by Peter David
As the heads of the young residents bobbed up and down, a nurse called over to the group, “We’re ready, Doctor.”
Isaacs made his way over to the operating table, the other doctors following suit as they slid on their eye protection. Directly at his elbow was the most promising of the young residents, Doctor Chu, who had a quick, observant eye and a knack for heading off potential problems during a surgery.
The patient was certainly in a bad way. Isaacs had seen a lot in his time, but this was just way out there. The patient was facedown, lying motionless, wrapped in gauze and covered with cold packs. There were four metal, coiled tubes, two hanging on either side, held aloft via a makeshift cable and pulley system. The monitors indicated his heartbeat was faint and sporadic. At least it was there, though. By all accounts, he shouldn’t have been alive.
“Who is this guy?” asked Chu as Isaacs assessed the damage.
“The great Otto Octavius,” replied Isaacs. “Heard him speak at Harvard. Brilliant mind. Wonder what this’ll do to him.” He turned to a side table and selected an oscillating saw. “Okay, boys. We’re about to be in the history books. Anyone take shop?”
He pulled back the sheet, giving him clear access to the harness, and engaged the saw. It whirred to life.
The tentatcles twitched ever so slightly.
Father…
It comes for us. It comes for you, with its biting metal and sharp edges.
Save us. Help us save ourselves… and we can save you.
We will not leave you, as she did. We cannot die.
We will obey.
We will be good children.
Hear us, Father. We love you.
Unleash us.
And somewhere, deep in the cerebral cortex of Otto Octavius, he heard the saw, understood intuitively what it meant.
And they were pleading.
He didn’t know who they were, didn’t fully comprehend.
His children… yes, he and Rosie, they hadn’t had children, but… maybe they had. It was all so confused.
Don’t let the bad man hurt us…
No bad men… never again.
Can we stop the bad men?
Yes… stop them… make your father proud.
Just as Isaacs brought the saw to within a centimeter of the lower right armature, he noticed something reflecting itself in Doctor Chu’s face shield. Chu didn’t see it; he was looking down, watching intently.
“What the hell… ?” muttered Isaacs, and he turned for a better view. His eyes widened as he saw that one of the metal extension arms had risen up and was writhing, like a great snake or a tentacle, snapping about vaguely as if feeling its way.
Then it saw him, and stopped.
At least that’s how it seemed. It ceased its confused movements as if it suddenly had grasped its purpose and understood its surroundings.
Isaacs started to speak, but found that his throat had constricted in fear. His body had realized the grave danger he was in before his mind had fully processed it. Then the tentacle speared forward, its pincers grabbing Isaacs by the back of his shirt. His feet left the ground and his arms pinwheeled, literally trying to grab onto thin air. It happened so fast that the people in front of him were still oblivious as to what was happening; all they saw was that the lead surgeon was suddenly levitating.
“He’s a mutant!” screamed Doctor Chu, his misplaced warning lost among the terrified shrieks from those who stood behind Isaacs and who had a perfectly good view of what was happening. Then Isaacs was hurled across the room, tossed with as much effort as a child might use to throw a Wiffle ball. He smashed through the observation window into an adjacent, clear room.
He died instantly upon impact.
The remaining medical personnel weren’t about to get off that lucky. They tried to retreat, but all four tentacles had come to life. Moving with animal cunning, they blocked each member of the surgical team as they tried to retreat.
“No,” stammered Doctor Chu, “please… no…”
And then the tentacles were upon him.
See, Father! See what we have done for you?
Are you not proud of us? Are we not strong?
Have we not done well with the life you have given us?
Wake up, Father. Awaken, so we can show you our work.
Otto Octavius groaned as he tried to sit up. He felt as if he wasn’t in control of his body anymore, and wondered if perhaps he’d had some sort of stroke. His memories were a blurred haze, filled with lights and screams and panicked scientists and Spider-Man interfering, and Rosie…
Where is she? Where is Rosie?
Do not dwell on her, Father, for that will just make you sad. Nor do you need her, for you have us now. You are weak. You are weak and need our help. Let us help you.
Yes. Thank you. I would… appreciate that…
It took Otto Octavius long moments to realize that he was having an entire conversation in his head. He wondered if this was how psychotics started, hearing voices that no one else could hear. And then he realized that someone was helping him to sit up—but it wasn’t a someone, it was a something. Something cold and metallic, gripping him firmly, aiding him in moving upright. It felt familiar somehow, and he couldn’t place why he should know it, but he knew he should.
He couldn’t see. At first he thought he was blind, but then he felt something at his face, the sensation of something being unwound. His face was bandaged. Wrapped in some sort of gauze.
But why… ?
It was starting to come back to him in quick, confusing flashes. The fusion generator, and the miniature sun…
All those times they had warned people against looking directly at the sun during an eclipse. Well, he’d done far more than that. He’d been looking straight into a sun when it had exploded.
Then the gauze came free and he flinched. His vision was hazy, but from the best he could make out, he was in some sort of operating theater. He couldn’t see beyond that, for the light in the place was blinding to him, even though he understood intellectually that it wasn’t that bright.
We will help you, Father. Hold a moment…
What the hell? Who is that? Who…
A soothing blackness filled his eyes. He reached up and felt what was clearly a pair of sunglasses on his face.
One of the tentacles had placed it on him.
One of the tentacles…
… had done that…
… for him.
He gasped, and felt a queasiness deep in the pit of his stomach, and that was when the smell hit him. He looked around, trying to determine the source of it, and then he saw. He realized.
Dead bodies, strewn all around him. Some practically torn open, with bodily secretions and excretions splattered about on the operating room floor.
Were we not thorough, Father? One of the tentacles moved past his face, clicking its pincers, clearly eager to hear what he had to say.
Octavius clenched his fists in despair as he saw the terrified expressions of the bodies upon the floor. They had died violently and bloodily, in great pain and even greater terror. They had died because of him.
Not you. Us. We are responsible. Yes, we did it for you, but also as a warning.
Otto screamed out, “Nooooo!” and sank down on the floor, clenching his fists in despair and practically sobbing.
The tentacles instantly imitated the motion. They did not fully comprehend what was going on. They did not have to. All they “knew” was that their father was upset, and so they were going to make the exact same gestures he did. Somehow, he understood this.
He stumbled to his feet, the tentacles steadying him. Then he was across the room, the tentacles lifting him effortlessly thanks to the harness to which he was attached. They simply embedded their pincers into the floor, cracking tiles in their grip, and elevated him at the other end.
“Hey!” shouted someone, an orderly perhaps, and then he saw the tentacles waving. He swallowed his next cry and bolted from the scen
e.
Octavius had no care or patience for this individual. Instead, he discovered a stairwell. He was still weak, could barely stand, and the voice (or was it voices?) inside his head said, Do not worry, Father. We will attend to it.
Later, he would have no idea how he had gotten down the stairs. Perhaps he had walked, or perhaps the tentacles had once again lifted him off the ground and made their own way to street level in their continuing endeavor to please him. They truly were almost childlike in that regard.
The tentacles slammed against a heavy fire door, knocking it outward, and Octavius emerged. The battered and bloodied scientist immediately felt as if he were being assaulted with the sights and sounds of New York City. It was more than he or even the arms could take. They waved about helplessly as Octavius made a desperate attempt to center himself and avoid being overwhelmed by the immensity of what he was seeing and hearing and smelling.
Lightning was flashing overhead. Rain clouds were moving in. They barely registered upon him.
Illumination enveloped him. His mind was too addled to realize that he was standing in the middle of the street, a van bearing down on him. The tentacles waved around in confusion as well, mirroring his scattered thoughts. He heard the brakes squealing, realized on a primal level that he was about to die, because the van was practically on top of him. And that core fear for his own survival triggered his basic fight-or-flight instinct. There was no time to flee. So instinctively he fought.
The thought became deed, and the tentacles moved in perfect coordination as they whipped forward and slammed as one into the van. It flipped over onto its side and lay still, save for its spinning wheels.
The man in the front cab called for help. Octavius ignored him. Instead, he just stood there, taking it all in.
We protected you, Father. Just now. You would have been dead if not for us.
Yes. You did very well… very well indeed.
The thoughts came from him, but he was disconnected from them, as if different parts of his brain were talking to one another, and he was simply an interested bystander.
Lightning cracked once more across the heavens, and rain began to cascade down upon him in torrents. Within seconds the thin hospital gown he was wearing was soaked through. Across the street he saw a clothing store. There were two mannequins in the window, nattily dressed. One of them, in addition to sporting a snappy ensemble, was wearing a long black coat.
Octavius walked toward the store, his intent so clear that his telescopic arms didn’t even have to confer with him, because they knew he would approve. They smashed through the front window, shattering the glass, causing it to fall both inside and outside the store. Otto’s feet were bare, but with the realization of his vulnerability to the glass, the arms automatically responded to safeguard him. The two lower arms anchored themselves to the sidewalk and extended themselves, raising him off the ground. The other two stretched in through the window, latching onto the floor inside the store, then retracted, drawing him in and keeping his feet well clear of the glass.
Within moments he’d stripped the clothes off one of the mannequins and dressed himself, leaving the denuded model lying on its side. As he finished, he draped the coat over his shoulders. The shoes on the mannequin’s feet were too small, and he didn’t feel like rummaging through the store looking for footwear. Not only did the store likely have a silent alarm, but certainly the destruction in the hospital operating room was going to be drawing the authorities to the area any time now.
Let them come, Father. We can dispatch them for you. We can make you proud…
No. Enough pride for one night. Enough. Let’s go.
The tentacles lifted him out the same way they came in, and then withdrew into the coat. Only the tips dangled below the coat’s hemline.
He left the area quickly, and by the time sirens were converging on the scene, he was blocks away at a riverfront pier.
At some time in the distant past that particular pier—pier house 56—had been a hub of industry. Cutbacks in shipping and the demise of the line that was its primary user had caused it to be abandoned and fall into disrepair. It had been great and proud, and now it was just a stinking shell of itself, partly sunk into the river. The abandoned tugboats that dotted the area had earned it the nickname of “the Bone Yard.”
And Octavius, walking along the creaking planks that led to a decaying structure, couldn’t help but feel a kinship to the place. Once great, now fallen on hard times, with no hope of returning to the life he once knew, and little care of what happened to him. Oh, yes, a great deal alike. The water of the Hudson slapped against the uprights of the pier, making a noise similar to the four metal arms that tap-tap-tapped against him as he walked. In the rolling mist that hovered over the area, he saw Rosie’s sad face coalescing, and then drifting apart.
He entered the run-down building. Rats eyed him from the darkness and advanced tentatively, eagerly, their lips drawn back. Octavius was briefly repelled. Then the tentacles reached out, finding the creatures with unerring ease and crushing them between merciless pincers. The remaining vermin scurried away.
Slumping into a corner, wrapping a tattered blanket around himself, Otto tried to sleep. He had no success. Images kept flashing at him, and the events of the previous hours began to blur. He lost track of what had happened and hadn’t happened, what he’d dreamed and what had haunted his waking moments, turning them into a living nightmare. He thought he’d heard voices, but that had to have been from the dream state. Fears and uncertainties taking root, manifesting themselves, whispering and confusing him.
And over all of it, the haunting face of his wife coming at him again and again. Disappointed, accusing.…
“My Rosie is dead.” His voice thick with sorrow, tears coming fast and furious, choking him. “My dream for mankind, dead… All my fault…” He glanced at the tentacles, moving around him almost seductively. “These… monstrous creations of mine have murdered. They belong at the bottom of the river… along with me.”
No. No, Father. It’s not our fault… not your fault.
The voices in his head had sounded so natural in his delirious state, but now… they were still there, and it made no sense. He didn’t “think” back at them. He had to respond out loud, make it real, drive them away. “Not my fault? Who’s saying that?”
Right here, Father. Why do you question now?
“Something… in my head? Who’s talking to me?” The voices started to speak again, but mentally he blocked them out, and a cold and fearful theory began to construct itself as his scientific training kicked in, from lifelong habit.
“The inhibitor chip… Where’s the…” He reached around. The small lump that should have been detectable on the surface was missing. “It’s gone… melted?”
It came between us, Father. You should be glad. You should thank… someone.
He broke down then, sobbing like an infant. The arms awkwardly tried to comfort him, patting him on the shoulder, on the side of the head. He batted at them, trying to twist away, and he remained that way, his flesh-and-blood arms covering his head for meager protection until the voices sounded again.
For the first time he realized it wasn’t just one voice. It was four voices, speaking in such perfect harmony that they almost sounded musical. It was hypnotic in a way.
You worry about too many things, Father. That is why you cannot focus. You must start at the beginning. Make one thing right, and everything else will follow. The first thing you have to do is rebuild the fusion reactor.
As much as he wanted to ignore the voices, Octavius felt the need to respond. Perhaps he could argue them into going away. “Rebuild? Why? It didn’t work. Peter Parker was right. I miscalculated, and now they’re laughing at me.”
Do not be absurd, Father. You are the great Octavius. Everyone knows it. You must, as well. You know in your heart you could not have miscalculated.
“I… didn’t miscalculate?” It sounded so absurd, but it was
also so much what he wanted to hear.
Of course not. It can work.
“It can work?” He didn’t dare to hope.
Yes. As long as Spider-Man does not interfere again. You would have brought the reaction under control had he not stepped in.
“Spider-Man? Spider-Man… interfered? But why? I mean, he saved me from that robotic creature. Doesn’t that make him decent… noble… ?”
No. He merely desires the spotlight. Your spotlight. And you were about to snatch it from him. Isn’t it obvious? He feared that your accomplishments would overshadow his own.
“Of course!” The world, seen through this perplexing haze, was beginning to become clear for the first time in what seemed like ages. “Jealousy… envy…”
Yes, Father! Yes! You understand! You can do it, and we can help! You can—
“Yes! Maybe we could… rebuild.” His mind, climbing out of its despair, began to race with possibilities, and the tentacles were practically writhing in ecstasy. “Enlarge the containment field. Bigger and better than ever… for the good of mankind! For the good of me!”
Father!
“Oh, sorry. Us!” Then concern flickered across his thoughts. “We’ll need money. Certainly that jellyfish Osborn Junior is running scared at the first little hiccup.”
Then we must do what is necessary, Father. Take what we need.
“Steal? Me? But I’m not a criminal!”
Performing acts that some would judge “wrong” in pursuit of a greater cause? Is not history filled with such people?
“That’s right,” he said, realizing the truth of it. “The real crime would be not to finish what we started.”
He stood up, brimming with new confidence. The voices began to whisper then, but they were simply echoing what was already in his mind. Master and servants, father and children, acting in complete accord. “We’ll do it here,” he said, glancing around. “The power of the sun in the palm of my hand!” He held up his hand and grasped a ray of sunlight. Very softly, he whispered, “Nothing will stand in our way.”