Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters are property of Marvel. Phantom of the Opera themes are property of LeRoux. No profit is being made from their use.

Author's Note: Not the best of chapters, but it accomplishes what it was supposed to. Things should be picking up after this. I think. I hope. Yeah.

Musique de la Nuit

Four – Truth

The storm had abated overnight, but there was still the strong scent of ozone in the air, a clean scent amidst the normal choking miasma that made up New York's atmosphere. The sky was overcast, but there was still enough light to read by, and Rosie had laid out a towel on her favorite patio chair. She was waiting for Eve's return before she continued on her search for the truth about Otto; there was just too much for one person to look through alone. She was deeply engrossed in her book when the soft sound of the clearing of a throat drew her attention. The housekeeper was standing over her, a manila envelope in her hand. "This just arrived for you," she said, sounding puzzled.

It was too early for the mail. "From who?" Rosie asked. She took the envelope, noting that her first name and her brother's address were printed on the side, but nothing else. But then, if it had just been hand-delivered, there wouldn't be a return address. Stranger still, there was a slightly wilted red rose tied by a delicate ribbon to the envelope.

"He said he was from the Bugle," the housekeeper said. "Said something about a book?" She shrugged. "Since I'm out here, can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Rosie was still uncomfortable with being waited on, even knowing that the housekeeper made more money than Rosie had as a teaching assistant. The woman nodded and left Rosie alone. As soon as she was gone, Rosie examined the envelope carefully. The Bugle? Why would they send her something? Why would they deliver it personally, rather than send it through the mail?

She ripped open the end, shaking it so the contents slid out. There were several folded Bugle articles, neatly paper-clipped together. Rosie tugged the top one free and unfolded. Her brow furrowed as she read the red-and-black headline: DOC OCK'S REIGN OF TERROR OVER? There was a photo of an abandoned pier, ending in a twisted wood-and-metal ruin that looked as if it had been ground zero in a bombing. The accompanying article was a rambling collection of rumors about someone called 'Doctor Octopus,' or 'Doc Ock,' who had apparently tried to destroy the city, with or without the help of Spider-Man – the article seemed to imply that either could be true.

Doctor Octopus? Who comes up with these names? She smiled wryly. She went to the next article, which she noticed was also about this Doc Ock. This one was about an encounter atop a train between Doc Ock and Spider-Man, which led to a desperate attempt to stop the runaway train. There was a blurry photo taken from the camera from the train's missed stop of Spider-Man and a dark shape that looked only vaguely human. Rosie tried to figure out what it was, but it hadn't photographed well. It reminded her of those so-called photos of Bigfoot that pop up once in awhile, and she wondered if this Doctor Octopus were some sort of hoax to sell papers.

If so, it was a poor one. And that didn't explain why the articles had been sent to her. Maybe someone knew she needed something amusing to cheer her up and had them sent; Eve, maybe. She wouldn't put it past the girl… She opened the next article, and all thoughts of who had sent her the articles vanished as the world seemed to drop out from under her.

'DOC OCK' STILL AT LARGE: POLICE EXPAND MANHUNT, the article declared. Unlike the previous articles, this one wasn't accompanied by a blurry photo of something that could have been human; instead, there was an artist's conception of a bare-chested man surrounded by four serpentine shapes with jagged, three-pincered maws. It was only a drawing, but she knew that face…

"It can't be," she whispered. But what else could it be? The nightmarish serpents of metal and circuitry could only be the actuators her husband had built to assist him with the fusion reaction. With trembling fingers, she sorted through the articles. Information was scarce, but there was an article about a bank robbery (supposedly with Spider-Man's aid) in which he got away with the stolen money. Please… please let me find that someone else was using the actuators to commit these crimes! Please, please don't let Otto have anything to do with this…

Then she opened the last article. It was the oldest of the bunch, dated the evening after the accident, and rather than using the Bugle's nickname, it called Otto by name. It included photos of a hospital surgery, with chalked lines where bodies had been removed from the scene. Glass and surgical instruments were scattered across the floor, and there were dark stains, black in the colorless photos, but her imagination painted them a vivid scarlet… The article briefly recapped the accident, mentioning a death – hers – and the fate of her husband. Otto hadn't died, as everyone had said, he'd lived, and the actuators had been fused to his spine! And when he'd been taken to the hospital for their removal, he'd attacked and killed the seven doctors who had only been trying to help him.

A sob rose in her throat. Otto! she wanted to wail. It couldn't be true! This wasn't her husband! Not sweet, gentle Otto!

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at the article in her hand, but it must have been for quite some time because it was Eve who pierced her stupor. "Aunt Rosie? Is everything all right?" the girl asked, taking a seat next to her aunt. She peered into her aunt's face. "What happened?" she asked, alarmed. Rosie couldn't speak past the lump in her throat. Her gaze fell on the stack of articles in her lap, and Eve snatched the one about the bank robbery.

"Doc Ock?" she asked. "Why are you reading about him?"

"What do you know about him?" Rosie asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Eve's brows knitted. "Not much – Dad doesn't approve of the Bugle, and I don't really watch the news," she admitted. "He was supposed to be some mad scientist who terrorized the city and nearly destroyed it, I guess, though we were far enough away that we didn't feel the effects. I wouldn't believe anything they report in the Bugle – I mean, they said he had tentacles, for God's sake!"

Silently, Rosie handed her niece the article with the artist's drawing. Eve examined it, frowning. "What – " she began, and then Rosie gave her the accident report.

All the color left her niece's face as she skimmed the article. She glanced at the artist's conception, then looked up at Rosie. "This… this was Uncle Otto?" she asked, dumbstruck. "Oh my God…"

"This is why Michael let everyone believe I was dead; he was trying to protect me from Otto," Rosie said, sickened. She didn't want to think that Otto would ever harm her, but before now, she would never have believed Otto would rob a bank… or kill… "The accident must have driven him mad," she whispered.

Eve placed her hand on her aunt's shoulder and patted it awkwardly. She clearly had no idea how to comfort her aunt. And, really, what could she say? This wasn't something that could be dispelled by a few words. This was a horror that would stay with her for a long time to come.

XXX

The transition of day to night was barely perceptible in the gloom, but the half-hidden sun had plunged below the city's skyline by the time Otto dared leave his home. It had taken him that long to persuade himself to leave the safety of his stone-and-glass sanctuary, even to traverse the short distance to the mailbox on the corner. He was just glad that he had the postage he needed still sitting in the bottom of his desk drawer; he didn't think he could handle the post office.

He didn't want to do this at all, really. When he'd called up the Bugle offices that morning, asking them to send as many Doctor Octopus articles to Rosie as they could, the person he'd spoken to had been reluctant. Otto had told them a story about being an author doing research on Dr. Octavius for a book, and had been forced to offer a hefty sum of money to persuade the person on the other end of the line to agree to gather the articles and send someone to take the articles to her – who was supposedly his secretary - directly. On a whim, he'd also asked for the courier to pick up a rose from the florist to give to her as well, though he'd regretted that as soon as he hung up the phone. She was going to discover that her husband was a monster; she didn't need to get flowers from a mysterious source!

And now he needed to ensure that payment got to the Bugle so they wouldn't track down Rosie and question her. He'd stuffed several bills – the last of his remaining cash – in an envelope, and addressed it to the Bugle offices. It was time to venture back out into the strange, terrifying outside world.

So he donned his ski mask and coat, and, makeshift cane in hand, he took a deep breath and readied himself for another journey. He left through the back door again, not wanting to be seen entering and exiting. He wanted to encourage the abandoned look of the building – so long as it was paid for, no one would enter. The mail box was towards the front, on the street corner, and Otto followed the line of the building to the street that ran in front of the main door.

Everything was going well, better than his first foray outside the lab's protective walls. Maybe I can get used to this, after all. The street was fairly quiet compared to normal New York traffic, being out of the way. It had been a main selling point when Otto and Rosie had searched for somewhere that could be both their home and somewhere he could work from. Foot traffic was light; people instinctively skirted the lab building, as though it was haunted. Otto wondered if, years from now, there would be tales of the ghost of Doctor Octopus haunting the laboratory. Lips twisted into the ghost of a smile; they'd be half right, Otto thought.

Wood clanged against metal, and Otto groped around for the slot in the mail box. He found it and slipped the letter inside, then turned to go.

And that was when things went wrong. He put his foot down on the curb and, unprepared for the open space under his heel, he stumbled backward, into the street – and in front of an oncoming vehicle. There was a scream of tires as the driver braked, but the vehicle didn't stop in time. It caught Otto in the back, where the actuators absorbed the blow. He wasn't hurt, but it was enough to send him sprawling, and his head smacked against the pavement. Unconsciousness threatened to claim him, but he clung to wakefulness through sheer force of will. If he were to lose consciousness, his grip on the actuators would slip and they'd attack the driver that had dared to hurt their host – and anyone else who got in their way.

"Someone call an ambulance!" He could hear the sounds of a crowd gathering around him, murmurs of concern mixed with the angry yells of what must have been the driver. "Damned fool stepped right out in front of me!"

"Hey, are you all right? Help is on the way!" a voice said from close by.

No… He couldn't go to the hospital! He groaned and tried to get up, but his limbs weren't obeying his commands. His actuators were tensed, ready to assist as soon as he gave the order. But he wouldn't, couldn't, unleash them.

"He fell pretty hard. Do you think he might have a concussion?"

"He's bleeding… Hang on, buddy, I have some first aid training." And, before Otto could react, the ski mask was pulled off his head.

"Holy…" someone breathed. There were gasps from some of the assembled, and a woman shrieked as his face was revealed. Otto pushed himself to his feet, fighting down a wave of dizziness that threatened to pitch him sideways. He plunged forward, through the crowd, not knowing where he was going but not caring. He had to get out of there before the ambulance came… He kept his left hand over his face, his right extended. The cane had been lost in the fall, and he wasn't going to look for it. He charged forward, dimly aware from the blaring of car horns that he'd crossed the road and was moving away from his lab, but he didn't care. He slammed into the face of a building, turned, and followed it until he found a gap that proved to be the entrance of an alley. And, before anyone could see where he had gone, he finally freed the actuators, permitting them to scale the side of the five-storey building and depositing him on the rooftop. Otto fell to his knees, oblivious of the puddles of water that immediately soaked his pants.

His head throbbed, but gentle probing revealed only a slight swelling on his temple, with broken skin. Well, it couldn't make him any uglier than he already was, anyway. Otto bit his lip; he hadn't expected to make a woman scream.

That was close. Otto pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his face on his arms. The actuators had withdrawn back into his coat as soon as he was safe, but one of them pushed its way through the front of his coat and nudged him. Otto brushed his fingers along the corroded metal. I can't do this… I can't! He wasn't going to go out any more, not until it was so late/early that there was no one on the streets. And when he did – it was inevitable, since he would need food and money - he had to keep his face covered… He'd lost the ski mask, and he didn't have anything else, yet. He'd find something else, something that would warn off anyone who did happen to see him. But, most of all, he needed to become invisible, a shadow… a phantom.

To Be Continued…