To tell the truth, Bishop worked for no one. At least, no one he knew, and for no purpose he understood. It had been that way since… sometime after his last stint in Vietnam. After he'd left himself, after his mind had crawled back into the deepest parts of his brain and had tried to heal itself. From that point, he'd found himself compelled. By what? By whom? He had no idea.
It didn't matter. No one understood. Least of all, Bishop himself.
He'd be reading a paper, watching the news, some little part of himself drawn to a name, a face, a location. And he'd be compelled to go and find this person, or go to this place. And from there, things would happen.
Not all of them nice. As a matter of fact, most of them very bad.
Bishop took a sip of the coffee he'd bought at the counter of the shop he was now sitting in, ignoring the liquid heat trickling down his throat. The two week old newspaper, a copy of the New York Times he'd picked up in Argentina, was opened to the front page, a fuzzy photo of two garishly dressed men fighting on top of a moving elevated train. The headline read "150+ Citizens Nearly Killed in Train Disaster". One man wore pajamas with spider webs on them, and the other wore a trench coat, longer than Bishop's own, and green. The man, whom the newspapers had dubbed "Doctor Octopus", had four snakelike appendages sprouting from his back. They were each tipped with wicked looking claws, which were trying to crush the spider guy, also with a cute nickname ("Spider-Man", how original). The scene was getting to be the norm back in the states, with all kinds of crazies dressing up in tights and either trying to destroy things or preserve them. Normally, he wouldn't have given it much thought.
Bishop's eyes moved to the right, and beside the newspaper, resting on the table, was the manila folder Osborne had given him. Open, atop the pile of clippings, letters, schematics, and other information that he hadn't even touched yet, were several photos. One of a group of young people in white lab coats, one of the heads circled with black marker. Another, the same face, smiling, at a wedding, standing next to a pretty brown haired woman, just married. A third, a straight head shot, older, could have been a passport or driver's license photo, no smile, all business. The last, a close-up shot of this same man, a heavy green trench coat, brown leather, fedora, gloves, the arms curling around him. And the scars. Thick masses of scar tissue bridged the space between pale skin and the metal brace that encircled his waist. The face in this one was different as well. A snarl was frozen on his lips, a grimace of anger apparent even behind the sunglasses the man wore. He looked as if he were going to smash the camera and the person behind it. How anyone had gotten this photo was anyone's guess.
That familiar tingle had worked up his spine again, when he had seen the photo in the newspaper. He'd traveled night and day, and ended up in New York City with nothing but the clothes on his back, a sawed-off shotgun in a beat-up black duffle, and seventy-two dollars in his wallet.
Walking down the street at midday, he received the call. He was entering the subway tunnel, passing a bank of pay phones. One of them rang, and without thinking, he'd stopped and answered it. It had been Harry Osborne, wanting to hire him to find something, someone. Who had this man thought that he, Bishop, was? Did had it mattered? Some fickle hand of fate had pushed him in the direction chosen, and he'd agreed to meet the man at his home.
Bishop found himself looking back at the photo in the newspaper. This spider-person. He was involved somehow. But he wasn't here for him. Back to the photo in the folder, the last one, the angry, mutilated scientist. And there, in the bottom corner of the photo, a hint of red. This Spider-Man… had he taken the photo? Why?
He sighed. His body ached, and he had no desire to care about any of it. For the hundredth time, he wanted to abandon it all and go back to his life. What life? What awaits me there? Who do I have to go home to?
This life. It was all he had. And he knew that it would not leave him be. It would drive him mad if he tried.
-
His head felt as if it were going to be cut in half.
Otto squeezed his eyes shut and felt the skin around them tighten and pull painfully. He made a strangled groan in the back of his throat, and there was a bit of hasty shuffling from across the room.
"The lights have been dimmed. You can open your eyes now."
The world was fuzzy for a few moments in the half-light. Otto blinked, and his eyes tried to adjust to their new surroundings. The light was still painful, even now in the dim.
Staring up at the sun, his sun, staring, trying to pull the moorings down, to drown it, drown the sun…
"… damage from overexposure to massive amounts…"
… diving away from the mass of energy, trying to get clear of it as it fell, being sucked back down into the water, the gravitational pull too great to fight, even the actuators failing to grab hold of something, anything…
"… unable to determine if the subject will be able to regain full motor control…"
… hoping, in that bright maelstrom he would find peace, find Rosie—
-motor control?
Otto's eyes snapped open, and he looked around, suddenly lucid. The room was not large, but had high ceilings, with two massive square skylights in the ceiling, which was the only source of light at the present time. The walls were steel, as was the ceiling, rafters, and double doors that he could see through a large window on the opposite wall. Pulleys and wires were suspended from the ceiling, as was fluorescent lights that were, at the moment, dark. The wires came down to the corners of the table he was laying on, the 'bed', which was a metal platform, much like his own examining table in his lab. His waist was covered in a sheet, and he could see the metal brace that supported the actuators peeking out from beneath the top hem. His chest was pale, but not surprisingly so, considering how much time he spent in his own lab (or had, up until recently), and there were several electrodes attached at various spots. The wires disappeared into the dim light, as did the rest of the room.
Otto turned his head, and a jolt of pain shot down his spine. Where were the actuators? Were they bound beneath him, a hole in the table, securing them? They couldn't be… no. He'd be dead. Or paralyzed.
I can't feel my hands. I can't feel…
No. I'd be dead. Fused to my spine, right? And the brace is still there, I can see it. It's just the medication.
His eyes adjusted further to the darkness, and he searched for something familiar, anything. Scientific equipment, most which he'd had in his own lab, a few other things he'd used but didn't outright own, and others which he was completely baffled by. The two men that had been at his side moments ago were bustling around the room, completing various tasks, not paying the slightest bit of attention to him.
His eyes fell upon the counter. A glass case. A glint of metal. Serpentine.
I'd be dead, damnit. I know…
Corroded steel segments. The end, damaged, burned wires trailing. The other end—
I. Can't. Feel. My. Fingers.
-ending in a set of pincers, three metal 'fingers', with three, much smaller ones inset into the head. For delicate work. He couldn't see them from where he was, but he knew they were there, because he'd designed them. He squeezed his eyes shut.
(… father, help us… we can't see…)
I can't—you're not—are you gone? I can't—the bastards!
(…father, please… please!)
I'm trying…
Otto swore he could hear them howling, crying, begging him to help them. Hands pressed his head back into the table, and the strap was refastened.
"Goddamn you, get your hands off of me!"
A voice: "Christ! Paolo, sedate him! He's going to go into shock—"
Another: "What the hell? He just started screaming—"
And his own: "You bastards, what have you done to me? What—"
"Doctor Octavius, we're going to give you something to help you relax. Please—"
"I think he saw the harness. I think he saw—"
"What did you do to me? What have you done…?"
Otto felt his mind start to slide. Could hear fragments of conversation.
"—started to go into v-tach, but he evened out. Christ…"
"Hey, Jim. Did he really kill those people? The doctors?"
…what… is going on…?
"Yeah. Seven of the poor bastards. Did it with those tentacles of his."
"Well, he won't be doing that anymore, will he?"
The two men laughed, a sound that followed Otto back down into blissful, fuzzy darkness.
… god, I wish you were here… my Rosie…
-
"Parker! Get in here!"
No rest for the wicked, thought Peter Parker, as he made his way through the Daily Bugle office, dodging harried editors and reporters, to the head office of J. Jonah Jameson, his sometimes boss and sometimes torturer. He poked his head in.
"Parker, you're fired!"
Peter stepped inside, used to this conversation. It happened at least once a week, usually more often than that. Instead of protesting, he waited.
"You haven't brought me anything of value in a week! I can't wait on you to figure out how to work your camera."
Jonah made a warding-off gesture and turned back to his desk. "Now, this is newsworthy." He held up a photo of a cow that had been blasted in half by what looked to be a horde of aliens, 'realistically' added into the background. 'Demons Destroy Defenseless Dairy'. Not- "
Peter dropped a photograph of himself as Spider-Man, and Dr. Octavius in the fight before Pier 56 had been obliterated. He had several more, but was waiting for the reaction.
"—this is one of the most horrible photographs you've brought in yet. Page One headline, 'Doc Ock and Spider Man Destroy Docks'. Give this boy a check." Jonah wrote out a voucher for his usual 300.00 without looking up from his desk.
"Thanks, Mr. Jameson."
"Oh yeah, Parker. Since you still work here, I need you to go down to that pier again and take some photos. National Geographic, of all people, are down there filming some sort of show about that mess. Get some press, wouldja? Follow them around. You'll get time and a half."
Time and a half? Why so generous…?
"None of my staff will go down there; they say they don't want to go near it. They think they'll be killed by radiation or something, from the blast."
Oh. Yeah, okay. Figures.
Time and a half… sweet.
Peter escaped the office before the volatile editor-in-chief changed his mind.
-
.day four – after midnight.
"Doctor Octavius? Can you hear me?"
Who was bothering him now? Had he fallen asleep at his desk again? Ah, assistant Nikolaus, perhaps? Nikolaus was as hard a worker as he was himself, always spending nights in the lab, even though he had a wife and daughter at home.
"Go home, Nick," he muttered, tried to wave his hand in a dismissive gesture, and failed. Probably slept on it. Why I can't feel it.
"Doctor Octavius? Ah, my name isn't Nick. It's Ethan. Doctor Ethan Ramos. I need to run a few tests."
Not Nikolaus. Realization crept in, as did consciousness. Not the lab. Not my lab.
Not dead.
He opened his eyes, and snapped them shut again, squeezed tight against the pain of harsh white glare. What in hell did they use for bulbs around this place, anyway?
"I'm sorry. I'll dim the lights a little. Sorry I can't do more. I have to be able to see what I'm doing." The voice was male, painfully young, but held patience and a kindness that had time had not yet had a chance to erase. More importantly, he'd spoken directly to Otto.
"Where am I? What happened—" Otto struggled with a breath, then launched into a coughing fit. He heard Ramos' feet on the ceramic tile floor, hard soled loafers, and then a hissing mask was held to his face. Otto took a few more productive breaths, and his lungs quit rebelling.
"Is that better?" Otto nodded, and the mask was taken away. "Just relax, Doctor." The footsteps receded, and he heard typing.
"Ramos. You didn't answer… my question."
He heard footsteps again, the sound of a wheeled stool brought near, the hiss of hydraulics in the seat mechanism as the young doctor sat down. Actually sat down, giving Otto his full attention, much to his surprise.
"If I do, will you stop trying to talk? I don't want to have to put you on oxygen yet." The young doctor's voice was stern, as if he were talking to a child.
Yet. Otto didn't like the sound of that. Hell, he hadn't liked the sound of anything since he'd woken up in antiseptic hell. He nodded.
"I… first, I guess I should say, I became a doctor because of you," Ramos said eagerly. Otto groaned inwardly, but said nothing. "I even wrote my Master's thesis on practical application of your then-hypothetical fusion theories. At the time, you hadn't gained financial backing for your project." Ramos left out that the project, once it had been put into motion, had been an amazing failure, both times it had been attempted.
And I killed Rosie. And nearly the entire population of New York City. And surrounding metro.
Not now. Don't think about this now. Otto focused on the young doctor's voice. He could imagine a goofy smile from the awe that he heard there. His stomach turned cold. I'm…
"… a monster."
"Don't speak. I… I am sure there was more going on than what the media says. You're a brilliant man. What happened to you was a tragedy. They didn't understand."
"No. You don't understand." This brought another series of coughs, and the mask was held to his face again. God, he felt so helpless in this place! So terribly exposed.
"You should rest, Doctor." Ramos rose, taking the mask with him. Otto gained new strength; what if this man, the only one who had spoken to him, treated him like a human being, what if he never returned? What if this was his only chance to find out the truth? No!
"No. You will tell me. What in hell is going on."
Silence for a few beats, but Ramos did not retreat. He sat back down. His voice was low, as if trying not to attract attention. Too little, too late. If his captors had wanted to, they would have heard everything said up to that point.
But it doesn't matter. They can't take the knowledge from me, once given. Let them come.
Ramos spoke, the prior excitement gone from his voice. Now, he spoke slowly, deliberately, as if he too, knew he could not risk repeating and of it.
"I want you to know. I don't agree with any of this. I thought… I don't know what I thought when I came to work here. I only wanted to help people, to cure them. But this… this is wrong.
"This is the National Institute for Mental Health. Your presence here is unknown to the public. My guess is that if it got out that we had 'Doctor Octopus' held here, it would be a media circus. But, I don't know why you're being held here. It's all very secretive. I was only brought in to relieve one of the lab assistants who took ill. I usually work in the CT scanning lab.
"I don't even think all my co-workers know you're here. We're all being held to very strict silence. I was threatened with more than my job if I ever let this out. That includes you, Doctor Octavius."
This last was said pointedly, and Otto nodded. The young doctor was taking a very big risk. Before he could say anything, Ramos continued.
"You were brought in four days ago, nearly dead. One of your tentacles—"
"Actuators."
"—ah, actuators, was missing, but later found and brought back to the lab. Another was only attached by a pair of thin cables. If the reactor hadn't imploded when it had, I'm afraid you would have been found dead."
Is that so bad? Really?
"The top tenta—er, actuators, were the ones with the most damage. The lower, larger actuators seemed to take the punishment much better." Otto heard him lean forward, sensed the man hovering closer to his body. "Doctor, do you realize what condition you were in when they brought you here?"
"I do recall… you said I was nearly dead."
Ramos hesitated, reluctant to continue.
"Tell me. I'm a doctor. I can handle it."
"Well… you came in with severe spinal trauma. The actuators were forcibly pulled from the sockets in the brace, attached to your lower back. Many of the vertebrae were fractured, or as was the case with the lower T8-T11 region, shattered. The spinal brace kept the spine itself from being severed, but it's a small consolation. You're paralyzed from the chest down."
Paralyzed. The word had a very nasty sound, and hung in the air between the two doctors.
"You've had fourteen pints of blood, during the effort to stabilize you. And the damage is spreading. When we brought you in, you could move your arms. You nearly broke a man's hand in your grip…"
Otto grinned, and fought down another coughing fit, brought on the sudden hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up in his throat. This is just ludicrous. From renowned scientist, to super-villain, to paraplegic. Ah, good Christ, Rosie. I'm not finished with my penance quite yet.
"But why? Why keep me alive? Why?"
Ramos sighed. He had no answer.
"My guess is they want to study you. You're not the first so-called criminally insane person that's ended up here. And—" Ramos' beeper chose that moment to beep shrilly. "—shit. I have to take this." He leaned over, so close, voice low, his hand on Otto's chest. "I will come back. And I will try to find out why. I promise."
