.s aninokitsune, what's AU? i am intrigued. i'm also sure i came across a fic like the one you described a while ago.
hum. thanks everyone for your reviews and the awww. i am a connoisseur of awww.