.night, day two.

Spider-man kneeled at the edge of the pier, staring at the dark, rippling water. As far as he could tell, there was nothing to see. The same was true for what remained of the building at the edge of the dock. Police tape was strung everywhere, and every surface was covered with mud, blood, trash, and footprints. They had found little to nothing left of the equipment Dr. Octavius had used to build his second sun, and no notes or plans at all. Either the doctor had built the entire thing from memory, or someone had removed everything before the police had arrived.

There had been so much going on that night. But no one would have had time. The place was in chaos from the explosion, then in ruins. Finally, it had been swarming with rescue teams and the authorities. Harry had just been a latecomer to the party.

Maybe Octavius had built it all from memory. Maybe his body did burn up, or implode, or something. Maybe… but his spider-sense was making his brain itch. Something was weird here.

No way he could have lived through that. No way.

He stood up, brushed dirt from his costume, and flipped a web, taking off back in the direction of distant sirens.

-

The world was pain, and with that, he knew he was not dead.

There was darkness, but he knew it was not dark.

There were voices, but he did not recognize them.

Inside his head, nothing but quiet.

No. No, that was not… right.

(…father…)

Where am I? Can you see?

(… cannot see anything … what did they do to us …?)

He tried to open his eyes, but they felt bound, and his head had been immobilized as well. And his hands, he couldn't feel his fingers, every joint stiff—and he was on his back. Shouldn't this be a problem, the actuators—

(… father, we are not well… you are in disrepair and we are dying… and they want to…)

More alert now, he could sense that the voices that had been so strong in his mind the day he'd been blessed/cursed with their marriage to his spine. They were very faint, mere whispers from what they had been.

Tell me… tell me what happened. Please. I can't help you… I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong…

(… we only want to live… our father…)

They faded, a radio station turned out of tune. He struggled to find them again, but they were as gone as if they'd never been there.

"Wake up."

"Ah…" His mouth was dry and lips covered in crud, gunk. He licked them. No idea he had not been alone.

"Wake. Up." The voice was strong, commanding, monotone, and pitched no louder than it needed to be heard. Otto swallowed, his mouth gooey from disuse and lack of water.

"I… where am I…?"

"You are awake. Good. Let's start with the basics, shall we? What is your name?" Sounds of writing, from his right side. Sounded like they were in a room, with very high ceilings. Only other sounds he could hear were from someone very far to the left, typing, and some miscellaneous small machine sounds: hissing, faint beeping, low buzzing, like fluorescent lights.

Tell them the truth? Ah, who was he kidding? Who was this guy kidding? Everyone knew his name. God knows, the actuators would give it away.

"Otto. Dr… Otto Octavius." Aka, Doctor Octopus, the monster. "Where am I?"

The man made no attempt to answer him. "Good. And what year is this?"

"Two thousand three. Look… I need to know… did the fusion experiment… was it stopped?"

More writing. "And, where were you last, Dr. Octavius?"

"Pier 56. I was… they were building… my experiment." His voice rose and cracked, starting to panic. Something is very, very wrong with this picture…

"Memory seems intact. Motor response, not… " writing, "Physical stability…" more writing, and Otto could feel the bed (for that's what he assumed it was) rocking slightly to the right. Straps were holding his body immobile; he could feel them now that his weight was more firmly resting against them. Ankles, waist, wrists, chest, forehead. "… is fair, but should begin to stabilize once we do something about the spinal area."

"Why … can't I see anything?"

The man leaned over, and Otto could smell him, mouthwash and antiseptic, and quite possibly Glenfiddich. A hand pressed against his chest, palm down, and for the first time he realized he had nothing on. At least, above the waist.

"Your eyes were damaged." The hand moved to Otto's face, and he felt the bandages begin to be pulled gently from his face. A sound of footsteps from the left, and there was the sound of writing again.

"Do you think there will be any permanent damage?" Asked the newcomer, still writing.

"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out. Paolo, if you could, please…" Something was set aside, metal in contact with metal, and then there was another shift of the bed, which brought him level again. The strap holding his head in place was loosened, then removed, and the bandages fell away. Otto, cautiously, slitted his eyes against the painful glare of the room.

-

.morning – day three.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. At least, Harry figured, that's what this was. A desperate time, for himself, for the future of OsCorp, and most importantly, for his father's memory. Two birds with one stone? Possibly. Helping a top-secret hush hush black-ops type organization didn't really fall under the heading of Special Projects, but for the sake of all that was good and holy, damnit he figured it was a good investment.

The door to his father's study (for he didn't think of it as his own; the spirit of his father was too deeply rooted in this place) opened, and his assistant appeared. "Sir, one William Bishop to see you."

"Send him in." Harry, tense, tried to relax into the huge leather chair behind the massive mahogany desk, trying to look imposing, or at least like he knew what he was doing. I do this all the time, contract out people to do questionable things. Right…

The door closed, and a man walked into view. He wore a long, black coat, soft suede or leather, Harry could not be sure, and had shoulder length, dark hair that was lightly shot through with grey. He had walked to the massive picture window and stood gazing out at the New York skyline, making no attempt at conversation, or even a hello, howdoyado? Harry frowned, then gathered himself together. This was a guest, of sorts. Time to put on his business face.

"Mr. Bishop? Welcome. Harry Osborne." Harry strode across the room, right hand out, primed for handshaking. The man, Bishop, turned to him and fixed him with a dark eye. The creases in the man's face were deep and numerous, cheekbones and jaw set in hard lines against a harder expression. No, not hard. Empty. Cold. A killer's face.

Harry's smile faltered minutely, then rose back up in full force. Bishop did not take his hand. Harry felt deeply studied, and more than a little uncomfortable.

"Well," he said, dropping the hand and turning to the small wet bar to the side of the desk. "Can I get you a drink? I bet you had a long trip from… where did you come from?"

"Argentina." The voice matched the face. Harry turned, and the man was inches from him. He hadn't heard him move.

"What do you need done." It was not posed as a question, merely a fact stated that needed, no demanded, a response. A cold chill ran down Harry's spine, and he was reminded of Doctor Faustus and his problematic deal with the devil. He gritted his teeth. I'm being way too dramatic. I've just never done this before.

"You jump right to the business at hand. I like that about you, Bishop. We're going to-"

Harry suddenly found himself dangling from Bishop's fist by the front of his shirt, inches above the ground. The glass fell and shattered, and he heard his assistant at the door. "Sir? Is everything all right?"

Bishop's eyes never changed. They stayed black and cold. But they searched him, and Harry felt like someone had reached in through his eye sockets and plunged a hand into his brain, feeling around for the tethers of his soul, to unlatch and unleash his own mortality.

"N- n- no. Everything's fine. Just fine. I just- just accidentally dropped a glass."

The footsteps receded. Bishop drew Harry closer, until their noses were so, so close. His voice entered Harry's skull and crouched there, a low growl.

"Now, boy. Tell me what you wanted me to do. Or I will make sure you pay for wasting my time. And I do not mean in coin."

"Could you- ah, could you put me down?

please?" Bishop held him for another moment, practically years in Harry's estimation, then set him down, gently, on his feet. His legs were jelly, and he nearly fell over. Instead, he took up another glass and filled it with whatever came to his hand first, and sat down heavily in his father's chair.

"I'm looking for some missing… information. And equipment. And… possibly even a body. Someone took what is rightfully mine and I want to find out who did this. The information is in this file." Harry took a thick manila folder from his desk drawer and slid it across the desktop. Bishop flipped open the cover and a black and white photograph was at the top of the stack.

"Octavius," Bishop muttered thoughtfully.

Harry cocked his head. "You know him?"

"Of him. Somewhat."

"I need you to find out who was at the pier two nights ago. I need to find out who was there and who took what was left of the fusion machine, the plans, and even if Dr. Octavius' body, if it was intact. I know the last is a long shot, but the invention he used, the actuators… they were very impressive. If OsCorp could find out how they worked, to manufacture—"

"Anything else?" Bishop had taken the file, and it had disappeared into his coat. Harry thought he could have seen something, a gun? He swallowed.

"Yes." He took a deep breath. Two birds, remember, Harry? "I need you to find someone, someone that needs to suffer. For something he did to me. And to my father. He killed my father. And I want him to pay."

"Revenge is best taken by the one who has been wronged. Why do you need me?"

Harry said nothing, unable to answer. He drank down half the glass. His hand was shaking.

"This man is my friend. And he is my enemy. I want you to find Spider-Man. And make his life a living hell."

For the first time, Harry watched the man smile. And he did not like it at all.

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Osborne. My employers did not set up our meeting so that we could discuss personal vendettas. As a businessman, you understand these things, no?" Bishop turned to leave, and in a sudden burst of desperation, Harry grabbed his forearm.

It was as if he'd grabbed a granite pillar. But the man stopped, turned slowly, eyeing the hand on his arm. Harry let go, and plunged forward.

"My company is paying you. You'll do what I tell you to do." His voice was hard, but his stomach was quivering. Bishop's face still held a remnant of the smile, but only on his lips. The eyes had turned empty again.

"No. My employers pay me. Not you. You… will take what you're given." He walked back, covering the ground between them quickly, intimidating Harry with his physical presence, even though the man was only a few inches taller. His voice pitched low, a growl, he leaned forward, so close to Harry's ear, it was all he could do not to pull away.

"You'd be wise to consider it a blessing that I do not do what you ask, if this person is your friend. Understand, boy?" He pulled away, and was gone. Just like that. The door softly latched closed, and he fell into the wide leather couch, a hand to his forehead, feeling the sweat that had beaded there in the short time during the meeting.

What have I done? What have I done?