Ramos watched in disbelief as all four smart arms readied themselves and their host to leave. The top right actuator searched the cabinets, while the upper left snapped the thick wires that held the table in place. The lower arms braced themselves against the floor like legs.

"This is not a good idea..." Ramos said, half to himself. He backed up a step from the flurry of activity, and nearly toppled the crash cart behind him. The upper left, finally finished removing the securing cables from the makeshift table, joined the upper right in gathering bits of surgical tools and dressings. One found a manual resuscitator, which was pretty much a large squeeze bulb with a nozzle on the end, and made a strange, high pitched sound that Ramos could only have described as a 'squee', and its partner in destruction made similar positive sounds. Very strange.

The upper left abandoned its raiding spree of the cabinets. It spread its claws wide, and another, more delicate set of pincers appeared. Without realizing it, Ramos stepped forward to see, caught up in his own scientific curiosity, and for a moment forgetting that he was in the room with a dead man, murdered by what currently held him transfixed with interest.

The pincers took hold of the base of the tubes nearest the doctor's mouth, twisted and pulled. Instantly, the machine they were attached to started shrieking.

"What the hell are you doing? You'll kill him!" Ramos jumped, starting for the ventilation tubes that the actuator had tossed aside, and found himself staring into the bright red eye of the other arm. It hissed at him. Stay back.

"But you will… he's paralyzed… can't breathe on his own…" The words died in his mouth as he watched the other arm attach the resuscitator and start to manually, rhythmically squeeze the bulb, effectively serving as a makeshift ventilator.

The arm that had threatened him backed off, gathering up the small array of booty they'd gathered in a green, surgical sheet and gently placing it on Octavius' chest. The lower arms rose fluidly and began to walk to the doors.

At that moment, Ramos made his decision, and once made, did not feel an ounce of regret.

"I'm coming with you."

The only unoccupied smart arm swung around, again fixing him with the unsettling gaze of one blood red eye. It hissed, but Ramos stood his ground, even though he was shaking, and his stomach was doing barrel rolls. "You'll need someone to assist you… I am a medical doctor, I've done surgeries before." Nothing like what he assumed the arms meant to do. "You need someone like me."

The arm examined him a moment, then cocked its head as if in thought. Then it drew back slightly, and faster than Ramos could have countered, it shot forward and struck him on the side of the head.

Everything went black.

Black. No, deeper, more empty than a simple color. An all-encompassing nothing that ate everyone, everything. And it had devoured Otto Octavius.

In this place, he felt nothing. Floated, could see nothing. Memories did not plague him. Thoughts did not hunt him. Blood was not spilled. Life ceased to be.

But this was not truly the case. Otto's mind still clicked along. Perhaps not at the lightning fast rate it was normally moving at, or even half that speed. The bare bones mechanisms still functioned. Fragments of thought sparked, burned, fizzled on the empty plane. He was content for a time with this existence, if only because it was quiet and peaceful, two states he hadn't felt in some time. Not since… not since what?

It doesn't matter.

(not since Rosalie.)

It doesn't matter.

(not since the day—)

Doesn't matter.

(people died, everything shattered)

Does. Not. Matter.

(not since I died. And was replaced by someone else, a monster).

Not.

(yes, it does… She said it does.)

She…

No! Shut up. It doesn't matter.

And for a space of time, it didn't.

There is a life reading in the basement level of the building.

We cannot go inside. It is not safe.

Where else will we go? Where else is more safe?

Where will we find what we need to repair Father?

The silence that filled Otto's mind worried them. Not long after he'd instructed them to keep Ramos from following them (and not really hurt him), he'd slipped deeper inside of himself, down past where they could not follow. This had never happened in their short lives.

Is this what it is like to… what is it that Father calls it? Worry?

I do not know.

Perhaps he is just sleeping.

He dreams when he sleeps. But there have been no dreams.

Where did he go?

Stop. Do we go in or not? One voice tried to direct the others. They needed guidance, and for the first time ever, no one was there to show them the way.

We have to take him somewhere. His core temperature is falling.

This is not acceptable.

We must go somewhere.

The voices ceased for a moment. Then, as one, they made a decision.

We will protect you, Father.

We will make you functional again.

We are going home…

.day nine – early morning.

Ramos drove.

He could have been an amnesia victim, and he would have understood more about his life than right at that moment. There was nothing to guide him, nothing that he'd studied or dealt with that could give him the answers that he wanted. He wanted to understand.

That was why he'd studied the scientific arts, right? Ever since he was a child, he'd been fascinated with the how's and why's of nature. Why the sky is blue, how a plane flies through the air, how to revive once-dead nerves, what happened when we died. His father had been against his wanting to go to college. 'No place in your science for faith. I didn't raise an atheist.' No, you didn't dad. But you didn't raise a fool, either.

Now his father was dead, gone these past six years, and he'd never seen what Ramos had become. He was a success in his career, owned a condo Uptown and a BMW, never worried about where his next meal came from as he had when he was a kid, and always called his mom on Sunday. So why had he been so unhappy?

Clinic work was dull. He'd enjoyed his residency in the ER, two years of blissful hell speeding past. Once he'd finally gained the title of 'doctor' in full, he'd moved to a neighborhood clinic, happy to have a job with regular hours. The sprained ankles and kitchen knife cuts had grown tedious quickly, and he found himself wanting to be back in the insanity of a trauma unit, a busy emergency room, or even a hospital clinic, where cases could be considered out of the ordinary on a regular basis.

Then came the job offer from NIMH, out of the blue. Ramos had always kept his ear to the ground, looking for something either better paying or more interesting; he'd forgotten he'd sent them a resume. They had been looking for doctors in and around the NYC area so that they could open a special research branch there. The salary offered was excessive compared to his current wages, but he had figured it a long shot that he'd get hired. He'd sent a resume anyway.

It had been an interesting experience, albeit somewhat mind numbing. He'd gone from a physician in a clinic to a lab assistant, analyzing routine tests and spinning blood to look for diseases. Ramos was bored, but not unhappy, considering he could finally replace all his threadbare suits and worn clothing, buy a car that didn't break down if you looked at it sideways, and move into a nice condo uptown, closer to work.

Two months prior, he'd been called to the office of one Dr. Ruben Napalma, head of neurological studies. Ramos had not met or spoken to the man before, but had seen him in the halls off and on. Napalma had explained to him that he had been observed closely since he'd come to work for NIMH, and that they were pleased with his work. Would he like to be transferred to his department, where they were doing groundbreaking studies in the area of criminal psychology? Ramos had jumped at the chance. A raise and a promise of more interesting work; the 'promotion' had ended with a handshake, over which he'd been on the receiving end of a strange smile, one which he'd see on Dr. Napalma's face many times over the months to come.

Ramos flipped on the heater, attempting to take the chill from his cold fingertips. Squinting, he tried to make out the street signs in the early morning haze. He'd seen the building before, but where? Seventh Avenue, Sixth Avenue… He stopped at a red light and sighed, his breath fogging the windshield. He turned up the defroster, and held his fingers over the heating vent.

The Criminal Neurology and Mental Health department consisted of Dr. Napalma, Dr. James Stoddard, Dr. Paolo Mendez, and three other lab techs, including himself. Stoddard was a Criminal Psychologist; Ramos had read a few of his articles in college. He was a brilliant man, although some of his theories sounded like something out of A Clockwork Orange. Mendez was a big name in biomechanical prosthesis, designing prototypes for use by amputees and paraplegics. Ramos remembered his book, The Next Human Evolution, being more than a little unsettling. It had been pure hypothesis, but Mendez had talked about man and machine interface on a molecular level. Ramos had been reminded of Mary Shelley's doctor, and the monster he had created, the ramifications of its existence.

He'd never heard of Dr. Napalma. Odd, since it sounded like his colleagues at NIMH held him in very high esteem. Napalma himself claimed he'd worked in various branches of the government most of his life, and had lived in Bethesda, Maryland for many years before NIMH had sent him to open the branch in New York. But that's all he knew.

Ah... Second avenue. Ramos passed the building he had been looking for, a large but squat brick, boarded up building, and parked in a lot a block down the street. He sat, thinking.

This is insane. I have a good job, a nice place to live, and… and…

Nothing else.

Well, there was his mother. But considering the only contact he'd had with her since his father died was on the phone, it wasn't much. No girlfriends or friends to speak of—he'd been so wrapped up in his work that he'd not given much thought to it. It wasn't as if he were unwilling, he was just so damn focused.

Is this focused? Or do I qualify for insanity?

He sighed and rubbed the lump on his forehead tenderly. It hurt like hell, and he'd be lucky if his skull wasn't fractured. But it had been a good excuse for Octavius' disappearance. He'd told the police that he'd come in, and he'd been whacked upside the head. They'd nodded and written it all down, then taken his phone number and address, told him not to leave the city just in case they needed to talk to him again.

Ramos sighed and rubbed his hands together. Now or never. He had to satisfy his curiosity. And if he was right, he had to help. It was the one right thing he'd felt in a long time. He couldn't explain it, but he felt as if his life was going to get exciting again, very soon.

He hoped… he hoped that the actuators would return to the one place they knew.

Home.