But the reason he had returned, as Spider-Man, was because there was something he couldn't figure out, and it was bothering him. There had been a man there, obviously not part of the National Geographic crew, and not a cop. He had been asking questions, but making no notes. And his questions had only been about the late Dr. Octavius. Peter's spider sense had been wailing at him. Before he was able to ask the man anything, he had disappeared. Peter wasn't sure why he had returned to the pier on his nightly rounds, but he had a hunch…
The pier itself was still standing, but the building at the edge of the water had been destroyed. Spidey picked his way through the ruined steel girders and smashed floorboards, through to the area Octavius had built the reactor. There was nothing left but a giant hole in the floor where it had once stood. Where Octavius had stood below it, pulled it down on top of himself, had died saving the city from his own inner demons.
Nothing was left, save for an old, beat up couch that might have served as a place for Octavius to crash, and a few charred and windblown sheets of paper, now water damaged and stuck to the wooden floor, the ink faded and run. What knowledge, whether trivial or important, had they held? What—
His spider sense exploded, and he turned. A man in a long coat was walking up the pier. Peter couldn't see his face, but he knew instantly, this was the man from earlier that afternoon. Peter sunk back into the shadows and watched as the man made his way through the rubble to the same spot that he had been standing in a few seconds prior—
-and fell through a section of rotten floorboards.
Spidey shot a web and caught the man's hand as he fell, pulling him back up to the edge of the floor. The hand had been webbed at the wrist, and the man grabbed the web itself and climbed up over the hole. The whole thing had taken only a few seconds, and the man had never uttered a word, or made a sound.
"Whoa, that was a close—"
Spidey turned his head and found himself staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun, inches from his nose.
"You took those photos."
Great, another loony. Why do I always run into the crazies?
"Now, is that any way to say thank you? What would your mother say?" Spidey grabbed the barrel of the gun, and flipped it into the water. The man stepped back once in surprise, and was rewarded with a handful of webbing. His hands were immobile and stuck together, an effective makeshift set of handcuffs.
"Who are you, anyway?"
The man stood, his dark hair hiding his face, his arms lowered. Not in defeat, but balanced, and Peter's spider sense quieted a fraction. Still, it was strong, and made him very nervous.
"Why are you wearing pajamas?"
The question took him aback. Spidey cocked his head. "Why are you pointing loaded weapons at people?"
"Where can I find Dr. Octavius?"
Spidey sighed. "Right below us. The bottom of the river. Why? What's your story, my angry friend? Did someone send you?"
"Dead? He—that's never happened before. I…" The man had bowed his head at this point, muttering to himself, momentarily lost in his thoughts. Spidey took a step forward, hoping to subdue the whack-job before things got out of hand. He'd alert NY's finest, and have him picked up.
But the man didn't seem to be getting angry. "Then you have to help me find him. Or what's left of him."
"Um. Do you remember a few minutes ago, when you were going to kill me? Why do I need to help you?" What a nutty nut bar.
The man lifted his head, then, and the light hit his face directly. Peter could see hard lines etched into the man's face, sharp cheekbones, dark, glittering eyes. They were not the eyes of a madman, merely a person who had seen too much in his time on the earth. A chill went down Peter's spine.
"Because… something really bad is going to happen. And I need to be there when it does."
-
.day five – evening.
Dr. Ethan Ramos stopped outside of lab room 301, hand on the doorknob, other hand on his keycard. He almost turned around and left, but he'd made a promise, and he felt that it was more important to keep that promise than to keep from taking a very grave risk, one that could very well get him fired, and possibly even blacklisted from the medical community for life.
It was a risk he was willing to take. He'd seen enough of this 'research' that occurred without their patients' consent long enough. Ten months, and he'd violated his Hippocratic oath more times than he'd care to admit, and he was just a lab tech. He didn't want to know what most of the higher-ups did.
Ramos sighed and slipped his keycard through the reader. The tiny light turned from red to green, and the lock clicked, admitting him. He made his way past long tables filled with testing equipment to a lone computer monitor. A newbie tech was seated at the desk, doing routine data checks. The tech was happy enough for Ramos to relieve him for an hour or so, and hurried out. He finished up the last of the computer work, then made his way through to the observation room, which was a smaller area, with one long quad-paned window inset into the closest wall, a thick steel-reinforced door to the right. The room itself was dark, and he could see random, faint blips of light from one machine or another. He unlocked the door with his keycard again, and stepped inside.
Before he turned on the light, he realized he could see well in the dim light from the skylights above. The observation room had no ceiling of its own, open to the higher ceiling of the lab. It always disoriented Ramos when he entered one of the little rooms, and wondered what it was like for their inhabitants.
He reached into his pocket to put the card away and remembered one of the reasons he'd come back, fingers closing around the plastic item.
"Ramos." Octavius' voice was rough with disuse, and he cleared his throat.
"Ah… how did you know—"
"Your tread. Very heavy. One foot drags slightly." He took a deep breath, and his voice dropped an octave, quieter yet. "I didn't expect you back… so soon."
"Well. I had something for you. I thought it might help." Lord, I sound so stupid. Like a kid.
Octavius grunted but didn't speak. Ramos stood for a moment, then withdrew the sunglasses he'd bought at the gas station near his apartment. He'd seen them on the rack, and remembered the doctor's sensitivity to light. "I'm going to turn on the light."
Ramos switched the light on, and as always, his stomach did a funny turn at the sight of the man. The room was fairly empty, save for cabinets along the wall, filled with surgical tools and other implements of all kinds, a crash cart, several machines that monitored various vital signs, and an examining table.
Examining table. Not really, Ramos thought. Normally, there was a standard steel table centered in the room, with foot pedals near the base to adjust height and angle. In this specific room, the typical table was gone, replaced by what was essentially a steel backboard hanging from several thick steel cables, suspended by a simple pulley system near the ceiling. The table was designed specifically with Dr. Octavius and his extra appendages in mind, for there were several openings near the head of the table so that the three tentacles—actuators, he kept reminding himself—were threaded through and shackled to the floor, their AI disabled by complex electronic collars around their heads. There were also access points for most of the spine and the lower half of the neck. One would think this would have been uncomfortable for the patient, but Octavius could feel nothing below his neck, these days.
Ramos frowned slightly, then forced a grin, trying not to focus on the mean black straps that held the doctor in place, the wires and tubes running here and there, the electrical burns and blisters that covered his torso, arms, and face, the mess of melted skin above the metal brace on his belly. The angry pink scars radiating from his eyes.
Maybe it's best he can't feel anything.
For all of that, the scientist smiled at Ramos. It was the only bit of warmth in the room, and it put the younger doctor at ease. He leaned forward, careful of the skin around Octavius' eyes, and slipped the sunglasses on his face.
"You can open your eyes now." Ramos was grinning now as he watched Octavius open his eyes. His own smile was starting to rival Ramos' own.
The happy look disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Ramos followed his patient's gaze, and didn't have to ask a thing.
The fourth actuator, the one that had been found at the bottom of the Hudson, was resting on the counter under a clear plastic cover. One of the head scientists had been fiddling with it, trying to figure out how to power it up, but had gotten nowhere. One of the segments had been removed from the arm, and taken apart, dissected. A pad of notes had been left beside it.
"Thank you. For these." Octavius didn't sound happy. He sounded defeated. "Have you… found out anything as to what they do here? To people… like me?"
"Not too much yet. I don't hear too much. But I'm doing some snooping around. It's hard to do when you're trying not to attract attention. But I might have a friend that can help me out. You'll just have to hang in there." Lame, lame, lame, Ramos… why don't you just tell him to stay put, help will be here soon?
"I have nothing else better to do," Octavius growled.
-
Harry Osborne paced his father's office. If anyone had been watching, they would have assumed he was arguing with himself. Not the case at all.
Why can't you make me proud? Why do you always have to run from your obligations? Do I have to be remembered by a coward of a son?
"No! No… I can't… I can't kill Peter. He's my best friend. How many friends have you killed?"
As many as I needed to, to give my family what they needed. What they deserved. I took care of the ones I loved.
"But… but I love him like a brother, father." Don't I?
I would have stood up to God himself and destroyed him. For you, my son. For you.
Why can't you do it for me?
Harry Osborne clutched his head with both hands, an inarticulate scream dancing on his tongue.
I am not a killer!
Yes, you are. You brought that hack of a scientist into my company. My company. And you nearly destroyed it. People were injured, a woman was killed. That whole mess nearly destroyed the city. All because of your mistakes. You have sinned, my son. You must pay your penance. You must avenge me. This is your destiny.
But—
No! You will listen to me now. You will do this. You are my son.
Make me proud.
On his knees, his head touching the floor, hands still struggling to hold his skull together, Harry moaned as a man dying. He felt his father flow through him and depart, and he found himself at the crux of decisions he'd put off making.
Decisions that now needed to be made.
-
.day seven—night.
Two days had passed since Ramos' last visit, but Octavius saw no more of the young doctor, only a parade of bland faces, poking and prodding, only acknowledging him as human when they ask him questions, and even then, something less than human. Something to be studied.
"The tentacles. You said you gave them artificial intelligence. Do you talk to them?"
"Once upon a time. Before you imbeciles shackled them."
"So you can't talk to them now?"
It went like this for days. Inane questions, rephrased and run by him again and again. Or maybe it was just how it felt. Nevertheless, he'd stopped answering them. He was tired. His chest ached, and his neck felt stiff from being held immobile by the wide leather strap across his forehead. One of the scientists had taken his sunglasses off to examine his eyes, and hadn't replaced them, to Otto's frustration. So, the only time he was able to take a look around was during the very late parts of the night, when the lab techs who monitored his vital signs would turn out the lights. Then, he'd stare up at the ceiling, past the glass of the skylights and into the night sky. The picture was fuzzy, but he knew he could make out faint stars, sometimes a swirl of moonlit clouds, and in a few particular melancholy moments, he'd imagine climbing the wall, smashing the glass, and escaping into the clear night, grinning as he ate up the night, flying across rooftops with the speed and power of the selfsame machines that had ruined his life and taken his humanity.
No, Octavius. You ruined your life. You could have shut the machine down. You could have saved her.
Shut up. It's—
A harsh, echoed click from across the room, and the lights blazed to life.
"Damn," Otto rasped and shut his eyes quickly, tight against the glare. How he tired of this stupid game. Couldn't they just get on with it, kill him and dissect him to their heart's content?
"Hello, Doctor. My name is Dr. Napalma. I've come to test you." The man's voice was low and even, and a touch… sadistic? They all sounded that way, anymore. If they ask me another ridiculous question…
"Nothing to say to me? I have learned that you've been uncharacteristically silent lately. I hope my colleagues have been hospitable." A hint of mocking in the tone. The sound of a tray table drawn near, wheels on ceramic tile. Metal on metal. Sounds that reminded Otto of dentist's tools. He tried taking a look, but the light was vicious, and only ended up shooting daggers into his pupils and branding the backs of his eyelids with spots.
"Too bad. I'd really like to get to know you. Brilliant man, weren't you? But you have a bit too much hubris lurking in that thick skull of yours. And now you're refusing to speak to us. Therefore, I was called in."
What? Who was this buffoon? He didn't sound like the usual band of merry head-shrinkers that came through. More metal sounds. Otto was starting to get nervous. Yet, he bit his tongue. Damn them all, I will not lose my grip.
"I am intrigued by this machine that you have welded to your back. Unfortunate that we could not have found you in a less damaged state. Then again, you would not have ended up here, eh?" The man chuckled, a sound laced with menace (Otto was certain).
Otto felt the table he was lying on tilt, his head rising above his feet until he was nearly at a standing position. He felt a hand on the back of his neck, a finger caressing the scar tissue at the tip of the spinal brace, where the inhibitor chip had been. And then he felt nothing. The sensation had ended at the top of his shoulder blade. So much farther the damage had come. Otto squeezed his eyes shut, harder, as if to block the thoughts, and the doctor, from his mind. It wasn't working.
"I am curious. Here. Is this—"
The doctor had selected something from the metal tray table, and in moments, pain shot through Otto's right arm, all the way down to the tips of his fingers. He gasped, in agony and surprise. There is pain where there had been nothing before—but how? How?
"Oh, you felt that, eh? Fascinating," the doctor murmured.
How—
Another bolt of pain, like a lightning bolt, an electrical storm in his brain, and his eyes felt hot. Otto cried out.
"Oh, yes. Just as I hypothesized." The doctor sounded pleased. Whatever tool he had been using was deposited on the tray table, and there was the sound of searching. Otto's body sagged against the straps, but his mind was racing.
It felt as it had when I had been electrocuted at the Pier. Only it felt as if it were originating from my own body. Ah…
The actuators' harness, even though damaged, had acted as a conduit, just as the human body used the spinal cord as an information highway between it and the brain. It had to be. How else could it be explained? How?
He could walk again!
The thought was dashed instantly by the fact that he was immobile, his actuators had been deactivated somehow, and he was being held prisoner by people that never wanted him to see the light of day again. Frustration mixed with the thrill of discovery poured through him.
A scientific breakthrough, and it was to be left to a half-rate scientist with a sadistic streak. How many people could be helped with this knowledge? Not his field of interest, but how many of the discoveries that had been made by scientists of the past been accidental? Surely, his was the most unplanned of situations—
Agony, through his chest and lower back, down to his toes and through the everloving floor, and still it continued. Napalma had resumed his 'testing'. Nerves that had lain dormant were now overloaded with sensation, the pain of a hundred million burning nerve endings. What the hell was he doing…? Voices flooded his head, screaming.
Father! Save Us! Free Us! We want to Live!
I… can't…
Otto's body convulsed, shaking, straining against the straps that held him immobile. His mind and his heart fought to keep up with each other, running a marathon, and then plodding along like a drunkard. Still, the doctor did not relent.
Don't leave us!
… I… will not…
…leave you…
…alone…
…
