by Peter David
The white gas was being sucked out of the tank as the giant vacuum vents in the ceiling roared to life. Osborn wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, to beg the gas to return to him. To give him the strength and stamina that he was positive he could obtain. No, not just “could.” Should. The abilities that should by right be his were being sucked away via the ceiling vents.
It was more than he could bear.
He felt hands fumbling at the straps, and it was only then that he realized his eyes were clenched shut. His body wasn’t responding to the instructions of his mind. It was like having an out-of-body experience while still being in your body.
Osborn decided to inform Doctor Stromm that he was perfectly fine, thanks, and to get his hands off him.
It came out as a shriek.
Osborn continued to scream, and he had no idea why he was doing it, but it felt good on some sort of primitive level, like a caveman with his foot planted on the body of a recently slain foe, informing everyone else that he was a force to be reckoned with.
The straps were gone from his chest, and Osborn could hear all the emergency monitors going off. In his haze, he didn’t associate them with himself anymore. They were just noise, something he could join if he so chose. And he did, screaming louder, matching them in pitch and taking an insane delight in doing so. His heart rate leapt, his blood pressure, respiration, everything, shot off the charts.
His eyes snapped open, alight with the fire of inner madness, and he ripped the sensors off his chest. Stromm tried to hold him back and lasted for exactly as long as it took Osborn to notice him. When he did notice him, he knocked him away with one sweep of his arm.
The strength of the gesture was horrifying in its casualness, devastating in the damage it caused with such minimal effort. Stromm sailed into the glass of the booth, and through it. The glass exploded from the impact, shards flying everywhere. Stromm kept going, flying through the air as if some great invisible fisherman had tied a line to him and was reeling him in.
He sailed across the lab and smashed into a pillar on the far side, some fifty feet away. He sagged to the floor, blood pooling under his head.
Osborn watched Stromm’s life ebb from him and didn’t care in the slightest. He had other things to worry about.
His attention was far more drawn to the battle suit and the personnel carrier prototype. The two devices were sitting there in the darkness, filled with power waiting to be used. Osborn felt exactly the same way, like a source of considerable power—if only it could be utilized properly.
He felt as if his mind were splitting in two. On one level, he was fully aware that Stromm was dead, dead at his hand, and the aspect of Norman Osborn that realized it recoiled in shock and horror.
But there was another part of him that not only didn’t care, it reveled in it. Stromm had been weak, and the new Osborn despised weakness.
The world was filled with sheep, and the wolf went among the sheep and devoured them.
The component of Norman that had no tolerance for weakness leapt to the forefront, brought there by the gas, by the chemicals that it had unleashed in his mind. A great green haze fell over him, and Osborn trembled, twisted, convulsed as if something was trying to fight its way out from the most primordial roots of his soul. And then Norman Osborn threw his head back and howled in pain, confusion, and transformation.
Gone was any trace of guilt, gone was any consideration for ramifications, gone was any hint of a man who would have felt the least bit of remorse for his actions.
He began to leap and dance and cavort around the glider and armor, like a devout worshipper giving thanks to the totem of a dark and slavering god. He waved his arms around, gibbered and howled like a cross between a baboon and a wolf, and the last conscious thoughts fled him.
The next thing he knew, he felt as if he were being lifted up, as if his god were taking him up to heaven. There was the heady sensation of flight, of the world speeding below him. And there was more than that; he felt as if he had power, ultimate power of life and death over all the puny mortals who sprawled beneath him, going about their pathetic little lives, sleeping or watching movies or making love, all unaware that a new dark god and his greatest disciple were abroad upon the land.
They would know him and fear him and worship him, and he would take their fates in his clawed hand, for they, like Stromm, were just sheep. Just sheep. And he was the shepherd, and he would guide them and herd them and sheer them and slaughter them. For what else did one do with sheep?
Harry Osborn hated his father’s den.
Partly it was because some of his earliest memories involved being chased out of that haven of his father’s, when all he’d wanted to do was spend a few minutes with his dad. But his dad had been so busy, always so busy.
The other part of Harry’s antipathy for the den stemmed from his father’s grotesque collection of masks.
He had no idea what had prompted his dad’s fascination with such hideous things, but they had been there for as long as he could remember, and every year there were more of them as Norman acquired them in his business travels. Medieval jester’s masks, masks from New Orleans during the Mardi Gras revels, masks allegedly worn by witch doctors in the heart of the Congo … all these and more adorned the walls, staring down in silent judgment and condemnation of anyone—namely Harry—who dared to set foot in the den without approval of the master of the house.
Some of the masks even had eyes painted on them, and Harry always felt as if they were watching him. Sometimes, when he was a child, he’d had dreams that they were observing him while he slept.
Truth to tell, he had similar dreams as a teen.
The problem was that the den extended off the main hallway in the opulent Osborn apartment in Tudor Hill, and there was no way Harry could avoid walking past it whenever he was on his way out. So he always made a point of hurrying by as quickly as possible. The passage was made simpler by the fact that the doors were usually closed, so there was no temptation to slow and glance in to see if some new repulsive mask had joined the others.
This day, however—one which was supposed to be dry, but nevertheless had a considerable number of clouds in the sky—Harry saw that the doors were wide-open as he walked by. Against his better judgment he slowed, hesitated, then peered around the corner of the door frame with the intention of speeding on his way once his curiosity was satisfied.
To his utter astonishment, his father was seated in the middle of the den. If it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t smell of alcohol, Harry would have thought Norman Osborn had been out on a serious bender the night before. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the previous day, and he looked disheveled and disoriented.
Long years of being told in no uncertain terms that the den was off limits prompted Harry to pause in the doorway. He almost felt like a vampire, unable to enter unless he’d been invited.
“Dad? What is it, Dad?”
Norman Osborn looked up at his son, seemingly aware of his presence but unable to focus on him. “Harry?” It was partly an acknowledgment, and partly an inquiry as to whether this was, indeed, his son standing before him.
Harry immediately shook free of the old childhood worries and quickly walked in, crouching in front of his father and making no attempt to hide his concern. “You look sick. What’s happened?”
“I … don’t know.”
He’d never heard his father sound like this: vulnerable. Even scared. For once his dad actually needed him. “Where were you last night? I didn’t hear you come in.”
Osborn frowned, as if trying to reassemble pieces of a fractured recollection. “I was … last night,” he said thickly, “I was …”
“What?”
His shoulders sagged in defeat.
“I … don’t remember.”
Before Harry could pursue the matter, he heard noises from down the hallway. He immediately recognized one of them as the houseman, Edmund. The other took him a moment t
o place, but then he realized it was his father’s assistant from the factory, Ms. Simkins. He’d only met her one or two times; his father had taken great pains to keep his life at the factory separate from his home life. Sometimes Harry got the feeling it was because he was embarrassed about his son and wanted to minimize Harry’s exposure to any business associates so he could spare himself humiliation. Now, though, clearly wasn’t the time to dwell on old hurts.
“I have to see him,” Simkins was saying urgently. It was obvious that she had forced her way past Edmund in her attempts to get to Norman.
“He can’t be disturbed now,” Edmund told her, sounding more irate by the moment.
“This can’t wait!”
It was Osborn who settled the matter. “Who’s there?” he called out. Harry couldn’t believe how weak he sounded, how confused. He wondered if maybe his dad was getting Alzheimer’s or something equally horrible.
“Mr. Osborn,” said Simkins, entering the den.
She looked distraught, but Harry immediately felt protective of his father, not wanting him to be subjected to any undue stress. “My father’s not well, Ms. Simkins,” he started to say.
But Simkins spoke right over him. “Mr. Osborn, Dr. Stromm is dead.”
The name didn’t mean anything to Harry. It obviously meant something to his father, though, because Norman looked up at Simkins, stunned. “What?”
“His body was found this morning in the laboratory.” Simkins took a deep breath to steady herself and then continued. “He was murdered, sir.”
“Murdered!” said Harry. He might not have known who Stromm was, but a murder in the middle of his father’s factory? That couldn’t possibly be good.
Norman Osborn got to his feet, some of the confusion falling away as he focused on this new situation. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“And the flying wing prototype, sir …”
“What about it?”
Simkins said, all in a rush, “It’s missing. It’s been stolen.”
There was a dead, stunned silence for a long moment.
“Take me there,” Osborn said.
With a quick nod, Simkins headed out, Norman following her. Harry remained behind for a moment, then looked at the masks that were watching him and hurried out of the den. He hurried after his father, ran out the door and down the stairs just as Norman was getting into the back of the car that Simkins had driven there. His father looked up at him and said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“You … you weren’t well,” Harry said. “So I figured maybe I should come along, maybe be of help …”
“Simkins will help me. That’s what I pay her for. I’m not the kind of man who lets a little headache bother him.”
“But Dad, I … I thought …”
“You thought what?”
His every word becoming softer and softer, until by the end of the sentence his voice was barely audible, Harry said, “I thought you might … need … me… .”
Norman reached out, squeezed his forearm briefly, and said, “I do. But not for this.” And with that, he swung shut the car door and the vehicle rolled away from the curbside, leaving Harry feeling a bit depressed … but also oddly elated.
IX.
THE RIDE
Dear Mom and Dad:
Boy, did I have a day.
I saw M. J. walking home, and for once Flash wasn’t with her. I think maybe they had a fight or something. So she goes into her house, and I keep thinking about the way that Harry was looking at me, so disappointed in me when I couldn’t just, you know, talk to Mary Jane. So I decided, what the hell, what’s the worst that could happen?
So I go over and start heading up their front walk, and before I can knock on it, the door opens and there’s M. J.’s father. In all these years, it’s the first time I’ve ever really seen him close up. I know they say that girls are attracted to guys that remind them of their fathers, but boy, I never realized how much that was the case with M. J. and Flash, because her dad is like what Flash’ll be in about twenty years.
And he just looks at me with this contempt. I try to ask if Mary Jane can hang out, just to bum around the mall or something. But he just stares at me, like I landed from Mars, and my throat closes up.
So he says, “You’re the Parker kid from across the way, aren’t you.” He’s got a voice like a dump truck spilling out gravel. I manage a nod. And then he says, like he looked right into my head, “She’s got a boyfriend. And even if she didn’t, I wouldn’t let her see some bookworm type.”
And then he closes the door in my face.
In.
My.
Face.
And I took it. I wanted to pound on the door, I wanted to shout, “You think you know me? You don’t know anything about me! A bookworm, huh? Well, worms turn, Mr. Watson!” But instead I just took it, took being treated like I was dirt on his shoes. I stood there like a dope, and then I heard M. J.’s voice from inside saying, “Who was that?” and her father snapping back at her, “Nobody.”
That’s all I am. Nobody.
How the heck was I supposed to talk to her after that? “Hi, I’m the nobody who was just talking to your dad.” She’d just look at me with pity, and that’s the thing I can’t stand, above anything else. I’d rather she looked at me with love or hatred or not at all, but pity I just couldn’t stand.
So I turned and walked away.
The worm turns. But even after he does, he’s still a worm.
It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. Instead of doing something about how I feel, I’m just sitting here, on the front steps of my house, writing to you.
I wish you guys were here. I can’t talk to Aunt May or Uncle Ben about this stuff. Heck, Uncle Ben’ll probably get himself so worked up that he’ll stomp over there and confront M. J.’s dad, and how humiliating would that whole scene be? And Aunt May will just tell me how wonderful I am, and how some girl will appreciate me some day, and then she’ll bake brownies. It’s amazing I don’t weigh four hundred pounds.
Then again, if you guys were here, I don’t know what you’d do, either.
Better finish off this letter. Aunt May and Uncle Ben are going to start getting worried about me.
I keep thinking about the way her dad looked at me. And how it made me want to . . . I don’t know. Do something.
Wouldn’t it be great to be someone who could do whatever he wanted?
Well … I’m working on it.
It was as if Aunt May and Uncle Ben were waiting for him. As if they knew he’d come sprinting down the stairs—which he did—heading for the door at full steam—which he was. They were seated in the living room, Aunt May darning a sock and Uncle Ben reading a newspaper, but it seemed as if those were just poses as they waited for him to appear.
With his backpack slung over his shoulder, Peter said quickly as he moved toward the door, all in a rush, “Goingdowntothelibraryseeyoulater.”
“Hold on! I’ll drive you,” Uncle Ben called to him, getting up from the chair. He did so with a slight grunt, as he always did. It was as if his body were scolding him for subjecting it to an exertion.
“It’s okay, I’ll take the train… .”
But Uncle Ben was already taking his jacket off the coatrack, and Peter could tell by the jingling coming from the pocket that the keys were already in there. And when he spoke it was in a surprisingly firm, take-no-guff voice, as if he’d just caught Peter with his hands in the cookie jar. “I said I’ll drive you. Get in the car!”
Taken aback by the sharp tone, Peter meekly climbed into Uncle Ben’s car, a 1988 Oldsmobile Delta that his uncle had fallen in love with and refused to sell, no matter how many things he needed to repair on it. He thought he saw Uncle Ben winking at Aunt May but had no idea what that might have been about.
To his surprise, most of the ride passed in silence. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d hoped Uncle Ben just wanted to spend some quality time with him, chitchat about what
was going on in his life. Truth to tell, Peter hadn’t much been looking forward to it. Because of course there was only one thing of true significance that had been going on in his life. He didn’t want to lie to Uncle Ben, and to a great degree it was easy to avoid doing so. After all, unless Uncle Ben said, “So, Peter, did a bite from a genetically engineered mutant spider give you spider powers recently?” Peter wouldn’t be put on the spot.
But he also knew that was a technicality. Peter firmly believed in concepts such as sins of omission. The very fact that he wasn’t being completely forthcoming was, in and of itself, deceitful. Anything less than an honest answer to a question as straightforward as “What’s been going on with you lately?” was going to be a lie. He hated the notion of lying to Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben, who had such an open, honest face … it was like clubbing a baby seal, lying to him.
It was dusk when the Olds rolled up to the library. Peter turned to get out, with still nary a word having passed between them. He said, “Thanks for the ride.”
Ben drew a breath and said, “Hold on a minute. We need a talk.”
Dammit. Peter sagged back against the car seat, faced with his worst case scenario. “Not a lecture, Uncle Ben! I gotta go …”
But Uncle Ben reached across Peter and placed a hand firmly on the door. Granted, Peter could have pushed the door open. He suspected he could have pushed the door clean off the car, if he’d been so inclined. But that would have been totally out of line, and secret or no, Peter simply wasn’t prepared to go that far.
“Your Aunt May and I don’t know who you are anymore. I wonder if you know who you are. Starting fights in school …”
So they did know! Peter had thought he’d dodged a bullet, that the school hadn’t called to let them know about the scuffle with Flash. Obviously he’d thought wrong, but his aunt and uncle had kept the knowledge to themselves, probably trying to determine the best way to approach it. Or perhaps they’d just been giving him enough rope to hang himself …