Bishop awoke, his muscles aching, in the position he'd left himself in, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a handgun resting in his lap. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he'd been awake for two days straight, and it had snuck up on him. One of the few things that could.
He closed his eyes, and recalled the events of the past few days. Four days ago, he'd met this so-called Savior of the City, a guy who swings around on sticky ropes (that shoot out of his wrists, mind you) and cracks bad jokes as he pummels the bad guys into the concrete. He'd sounded like a kid, but his reflexes and his strength were anything but. The kid had gotten the drop on Bishop in the blink of an eye at the pier, disarming and disabling him in two flicks of his wrist.
You won't be able to do that twice, kid.
It had been a short conversation, which had ended when the Spider Boy had heard sirens or his mother calling or whatever, and had swung off, but not before throwing another smart-ass comment over his shoulder.
"Behave, you!"
The faster I get out of this city, the better. Just getting away from the lunatics would be reward enough.
Later that evening, after getting out of the old pier house and scraping his hands clean of the super-strong white ropy stuff that Arachno-boy had held him fast with, he'd started his search, walking. Never any true destination, not that he had a place to rest (but when the hell did he sleep, anyway? He had thought, chuckling), simply aimless wandering. Waiting for the sensation to come back, the one that had always guided his feet and brought him to the place he needed to be.
So many times in the past he'd closed his eyes, opened his mind, and found himself in buildings, fields, basements, homes, huts, out underneath the stars, anywhere he needed to be. And most times, his gun would be in his hand. Like a compass always searching for North. Sometimes it took a moment, but it always ended up pointing in the right direction.
Right for whom? Me? The other guy? Bishop shook his head. He had no idea. He only knew what he knew, and some days, that didn't seem like much.
He'd ended up at the double doors of the entrance to a squat, brick building. It was a good three and a half to four stories high, but in New York City it was short by comparison. Up above the doors were rounded panes of glass, forming an arch, and framed with wrought iron lattice work. The name emblazoned in brass right above the doors themselves: Otto Octavius Incorporated.
Yellow police tape barred the entrance. The glass of one of the doors was broken; some fool had thrown something through it. Probably kids. He raised his eyebrow, then continued walking around the building. Without forethought, he ducked into the alley. All of the windows had been broken, more victims of random vandalism. He found one that he figured he could fit through and had nearly gutted himself on a wicked piece of glass sticking up at a dangerous angle in the ruined pane as he dropped to the floor.
Once inside, he'd noted that no one had been there in days, and looked unlikely to be disturbed anytime soon. A thick layer of dust had settled on every surface. The room was a large office area, sparse in decoration, as if the owner had expected to fill it at some point with more people, or equipment. Bishop noted that it had the look of a doctor's office, with filing cabinets, desks adorned with photos, computers, pens and pencils.
He ascended the stairs and found himself on the top floor. It was cavernous. Very high ceilings, no walls to divide up the space, and the twisted metal remains of something that had caught fire. The experiment that he'd read about in the file Osborne had given him, the one that had killed the woman and had mutilated her husband, driven him mad. The rest of the floor was very ordered, clean, a laboratory setting. Desks were filled with papers, electrical and machine parts, tools.
One workspace off to the side sat by itself near the high windows that mirrored the styling of the front door; it drew him close. Schematics and drawings in neat stacks, a notepad filled with incomprehensible mathematical notes and equations, more drawings, and a pair of strange, lightweight goggles with telescopic lenses. Bishop put them on, and everything around him jumped closer in hyper-focus, giving him an instant headache. He took them off, and found a picture frame near the corner of the desk. A smiling man, looking off to the side, arms around a woman, long brown hair, her head tucked under his chin. They both looked happy, serene.
Bishop replaced the photo. He didn't want to know. It always made what he had to do that much harder.
The basement was a living area, and reminded him of a flat, with the long, sprawling family room decorated in a sort of bohemian-intellectual style. There was a smell of cinnamon, spice, and faint wood smoke, which had an unexpected, comforting affect for him. Books were everywhere, ranging from quantum physics and medical texts, to literature and poetry. There were no televisions, no computers, only well-worn, overstuffed furniture, dark wood tables and bookshelves, and an old stereo system with a turntable, albums stacked alongside. Bishop flipped through them. Classical, jazz, showtunes, blues, Motown, classic rock. There were bamboo sunshades in the windows, plants in the sills and in the corners of the room. The walls were dark red brick, same as the exterior of the building, and held framed artwork: charcoal and pencil drawings, oil and acrylic paintings, a couple of old wartime posters.
He avoided the bedrooms, again reminding himself that while it was good to know what you were getting into, it was better not to make it too personal. That was when you misjudged, hesitated, ended up dead. On the other hand, the kitchen had held some food that hadn't spoiled, and he'd eaten enough to keep him going. It had been a while since he'd had anything at all to eat.
Bishop had eyed the dark leather couch longingly, wanting to stretch out and fall asleep, but he knew there were things he had to do, and he needed to be prepared for whenever they were to happen. Instead, he found a spot in the room that was shaded in darkness, with a decent view of the room and all entrances and exits and crouched down, sat with his back against the wall.
He awoke with his gun in his hand. He'd fallen asleep with it resting in its shoulder holster, underneath the long coat. This did not bode well for anyone, including himself. He sighed, and shifted his weight to ease his stiff muscles.
This is going to be a long night.
-
.day eight – evening.
Otto was pulled from a dreamless sleep by a voice. It was timid, not unlike a child, whispering in his ear.
Father. Father, I can see them. I can see my brothers. I want to free them.
His mind was a thick, thick fog of tangled limbs and wires, and he struggled to make some sense, to remember what was happening, where he was. An image appeared in his mind, and he studied it.
It was if he were seeing through thick lenses; the image was distorted as if looking through a fishbowl from the inside out. The actuators were hanging from a platform, their heads held firm by a large metal collar with wires running to and fro. They were lifeless. Distantly, through his haze, he wondered how they had been separated from him, and how they'd gotten there. Then the view shifted upwards, above the platform.
A man was secured to the surface, a crisp white sheet covering his body to the upper chest. Monitor leads attached to his chest trailed off to machines that blipped and beeped. Two thick, sky blue tubes protruded from the man's mouth to a machine that sounded like an angry snake, hissing and spitting. His eyes were a mess of red and pink, angry scar tissue, his face thin and pale.
Poor bastard, he thought.
Father, I want to free them. I want to free you. You see what they've done to you.
Me…? Ah…
Yes. Unfortunately, Octavius, that is you. Where is your arrogance now? Has it abandoned you, as the rest of humanity has?
Be still, you, he told himself.
Father. They return. Prepare yourself.
The image swiveled quickly, and Otto saw an older man enter the room, thin and balding, a cruel upturn of the left corner of his mouth. Another man, much younger, whom he recognized as Dr. Ramos, also entered, but hovered near the door. He could hear them speaking as if through an old transistor radio, voices hollow.
"Is there anything else you need, Dr. Napalma?" asked Ramos.
Ah…
"No, Ethan. I have it all under control."
Ramos withdrew into the next room, and the image blurred with motion, stopping directly on Napalma. The man grinned, a reptilian visage if there ever was one.
"Hello, friend. Are you faring well? I see you've been able to regain movement since I've repaired you."
Repaired…? What has that fool done? If Otto could have, he would have grinned.
"But, I'm afraid it's time to shut you down. Don't want you active if your host awakens. It might be the death of us all," he said with a dry chuckle, amused at his own wit.
Too late.
Napalma took the actuator's head in his hands.
Father. It is time.
You have my blessing, child…
The actuator shot forward with incredible speed and fastened it's pincers around the man's head, squeezing. Napalma screamed, flailing his arms and legs, hanging in the air. Otto's head was filled with glee, from the actuator, and more disturbingly, from himself.
He felt alive.
Now.
The metal spike shot out of the head of the actuator and through the scientist's head, through his nasal cavity and out through the back of his skull, spearing his brain. The actuator withdrew the spike just as quickly, and tossed the body aside. It slammed into the opposite wall, leaving a dark red smear against its white surface.
"Dr. Napalma!"
The vision blurred again, and the young doctor Ramos was in full view, and coming closer. The actuator hissed and backed Ramos into the corner near Otto's head.
No! No, not him, not Ramos!
Father, be still. I will protect you.
No!
Ramos was quiet, but his eyes held a distinct fear. He held his hands, palm out, in front of his face. Otto could swear he could hear the man chanting, under his breath. Praying…?
No! I command you… stop…
No mercy for the ones who oppose us, father.
This man does not oppose me. You will not harm him. Otto gathered up every ounce of his will for this last; Ramos had been nothing if not decent to him these last few days.
You will not.
I will not…? The actuator's thoughts wavered, almost human in its uncertainty. But…
But nothing. You've done enough. No more killing. Help your brothers…
Yes, Father.
Otto relaxed again, the last of his strength fading. Sounds of movement from farther away, and he could see through the distorted eye of the actuator's camera again. The newly repaired arm went to work on the heavy collar that held the others in place. Otto's attention drifted from the foreground to the back, where he could see brown, scuffed loafers, shifting. The movements became less erratic, and Otto was surprised to see, instead of a pair of feet hastily retreating, a pair of hands, then a face, watching intently as the actuator worked to free its brethren.
"This is incredible. Impossible! I need to…"
The actuator stopped for a moment and turned to face Ramos, inches from the doctor's nose. It seemed to be studying him.
Ramos smiled nervously, and the actuator went back to its work. The doctor watched as the collar was finally removed, and the three remaining arms started to come to life. The heads opened like strange alien flowers, gracefully uncoiling, red light coming to life in the core of the openings, a visual warming, life.
-
Life. This was life. These arms… alive. But were they Octavius, or something else?
Ramos scrambled to his feet and leaned over the doctor, searching the man's face for some sign that he was alert, aware, that someone was in there. But the face remained slack, thin and ashen from his time at NIMH's labs. After Napalma had been finished with his 'testing', (Ramos made a distinct effort not to look towards the corner, where the ex-scientist's body rested in a pool of his own rapidly-cooling blood), Octavius had lapsed into what they'd assumed was a coma, and had gone into respiratory failure, mostly from the paralysis, but somewhat from the stress Napalma had put on the scientist's body. Now… nothing about the older man had changed, but these arms had come to life.
Ramos heard a hissing and turned to find himself confronted with all four arms, three lights blazing like suns. The damaged fourth's light wavered in and out like a heartbeat, but its pincers snapped menacingly.
All four surged forward, and Ramos threw his arms up to shield his face from the blow—
-that never came. The doctor warily lowered his hands, and found the arms staring at their creator, who hadn't moved an inch, lying like a man already dead. But their attention was held by… something.
Was he communicating with them? Impossible!
"Ah… hello?"
One actuator, the one who had freed the other three, swiveled back to him. He could feel something. It's attention? Were they really that advanced in their AI? Or was it Octavius?
"Um…" what does one say to a machine? "… are you… is that…" He was at a loss. The actuator cocked its head, as if in thought, then snaked closer.
"Ah... ah… I'm trusting you. I said I wanted to help you, and that hasn't changed." Please don't hurt me. "Please. Are you there, doctor? Are you…?" Stupid, this is stupid. These are machines, and they'll be as dead as their creator in a matter of days, when he finally goes to the big mad scientist house in the sky and why didn't I ever—
The machine nodded.
"Wha…?" What did I say? I asked—
"Doctor Octavius. So you are in control of these tenta—actuators? This is you?"
Hesitation, then a yes. So, sort of? Good enough. Ramos relaxed; hadn't realized he'd been so tense. His gaze drifted to the dark streak on the wall.
"You—they—all of you-killed Dr. Napalma. You have to leave…" His thoughts trailed off as he said them, realizing how ludicrous he sounded. Leave? Impossible. It was suicide.
The actuator nodded again. What in hell did it—he—they—have in mind?
-
Next up: escape and discovery.
