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

Author's Note: This is that alternate ending to Moonlight Becomes You that I came up with first as a joke, then as a (strange) way to deal with my dog's death. And then I was goaded into writing this. I have no clue how long it's going to be; hopefully, not as long as MBY was, since I have other projects in the works. Don't hate me for this. If you choose not to read this, I won't be hurt. If anyone is wondering, it branches off after chapter sixteen of MBY. Oh, and there's an ER scene in here where I describe Otto's wounds, and while I don't go into detail, it isn't pretty.

Death Becomes You

One – Beyond

The sweet scent of flowers filled his nostrils, and he breathed deeply of their heady perfume. He opened his eyes, and his vision was filled with an explosion of color: sunny yellow, tiger-striped orange, violet shading to blue, deep vermilion… He reached out, stroking the velvety petals of an indigo blossom so large its stalk drooped under its weight, so it hung suspended at eye level. It was symmetrically perfect, each petal exactly resembling the other, spaced evenly apart. Something told him such perfection was impossible in nature, and that such a profusion of different species of flower in one place shouldn't exist. The thought fled as soon as it had come; the wonder of this place seemed to banish all questions, all doubts. He just accepted it for what it was.

Above him, the sky was a clear, flawless blue, without a trace of clouds. Even the sun wasn't evident, though he could feel its warmth on his skin. He rolled onto his back, arms behind his head, and stared up at the sky. It occurred to him that he should wonder how he had come to be lying in a field of flowers, without a care in the world, but that thought, too, quickly passed. There was no urgent need for him to be anywhere, so he decided to just enjoy the tranquility.

He had the feeling that he had a long time to explore his surroundings; why rush?

But gradually, the urge to look around came to him. Slowly, he got to his feet, careful not to accidentally trample any of the flowers underfoot. He needn't have worried; it was almost as if they had moved out of his way, though he hadn't seen any proof of this. Around him was a seemingly endless field of flowers, all in bloom, packed so thickly that nothing larger than a rabbit could pass through, yet the close quarters didn't seem to inhibit the growth of any of the flora. It seemed there was no competition in nature here, as if all the plants lived in harmony. He turned around slowly, taking in the vast field. The only clearing he could see in this thigh-high chromatic jungle was the one he had lain in.

Correction; when he turned around, there was a pathway through the field that he would have sworn hadn't been there before. There didn't seem to be anywhere else to go, so he took the path that had opened so invitingly before him. With every step, he heard a curious rustling sound. He glanced back once, and thought at first that, despite all the steps he'd taken, he hadn't made any progress at all. Then he realized the path was closing behind him, leaving no sign it had ever existed.

The path wound onward, with seemingly no end in sight. Which was why it came as a shock when he heard sand crunch under his feet, and realized the field of flowers came to an abrupt end on a white sand beach. How had he not seen the flawless turquoise ocean extending to the horizon? How had he missed the magnificent trees, tall white-barked palms with leaves so long that they brushed the ground, reminiscent of willows? There were no waves, despite the cool breeze that tugged at his hair and the flowing white outfit he wore, and the wind didn't carry the scent of salt that should have been part of the beach setting.

One thick-trunked tree was bent horizontally, curving out over the water. It seemed to beckon to him, and he crossed the expanse of sand – mercifully cool under his bare feet, despite the day's warmth – and he climbed the trunk's curve. It was easier than he'd expected; the bark was smooth, but it was almost as though the surface was adhesive, and he didn't so much as slip as he rounded the curve and began to carefully pull himself along the trunk.

Below him, the water was so clear he could see to the bottom. He stopped midway along the trunk, laying flat along it so he could stare downward. The water was deeper than he would have suspected – but he found he was no longer surprised by the impossibilities he was faced with, here, – and teeming with life. Multi-colored fish swam around an extensive coral reef that stopped just below the surface. Sea urchins and eels and creatures that looked like delicately spun seaweed swam amongst the coral city, oblivious of the fact that many of them should be foes.

A dark shape caught his eye, and he scooted a little further forward up the trunk, until he was directly beneath the crown of the tree. There, where the leaves hung into the water, was a sinuous, multi-limbed shape hugging the sandy ocean floor. He leaned closer, seeing two golden eyes with their hourglass-shaped pupils and a sleek green-and-gold body with eight writhing limbs. Two of them were thrust forward, feeling the way ahead, while the other six moved the octopus along.

Watching the tentacles, he had a peculiar feeling. What was it about the octopus that nagged at his consciousness? He shook his head, clearing it of the strange line of thought that had threatened to intrude upon his tranquility. He was certain it was nothing that concerned him. Just a passing fancy.

He continued to watch the octopus as it continued its slow advance, fascinated with the movement of tentacles. A smile tugged at his lips as he wondered what it would be like to have that many arms.

His daydreams were interrupted by a gentle voice coming from somewhere behind him. He thought he was imagining things at first; this was the first sign of human life besides himself. He turned and was surprised to see a woman standing in the shade of one of the palm-willows, the wind tugging at her white dress and long hair. There was something familiar about her, something that made his heart beat faster.

The woman held her arms out towards him and said in a whisper that was carried on the wind, "Otto…"

XXX

The break room of the First Ave Mission was cozy – a polite term for painfully small – but Lynnea found herself spending more time there than in the back room where she'd been stashed. Surrounded by the broken, worthless, forgotten junk that had been donated to the needy made her uncomfortable; her immobilized right arm, her current status of being under the protection of the Mission – a role which required her to basically sit around and do nothing – and the way most of the volunteers ignored her made her feel like a piece of that donated junk. She wasn't one of the homeless. She wasn't one of the volunteers. In their eyes, she didn't belong.

Which was how Lynnea found herself in the cramped break room, despondently picking at the cold pizza she'd taken from the fridge. She didn't dare use the microwave; the battered appliance looked as if it had been salvaged from the junk heap in the back room, and when in use it threw off showers of bright sparks. Lynnea supposed she shouldn't complain. After all, she had food, real food. As long as she was willing to pay for it, the volunteers would buy her takeout, rather than force her to eat soup every day. Their only stipulation was that she eat it out of sight of the homeless that frequented the mission.

There was a television in the room as well, its screen only twelve-inches, but at least it looked like it had been made within the last decade. The reception was poor, and it was usually turned to soap operas, but at least it was an outlet to the outside world.

At the moment, it was too early for soaps and Lynnea watched the news, intrigued by just how different it was from the small-town local news she was accustomed to. Anything that would have been newsworthy at home was regarded as a common occurrence and completely ignored.

Her interest waned as it shifted to financial news, and she resumed picking listlessly at the limp pizza on the plate before her. Bat jumped up onto the table, and she set a rock-hard nodule that must have been sausage in front of him. He tasted it, flattened his ears when it proved inedible, then began a lively game of bat-the-sausage-across-the-table. Lynnea wished she could be so easily amused.

And then her attention was drawn back to the TV when she heard a familiar name: Quest Aerospace. The financial news had been interrupted by a breaking story; something was unfolding at Quest. Lynnea's hackles rose as she watched, waiting for the reporters to cease speculating and actually come out and say what was happening – or had happened. From what they were saying, however, it seemed the building had been attacked, though the news anchors couldn't say by whom. A chill went down Lynnea's spine; what – or who – could attack a building? She had the feeling that she knew… She leaned forward to turn up the volume and watched, her nose mere inches from the screen, the slice of pizza still in her hand forgotten.

"-it had now been confirmed; several eye witnesses reported seeing the infamous criminal Doctor Octopus climbing the side of the Quest building seen behind me. The Quest security forces fended off the attack, and the doctor dove on to a departing delivery truck, making his getaway." Lynnea found herself grinning from ear to ear; Dr. Octavius was free! This was going to stick in O'Connell's craw… She savored the mental image of O'Connell's frustration at losing his valuable toy.

The newswoman turned to accept a card from someone standing off to the side, presumably a more up-to-date report. She scanned through it quickly, then focused her attention back on the camera. "I've just received word that the medics were seen carting away a peculiarly-shaped bundle; police have just confirmed that Doctor Octopus was wounded in the shootout and is in critical condition."

The pizza fell with a splat from Lynnea's fingers. Oh, no… She continued to watch, but the anchors had nothing more to report. She turned the volume down when they announced that O'Connell was going to make a statement; she didn't want to listen to that man. She turned away, focusing on the black shape of Bat, who was staring with rapt attention at the television.

Dr. Octavius hadn't been a friend of hers; hell, he'd tried to kill her. And yet… he did save her life, rather than carry out O'Connell's instructions to eliminate her – and she knew he'd paid for the mistake when she'd felt the pain of the corpse puppet through their tenuous bond. He'd also been friendlier than she'd expected; as the only person at Quest who hadn't threatened him or his wife, he'd turned to her for companionship. She'd thought it was pathetic at the time, until she'd read up on him and his accident, and realized the depths of his loneliness. Suddenly, her own problems hadn't seemed so bad; she, at least, had her daughter. He had no one.

But there was nothing Lynnea could do to help him; her talent wasn't used for healing. Besides, she owed him nothing. So she turned back to the television and continued to watch it with the sound off. She owed him nothing. It wasn't her fault he was letting himself be manipulated by O'Connell; he was just letting his emotions get the better of him. Foolish, really.

Then why did she feel guilty?

XXX

The ride from Quest Aerospace to Midtown Hospital was relatively short – especially in an ambulance – but it seemed to be the longest, and was certainly the most nerve-wracking ride the three paramedics in back had ever had. Their patient hadn't moved since they'd loaded him in the back of the ambulance, but only one of the four mechanical appendages fused to his spine moved, twitching spasmodically the entire way. Two of the paramedics had pressed themselves against the ambulance's far wall, while the third had swallowed his fear to stand by the patient's bleeding skull, keeping the bandage pressed against the shattered edges of bone.

The ambulance jolted to a stop, and the doors were yanked open. The three paramedics lifted the gurney out of the back, and, staying on the opposite side of the gurney as the four trailing tentacles, they ran towards the emergency room. They were flanked by the police who had escorted the ambulance, who trotted alongside with drawn weapons. Their presence proved unnecessary, however; the deadly machines did little more than twitch feebly.

They wheeled him into the ER, and the police chained the tentacles down while the doctors awkwardly began to prep the scientist for surgery. The fear in the air was palpable; every doctor present had heard the story of how, in this very hospital, their patient had slaughtered half a dozen doctors who had only been trying to help him. But their job was to save lives, and they fought down their anxiety and went to work, stabilizing his condition until the neurosurgeon arrived to repair the damage to their patient's brain.

"The patient has taken a bullet to the cranium, with point of entry just behind the left ear through the temporal lobe and exiting between the zygomatic arch and the eye socket; there is extensive damage to the left eye. The exit wound is two inches in diameter and the bullet appears to have severed a chunk of his frontal lobe. There are also large shards of bone lodged in the gray matter." The neurosurgeon called in for the case didn't sound optimistic as he reported the patient's condition. "Assuming he survives this, it's likely he'll end up with severe brain damage, possibly leaving him in a vegetative state." The surgeon scrutinized his tense assistants, noticing they looked ready to run at the first sign of trouble; not ideal surgical conditions. "He's not in any condition to fight us." He saw several uneasy glances towards the bound machines, which had become still during the course of the examination as their host continued to weaken.

About forty minutes into the surgery to remove the bone fragments and repair what was left of his brain, there were severe complications. Five minutes after that, the sole active tentacle gave one last spasm as its host took his last breath. "Time of death, 8:47 AM," the surgeon reported.

XXX

Getting into the hospital proved to be a challenge; reporters flocked around the main doors, each hoping to be the first to hear about the villainous patient's condition. Police kept them back from the main doors and, in the process, drove back anyone trying to make it inside to visit patients or make appointments. Anyone not visibly injured was turned back.

Lynnea hovered at the edge of the crowd, trying to stay out of sight. The baggy, threadbare coat and the wide-brimmed hat she wore hid her features, but it wouldn't fool O'Connell's men for long. She knew they were here; she'd seen what O'Connell had had planned for Dr. Octavius, and knew the director wouldn't just let the actuators slip through his fingers. She just hoped her shabby disguise – which she'd traded her long black leather coat to one of the First Ave homeless for – would confuse them long enough for her to figure out a way to get in. If only the injured could get in…

She almost smacked her self. She was injured, for crying out loud! She had a bullet hole in her shoulder! Lynnea backed away from the crowd, ducking into an alley. After glancing around to make certain no one had seen or followed her, she shucked off her coat and pulled up her shirt. She peeled away the bandages on her chest, exposing the stitched wound. She took her knife from its hiding place and, gritting her teeth against the pain, she began to pop out the stitches. Just a few, no more than was necessary to make it bleed. The wound was nowhere near fully healed, and immediately began to bleed. She'd chosen a lighter colored shirt to wear, with the hope that O'Connell's men wouldn't recognize her out of her customary black, and the blood made a very visible stain against the pale blue cloth. She pulled the coat back on, then made her way back to the crowd, seeking to gain entrance.

She didn't even have to pretend to stumble; the blood loss made her legs wobbly, and when she showed the police her wound, they actually tried to escort her inside. She assured them it wasn't as bad as it looked – she hoped – and entered the lobby. She waved off the concerned receptionist and made her way to the restroom to clean her wound. Fortunately, she hadn't done as much damage as the blood loss implied; the blood flow was already slowing. She'd been careful not to hit an artery, and it seemed she'd succeeded. Still, she tried to clean it up, before some doctor saw her and forced her into a check-up.

Satisfied she'd done all she could, Lynnea debated what to do next. She couldn't exactly wander around until she found Dr. Octavius; someone would see her and try to steer her either towards the lobby or whatever ward she told them she was looking for. But he was a high profile patient; chances were good, he'd be the subject of hospital gossip. If she kept out of sight and just listened, someone would mention him.

Lynnea shouldered her bag, wishing she hadn't brought quite so much of her stuff with her, but she hadn't dared leave her equipment behind. There was a chance one of the volunteers would riffle through her things and wonder at some of her more bizarre possessions. The poisons, for example, would probably be enough for them to justify turning her over to the police. And the bone jewelry wouldn't be very reassuring, either.

She set off for the ER; she didn't know where it was, exactly, but figured it had to be on the ground floor for easy access for victims brought in by ambulance. The ER wouldn't be too close to the lobby – she hadn't seen the entrance coming in – so that narrowed her search slightly. She stuck to the halls along the outer walls, ducking in to open rooms to visit 'relatives' when the nurses and orderlies looked to be getting suspicious of her presence. One elderly man was amused when she entered his room and loudly called him "Grandpa," and wouldn't let her leave until she'd planted a kiss on his cheek.

Lynnea approached the doorway, ready to steal into the hallway, when the voices drifting towards her made her flatten herself behind the door frame. The old man gave her a toothless grin, and she placed a finger over her lips to shush him. His grin widened. The voices grew louder; the speakers were coming this way.

"-things haven't moved. The police are free to take him – in fact, I wish they'd take him now; his presence is making the staff jumpy."

"The police don't want the body; they just want the tentacles for evidence," a woman's voice answered. "Unfortunately, so does that company that originally funded him; they've put a claim in for the machines, saying their corporation legally owns them and that, technically, Octavius stole them." The woman laughed hollowly. "To further complicate things, the mayor wants these things destroyed."

Lynnea listened with growing horror. Body? If these doctors were discussing the fate of the tentacles with no worry for Octavius himself, then…

…he's dead. The only man who could get O'Connell off her back was dead. Lynnea slumped against the door jamb as the two doctors passed, and she almost missed their next words. "…so they want us to keep him overnight?" the man didn't sound too thrilled about this.

"Until a decision is reached, yes, since we're 'neutral ground,'" the woman said. "Which means we're going to have to put up with police presence until he's gone from the premises."

"Great," the man muttered. "It's not like he's going to get up and walk away, is he?"

"Dr. Davis doesn't think so… but there's some concern someone is going to try to steal the tentacles. Apparently, they're worth more than you or I will ever make in a lifetime…" her voice faded away, and Lynnea didn't see the need to follow. She'd heard enough.

Dr. Octavius had died of his wounds. There was nothing more she could do here; she should flee the city before O'Connell redirected his rage at losing Octavius into a search for her. If she left now, she could catch a plane home using the half of her payment she still had, and escape O'Connell forever.

Except that before she'd made her decision to come to the hospital, she'd called the clinic where her daughter was being treated, and learned that someone else had called, asking penetrating questions about the clinic, treatments… and her daughter. She had no relatives, and the clinic knew all of Lynnea's friends – this person had been a complete stranger, and Lynnea didn't trust strangers. Especially not when someone wanted her dead. She knew O'Connell's kind; he'd stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and he wanted Lynnea dead. He wouldn't hesitate to use a little girl to lure her mother out of hiding… and he wouldn't feel any guilt in ordering Lenore's death even after Lynnea gave herself up. The only way for her to be safe was for O'Connell to die. She couldn't do it; she'd never get past all the guards he employed to get close enough to kill him.

The only one who could stop O'Connell was lying dead in the morgue, but he wouldn't be that way for long.

She was going to re-animate him.

XXX

Lynnea didn't need to see a clock to know that darkness had fallen. She could feel it, as if every nerve within her body had sharpened with the retreat of daylight. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, lifting her head off of her arm and brushing a strand of hair from her face. A janitorial closet was not the ideal place to sleep, but at least no one had stumbled upon her hiding place. And there wasn't much activity that she could hear in the corridor beyond; apparently, the janitor she'd ambushed hadn't awoken or been discovered yet. She'd stolen his uniform and cap, tucking her red-streaked hair under the brim, taken her arm out of its sling, and proceeded to make her way down the stairs unchallenged to hide in the closet nearest the morgue. She still couldn't quite believe that it had worked. Lynnea waited a few minutes with her ear pressed to the door before venturing out.

The hospital's sublevel wasn't as busy as the upper floors; since it housed the morgue and autopsy rooms, Lynnea supposed that spoke well for the hospital that they weren't doing a lot of business down here. Still, it wouldn't do to blow her cover. She hauled out a cart carrying cleaning equipment, pushing it ahead of her and grumbling under her breath all the while. But the cart seemed to make her invisible to everyone who passed.

She didn't encounter a problem until she entered the morgue itself. Along with the expected attendant, there was a police officer seated off to the side next to a gurney with a bulky, shrouded figure – apparently, the actuators made Dr. Octavius too large to fit into a freezer. At least it meant she wouldn't have to search through the freezers – or, thankfully, transfer Octavius to a gurney. But that still left her with the police officer to deal with. Humming, Lynnea made her way across the room, holding a mop in her hands. No one questioned her being there, and she was silently grateful for her boyish figure. Had she been curvy, she'd never have gotten away with wearing a uniform with the name 'Chuck' emblazoned on the pocket.

She saw the police officer glance over at her, but he gave her no further notice when she slopped the mop down and began dragging it across the floor with awkward strokes. It was tougher than it looked; the soaked mop head was heavier than she expected, and her right arm was of little use in moving it. She moved nearer and nearer to the cop, who was gazing off into space as though he longed to be somewhere, anywhere, except in a morgue guarding a dead body. Lynnea wondered what he'd done to deserve this punishment. And I'm afraid after this night, his next duties are going to be worse… She hefted the metal mop shaft in her hands, and brought it down on the back of the policeman's head before he could do more than widen his eyes in surprise. He slumped to the floor, unconscious. Whacked by a mop handle wielded by an injured girl. Yes… This guy's going to be stuck doing the most undesirable police tasks for a loooooong time. The impact had jolted her injured shoulder, and she wanted to curl up and whimper in pain for awhile, but she didn't have time for it.

"What the-" the attendant, alerted by the loud whump, reached for the phone on his desk. With her left hand, Lynnea grabbed the soapy mop bucket and tossed it towards the desk. Although it didn't land anywhere near the desk, the water splattered everywhere and the attendant instinctively ducked as dirty suds rained down on him. It gave Lynnea the time to snatch the police officer's nightstick, then sprint across the floor – nearly slipping in a puddle of suds – and slam the nightstick into the man's skull.

Lynnea used the police officer's handcuffs to chain him to the handle of the drawer to the nearest freezer, then relieved him of his gun and radio. The attendant she left alone; she'd hit him harder than she'd intended, and he'd be down for awhile.

She peeked under the blood-stained sheet to reassure herself that she had gotten the right body, then wheeled the gurney out of the morgue and in to the closest autopsy room. Locking the door behind her, Lynnea closed her eyes and 'tested' the atmosphere. A raising worked best in a cemetery, surrounded by death and under full view of the night sky. It would be impossible to get him outside, but at least the morgue's close proximity gave her something to draw from. Death was in the air around her, even if it was weaker here than in a place where the earth that had held rotting corpses for centuries…

She took a deep breath, taking a moment to put herself in touch with her necromantic abilities, then began.

Hers was an ancient talent, one that had been abused through the centuries by those who used their gift for their own gain. A strict set of rules had been established for re-animators, and anyone violating those rules was strictly disciplined. Always before, Lynnea had obeyed those rules unquestioningly. She might gleefully break the laws set down by society, but she would never have willfully broken the ancient laws followed by the re-animators.

Until tonight. There was, maybe, one of those rules she wasn't breaking with this re-animation.

Never raise a corpse that has not been dead for a week.

Lynnea uncovered the body, shuddering when she saw the ruin of the scientist's skull. She was accustomed to death; that didn't mean she enjoyed the sight of gore. Resolving not to let herself be distracted, she began chanting, a string of nonsensical sounds that couldn't be translated into words, a chant whose only purpose was to focus her abilities.

Never raise a body that suffers damage to the heart or the brain; both are vital to the puppet, and destruction of either destroys the puppet.

She set out her materials on the cart, hastily prepping the doctor's body for the reanimation. No time for ceremony; she needed to do this quickly.

Never perform a raising without proper preparation.

She then took the first of the ceremonial daggers and drew the blade across the old scar in the crook of her elbow, collecting the blood in the grooves of the dagger.

Never raise someone who is mad; insanity, like pain and fear, survives death.

She made a similar cut on Octavius' arm, letting her own blood enter his veins.

Never mix a corpse puppet's blood with your own.

Lynnea carefully set the blade aside, taking great care not to touch the blood.

Never raise a person that you have an emotional attachment to.

At this point, Lynnea would normally use a second blade to blood the person set to be the controller; because she intended to be the controller, she touched that blade to her already bleeding arm, pressing this one to his throat, nicking the carotid artery.

Never raise a body for your own purposes; that will lead you down the path of darkness.

During her chant, she could feel the power build around her. With the second exchange of blood, she felt it reach its peak. Now she spoke in English, her words charged with power. "My blood to give you life, my blood to guide that life. Blood to blood, to make yours flow… Rise," she commanded. "Rise!"

XXX

"Otto…" Her breathy voice was like music falling on ears that had been long deaf; it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He pulled himself into a sitting position, letting his feet dangle into the crystalline sea. He knew her, knew her to be the missing piece of his soul. She was the love of his life, his soul-mate, his Rosie. He began to haul himself back along the trunk, his eyes only for her. She was so close…

He was suddenly jerked backwards, and he turned his gaze downward, stunned. The green-and-gold octopus whose progress he'd been tracking had come to the surface, and one sleek tentacle had wrapped around his foot in an unbreakable grip. He kicked out desperately, refusing to have his reunion with his wife delayed. But it wouldn't let go; another tentacle rose from the water, impossibly reaching up and snagging his arm. He cried out, grabbing the trunk with his free arm and holding with all his might. There was an answering cry, and he jerked his head up, eyes darting around as he sought his wife. But she'd vanished… and the entire beach began to disintegrate.

A heart-wrenching scream tore itself from his throat, and then another tentacle caught him around the neck. The octopus began to pull, and he fought to maintain his grip on the trunk. But his hand slipped, leaving only one leg wrapped around the trunk… and then that, too, was pulled away, and then he was sinking below the surface of the waters, which had gone from a clear turquoise to a murky midnight blue, deepening to black as he sank lower and lower. Water filled his lungs, and he began to choke. The octopus carried him deeper and deeper into the stygian depths, its task easier now that his body had lost the strength to fight.

He didn't lose consciousness, and he didn't die. Instead, he began to make out vague shapes in the darkness, glimpses of familiar people and places, all of which vanished before he could identify any of the images. A dull, rhythmic murmur of sound pounded at his ears, but it wasn't part of the image. They were memories, he realized after a moment. His memories. And as his voyage progressed, the images became clearer.

But there was something wrong… there was a taint to them that he felt shouldn't be there. The scholarship letter he received that would pay all his expenses at ESU was smeared with droplets of blood, falling from a nose shattered by an abusive father… The proud day he graduated from ESU with honors, his mother died of a heart attack… He was standing at the alter with Rosie, the words "I do" on his lips, when glistening shards of glass suddenly punctured her body, dying her white dress scarlet… The first time he activated the actuators and realized they'd worked – only to have them tear into innocent people… These visions… they couldn't be right, could they? Things hadn't happened this way…

Had they?

He reached out, trying to grasp at the passing memories, striving to make sense of what was happening… And then the octopus released him, abandoning him in the midst of another memory, one that he sensed wasn't tainted and was all the more terrible because of it.

He remembered laying flat atop the delivery truck, the single functioning actuator anchoring him in place. He remembered his elation that he'd finally won his way free of O'Connell… And then came something searing hot, exploding in his brain – and then there had been no pain, which couldn't be right. He remembered one last, anguished cry from the actuator before their link was forever severed. And then everything had gone black… He'd been shot, he realized now

And, he realized with dawning horror, he'd died.

Yet… as the low changing rose in pitch, increasing in intensity, he felt his heart begin to beat in synchronicity, felt cold blood run through his veins and arteries. There was a burning in his lungs, a driving need to breathe.

He opened his mouth, drew his first shaky, pain-filled breath, and screamed.

To Be Continued…