Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters are property of Marvel. Lynnea, O'Connell, and Susan are mine.

Author's Notes: Next week are my finals. I plan to spend pretty much all my time between now and next Thursday at 2:30 either studying or taking said exams. If I'm lucky, I'll find the time to eat and sleep between cramming. Don't be surprised if the next chapter is delayed about a week. I wanted to get this chapter, and "Musique," done before I got down to cramming because these two chapters have been occupying my mind, and I wanted to write them now so I wouldn't be distracted by thoughts of them while studying. Once this is over with, summer will begin and I will have free time to do more writing! Woo hoo!

Moonlight Becomes You

Seventeen – Blood to Blood

November 8

Freedom had lost some of its appeal after Otto was forced to cross the city hauling about a hundred pounds of deadweight on three hours of sleep and an empty stomach. And fall weather was starting to settle; even with his trenchcoat he was chilly. Even with the sole functioning actuator holding the strap binding the other three in its pincers to ease the weight, Otto still felt the strain on his spine. I suddenly see how it's so easy to get addicted to painkillers, he thought as he wistfully remembered the half-empty bottle in the medicine cabinet.

Otto had fallen back into the habits he'd developed as one of the dregs of society; keeping to the alleyways, ducking behind dumpsters whenever anyone passed too near him, his head bowed so the fringes of his wavy hair hung in his eyes… There had been no reports of the return of Doctor Octopus, so no one looked twice at Otto, even though he was cleaner and his clothes were in better repair than any bum. Still, this return to the streets almost felt like a returning home. It was all he'd known for the past several months, and after O'Connell's hostile hospitality, it was almost pleasant. There was no one to coerce him into criminal acts, no one to make money off of his ideas… No Rosie… He was right back where he'd started before O'Connell had taken him prisoner.

No. Things were much, much worse.

He touched the ring still on its string around his neck, a motion that was becoming almost automatic. Dead… She's dead… He'd seen her, touched her, and yet… it hadn't been her. It had been… a lie. A corpse puppet, Spider-Man had called her. Something created by a girl Otto had begun to like for the purpose of manipulating him. What kind of person could do such a thing? In a way, she was worse than O'Connell. O'Connell had merely wanted leverage. And he'd been honest in his intentions, not hiding them behind a friendly face. But Lynnea was toying with people's emotions by raising their loved ones for money, and Otto bet something like that didn't come cheap. Which meant the only people who could afford it were people with money – and anyone with that much money who would want the dead raised surely couldn't be honest people.

It made him sick to his stomach. Someone like that was more worthy of the name monster than he was. She deserved to be put down before anyone else was hurt. She deserved it.

The First Ave Mission always looked dreary during the day, without the darkness to hide its peeling paint or the chipped and cracked brick beneath that paint. Otto hesitated before the entrance, wondering if he'd still be welcome. Susan Riley knew who he was now. And if Lynnea was still here, assuming she'd come at all, she could have talked, told everyone where she'd gotten her wounds. Well, if he was still welcome now, he wouldn't be after he finished his task. He steeled himself, then climbed the steps and pushed open the door.

He hadn't been in the habit of visiting the mission during the day, preferring to hide his shame of his station in life under the cover of night. As a result, most of the volunteers manning the soup kitchen were unfamiliar to him, though he had seen some of them before. One of them, a relatively new recruit named Veronica who normally worked with Susan, looked up at his entrance and smiled. Otto just nodded and scanned the full benches, searching for Lynnea. The dark-haired girl wasn't in evidence, so he went over to Veronica.

"You're earlier than usual," she commented. "Susan doesn't come in for another hour. Are you hungry?"

Starving, Otto thought, but it didn't feel right to take food from these people and then murder someone on their premises. Nice way to repay their hospitality. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. I think there was a girl brought here a few days ago with a bullet wound."

Veronica tensed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly.

"I don't want to hurt her," Otto said quickly. "I saved her life. I… I just want to know if she's okay. There are people after her."

The First Ave Mission was predominately a place where the homeless came to be fed and occasionally to find a warm place to sleep, but it had served other purposes. At least once while Otto had been frequenting the mission, they had also provided a safe haven for a young woman hiding from her abusive boyfriend. Susan had implied that they had protected others before her, which was one of the reasons Otto had thought to send Lynnea here. Veronica's evasion of his question was part of this protection.

"Is that how you got hurt?" Veronica asked, eying his bandaged hands and the left arm still in a sling to keep the muscle immobile.

"The same people are responsible, yes," Otto said. It wasn't quite a lie.

"She's in the back room," Veronica said. Otto was surprised he'd gotten the truth so easily, then realized, why suspect a homeless man who couldn't even afford a gun?

"Thank you." Otto knew where the back room was. It was where boxes of donations were stored until they were used; it was the only room in the mission where someone could be kept separate from the rest of the goings on.

Otto slipped silently inside, pausing to let the actuator set its siblings on the floor before it slipped through the hole in his coat. The metal scraping on the floor as he threaded through the maze of boxes of canned goods and threadbare clothing was the only sound as he made his way towards the back.

It was enough to alert Lynnea of his presence. She stepped around a stack of boxes and froze when she saw him. "Dr. Octavius?" she said, her body tensing for flight. They were the only words she got out before the actuator shot forward, wrapping its pincers around her throat. And this time, he wasn't going to stop until she was dead. He kept them loose enough that she could talk, but her breath was coming in weezing gasps. "You gave my wife to O'Connell," Otto growled, and he saw Lynnea's eyes widen as she realized he wasn't here at O'Connell's orders. "I don't know how you did it, but you brought her back to life so she could be tortured!" The actuator began to squeeze at his command. "Why would you do something like that? Do you enjoy causing people pain!"

"I… needed… the money!" she gasped out.

"The root of all evil," Otto said coldly. "No amount of money could justify this. I think you're just sick."

"I… have bills… student loans… house… payments…"

Otto just couldn't find it within himself to be sympathetic. "Most people can pay those with normal jobs," he said harshly. The actuator tightened even more.

"Sick…" Lynnea gasped out. "My… daughter… sick…"

Daughter? Otto couldn't imagine this psychopath with a child. "I don't believe you," he said.

"Can… prove it… Please…"

Otto considered. He could snap her neck right now and end it all… but if she was telling the truth… He ordered the actuator to release her, and she fell to the floor, gasping. "Prove it," Otto said, his tone dangerous. Lynnea started to shuffle across the floor towards her duffle bag. Otto stepped between her and her goal. "Nuh-uh. I know you carry a weapon. What are you looking for?"

She didn't look up. "In the bottom… there's something…"

The duffle was sitting on the cot she'd been given. Otto sat next to it, pulling the duffel onto his lap and sorting through the contents. He felt a little embarrassed to be handling her undergarments, but the proof he sought was beneath them. It was a framed photograph of Lynnea, holding a little girl in her arms. There was no doubt of their relation; they had the same face, the same sleek black hair. Only the girl's striking blue eyes were a contrast to Lynnea's dark brown.

Lynnea pulled herself onto the cot beside Otto. "Her name is Lenore," she said, her voice strengthening as she found her breath. "Yes, I read Poe," she added before he could ask. "It seemed appropriate." She gave him a weak smile as she took the photo from him.

"She's sick?" Otto prodded.

"She has cancer," Lynnea said softly. "It's treatable, and she's currently in a clinic undergoing therapy. Only… the treatment is expensive. It could end up costing half a million dollars, all of it coming out of my own wallet. I don't know if O'Connell has told you anything about my past, but no insurance company in the world will touch me, not even to help a little girl."

"What about her father? Won't he help?" This was the part that had Otto curious; Lynnea's aversion to being touched by men made it difficult to believe she would have a child.

"He… can't even help himself," Lynnea said, and something about her tone implied he'd better not say anything more on the subject. And I thought my life was a mess. "Most people don't make half a million dollars, and with a criminal record, I'd never be hired into one of the few jobs where I could make that kind of money. Hell, I don't think McDonalds would even hire me. So I was forced to use my talents to make the money I needed. Most of the people who can afford me are unscrupulous bastards. I've learned to look the other way."

She seemed genuinely distraught, and Otto had to fight back the urge to put his arm around her. His urge to kill her had faded, though he was still upset with her. Otto looked down at the photo Lynnea held tightly in her arms. "How old is she?" he asked.

"She's six now. This was taken when she was four, before she got sick. She's thinner now, and the therapy caused her to lose most of her hair…" There was a soft mrrr sound, and Bat jumped up onto the cot between them. He began to rub his head against his mistress's left shoulder, far from the bullet wound.

The cat's presence seemed to help pull Lynnea from her depression. "What are you doing here? I get the feeling you're not here on O'Connell's orders."

"I escaped this morning," Otto said. "No easy feat, with these." He showed her the three actuators with their inhibiting collars. "I repaired this one, but I don't want to touch the cuffs until I know there isn't some explosive in them. I don't think there is, actually, or O'Connell would have triggered it during my escape, but I need to be careful nonetheless."

"So, you're free. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going back to Quest," Otto said.

XXX

"You're insane." It probably wasn't the best thing to say to a man who had just tried to kill her, but the words slipped out before Lynnea could stop them. "You just escaped; why the hell would you want to go back!" She had begun to dig through her duffel to find a scarf to hide the newly acquired bruises ringing her throat like a choker, but his declaration made her pause. "Revenge is a fine thing, but you'll be seriously outnumbered and outgunned." Why did she even care? Was it because he was the first person she'd seen who was suffering because of her actions? Why did he make her feel so damned guilty?

"You wouldn't be the first to say so." Octavius's tone was deceptively mild. "However, O'Connell's company is going to get rich using my theories, my inventions. He used me to destroy his competition, seriously injuring me in the process. And he has my wife. I can't leave her in his hands, no matter what she is."

Aware that she could set him off again at any moment, Lynnea said carefully, "She isn't your wife anymore. The thoughts, the memories, the soul that made her who she was are gone. She's just a shell."

"A puppet," Octavius said flatly.

"A corpse puppet, yes. She knows only what her controller tells her, does only what she is commanded." Callous, but it was the truth. A corpse puppet was no longer a person, or so Lynnea had been taught.

"If she's so… so empty, why did she fear me when she saw me? Why did she scream when O'Connell mutilated her? I saw the fear in her eyes, the pain. There's something there, even if she's not the Rosie I remember."

Mutilated? Lynnea had felt a twinge through her tie to the puppet, something that she recognized as a response to pain, but she had no way of knowing just what had been done to the puppet. If O'Connell had harmed her in front of Dr. Octavius, that explained why the scientist had suddenly found the will to do what he hadn't been able to before and try to kill Lynnea. Octavius waited impatiently for an answer, and Lynnea swallowed. Nothing she could say would make him feel better about this. "Strong emotions seem to linger on after death. Have you ever heard ghost stories about haunted houses having an aura of fear, or pain, or hate?"

"I've never paid much attention to the supernatural. I wouldn't even believe this if Rosie hadn't died in my arms when the sunlight hit her."

No wonder he was listening to her as if he actually believed her. Scientists were normally skeptical of her abilities, or of the supernatural in general. "Well, no good emotions like happiness or love ever linger inside the puppet. They're… very effective tools of manipulation because of this."

"I can well imagine," Octavius said, his voice carefully neutrally. Lynnea refused to let his anger shake her. She was doing this for Lenore.

"The point is, she isn't your wife anymore. Even if you took her away from O'Connell, she would be tied to him, and she would go back to him. I… I'm sorry." The apology came hard; and she realized it was the first time she'd ever said she was sorry to a man.

"Maybe she's not my Rosie, but I can't leave her in O'Connell's care. You… created her; can't you remove her from O'Connell's control?"

"It doesn't work like that," Lynnea sighed regretfully. There were instances where it would have been easier if she could just wrest control of the puppet from the controller. "There is a bond of blood between them. My blood to give her life, his blood to guide that life. Blood to blood, to make hers flow…" she stopped herself before she could completely quote the spell. "To sever that link, you'd have to either kill O'Connell or destroy her. Killing the controller will leave her directionless, and she'd become even less animate than she is now. Destroying her body would be the best bet. Severing her head from her heart or burning her body would work best. That's usually what my clients do when they're finished with the puppets."

The doctor's face was white. "Destroy her?" His voice was strained. "She'd feel it, wouldn't she? She'd feel it if you burned her alive!" His hands were shaking, and Lynnea scooted away as far as she could from him while still staying on the cot. No sudden moves… She had the feeling that if she ran, he'd strike before he realized what he was doing.

"There's another option," Lynnea said quickly. Octavius's white face turned towards her. "It's not something I do for clients… I can lay her to rest. I can take back what I gave to her, then put her back in the grave. It would be completely painless for her, though it's a strain on me. To do that, though, the controller would have to either give her up willingly – and I can't see O'Connell doing that – or he would have to die." She didn't think that would be any problem for the scientist.

Octavius appeared to be considering this. "'Put her back in the grave,'" he repeated softly. The anguish in his voice was evident. "She really is dead." She saw his hand reach up and stroke something at his throat. His eyes closed, and his shoulders slumped. She worried for a moment that he was going to cry, but his eyes remained dry. "Yes," he said, sighing. "Lay her to rest. I'd rather she be truly dead than in O'Connell's control. Will… will you do it?"

"I don't see that I have a choice," she sighed. "If I don't, you'd probably kill me."

He didn't refute this. He didn't say anything for several moments, then said, "Are you using the cot?" he asked.

"No, why?"

Octavius threw himself sideways across the cot. "Because if you're not, then I am." She stared at him with disbelief for several moments, until he began to snore. Her traitorous cat slunk across the bed and curled up beside his face, purring madly.

Lynnea spent several moments watching this man sleeping on her bed, which she oddly didn't mind. I get the feeling that things are going to get interesting, she thought. She sighed in frustration. At this rate, she'd never get out of this accursed city and back to her daughter.

XXX

Bone ground against bone, and Peter nearly cried out. The pain was getting worse, not better. He'd hoped, a futile hope, that his powers would magically heal his wrists over night, but instead things seemed to have gotten worse. The bloody webbing still oozed from his wrists, and his hands felt nerveless, unresponsive. Being Spider-Man was out. There was no way whatsoever he could fight crime, or even cross the city via his normal mode of transport. He couldn't even properly wall crawl.

MJ was right. He needed real medical help, and he needed it right away.

Peter groaned. Why couldn't real life be like the comics, where the hero could either instantly heal overnight or had someone he/she trusted to tend to any wounds? MJ did her best, but she had no training beyond what they'd learned of first aid in high school. Peter paced the living room of his girlfriend's apartment, careful to do nothing to jostle his wounds. What could he do? Before Mary Jane had left for the day, she'd begged him to reconsider his decision not to seek a doctor. He'd lied through his teeth and told her that he felt better already. She hadn't believed him.

His pacing became more erratic as his thought cast about for something to help him. The hospital was out. Aunt May couldn't do anything. Dr. Curt Connors had been a surgeon – but with his right arm gone, he wouldn't appreciate Spider-Man dropping in asking for help. He could drop in on a private practice, but he didn't have the money, and Spider-Man had neither a credit card nor insurance.

Peter wanted to throw himself onto the couch and rest his face in his hands, but that would only hurt him further. There had to be someone!

When the answer came to him, he stopped short. When he'd taken that woman, Lynnea, to the First Ave Mission, there had been a volunteer who had checked to see if their flight through the city had injured Lynnea's wounded shoulder. The volunteer, who'd introduced herself as Susan, had said she'd had some experience as a paramedic and that, while she was no surgeon, she had some experience with wounds. She'd also been the only volunteer who hadn't been either awed or frightened by Spider-Man's presence in their midst. If he went, as Spider-Man, could she help him? Would she?

It was worth a shot. And it was better than sitting around trying to heal just by sheer force of will.

Peter pulled on his costume slowly, painfully, then redressed in the T-shirt and jeans MJ had brought for him. He pulled on a light jacket, then wadded up his Spider-Man mask and stuffed it in his pocket.

He caught a bus, creating a scene as putting his dollar into the slot took more coordination than his unresponsive fingers could handle, then fell into an empty seat.

Two more buses later, Peter walked down the street towards the mission. He ducked down an alley, stripped down to his costume and pulled his mask over his face. Normally, he'd web his clothing to a convenient wall, but now he was forced to stuff it under a dumpster. Then, ignoring the looks and the whispers his presence garnered, he went up the steps and entered the mission.

All voices cut off abruptly as he entered. The homeless who had come for an afternoon meal all glanced up, then went back to eating their soup. Clearly they weren't impressed by someone who ran around the city in tights saving people who had jobs and money… Spider-Man wondered where that thought had come from. Did he feel guilty for not being there for every vagrant who'd ever been in trouble?

"Is Susan here?" he asked. He couldn't quite hide the strain in his voice.

"She just got here," a male volunteer said. "She's in the break room. Did… did she do something wrong?"

Spider-Man shook his head. "I just need to speak to her. She's back there?"

"Yes, but…" Spider-Man pushed past the volunteer, who finished, "only volunteers are allowed back there."

Susan wasn't the most beautiful of women; she was in her early thirties, with plain, thin features and auburn hair in tight curls that would have been 'cute' when she was a little girl but were a nuisance to an adult who didn't have time or patience to comb the tangles out of those locks. But there was an honesty to her that was rarely seen. She genuinely cared about what she was doing.

Though, at the sight of him, she didn't look as if she cared to see him. "Oh," she said uncertainly. "Are you here to check on Lynnea?"

Spider-Man had almost forgotten about the young woman. "Oh, uh, is she all right?"

"She's fine." Susan brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "She's anxious to leave, though. Is there still trouble?"

Spider-Man had no idea. "There is for me," he said helplessly. He held up his wrists. "You said you were a paramedic?" His voice was desperate.

Her eyes widened. Blood had soaked through the bandages and the costume itself, and Susan carefully peeled the sleeve away to expose MJ's makeshift bandages. She unwound it, then gasped at what she saw. "This isn't normal! What's wrong with your… uh…"

"Web shooters," Spider-Man supplied.

"Right…" she said weakly. She examined the bruised, swollen flesh, with bone pressed up against the skin. "Your wrists are shattered. There's nothing I can do about this – you need pins to hold everything in place. You need a doctor."

"No hospital," Spider-Man said sharply.

Susan looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. No one seems to want to go to the hospital lately," she said dryly.

"I heal fast," Spider-Man said. "I just don't want it to hurt so much while it heals."

"And you'll want the bones to heal straight, too," she said. "I might be able to push the bones into place and then stabilize them, but I won't lie; it'll be crude, at best, and it'll hurt like hell." She produced a first aid kit, popped the lid, then frowned. "There's nothing in here I can use to stabilize the breaks. That ruler is too small to really help. There might be something in the store room that I can use," she said thoughtfully. "You'd be amazed what people will donate." She was about to leave to go check, but then turned back. "I think Lynnea's in the store room. Do you want to say hi?"

Spider-Man wasn't sure how he felt about the woman and the way she used her 'abilities,' but he did hope that she was all right. He followed Susan to the back, through a complex maze of boxes filled with everything from clothing, cans of food, and even totally useless items like a broken Nintendo.

"I think I saw a broken coat rack back here; I should be able to use the pieces…" She trailed off as they rounded the boxes to come upon a shocking sight: Dr. Otto Octavius, crashed out on the cot, actuators splayed around him, with a cat sleeping soundly on his face.

To Be Continued…

Heh, that was a good guess about where Peter would find help, Monkey Queen!

I was a little wary about Lynnea's back story. Initially, when I created her, she was going to be a very minor character who reanimated just because she was greedy. But then I started to develop her, and to actually like her, and I realized I didn't want her to be like that, especially since I already O'Connell as a money-hungry, evil character. And then I couldn't decide if I wanted Lenore to be Lynnea's sister, or her daughter. Having her as a daughter seemed more twisted, considering Lynnea's past… but how many OCs do you see who have children?