In a holding cell at NYPD Manhattan, "Spider-Slayer" Spencer Smythe sat frowning on the cold bench, a soup spoon he'd swiped at dinner hidden up his sleeve.
He wanted to live—but Norman had ordered him to be dead before midnight.
Oscorp had already used more than fifty homeless people as test subjects. Judging by Norman's twisted expression earlier that day, Spencer fully believed Norman wouldn't hesitate to throw his whole family into the fire as well.
After a long struggle, Spencer set the spoon's handle to his eye, then slammed his head against the wall.
"Norman… please spare my child…"
The last thought crossed his mind as he collapsed to the cell floor, motionless.
…
"I hope Father gets released soon."
In a Queens apartment, Alistair Smythe lay awake, staring at the wheelchair by his bed.
The place had lousy soundproofing; he could hear his mother tossing and turning next door, with the occasional sigh.
"The news says Dad damaged a lot of protected plants in Central Park and could face about five years."
"But he's a scientist—Mr. Norman from Oscorp will surely bail him out… When it's light, I'll tell Mom that. Maybe it'll make her feel better."
A whooshing sound rose outside—not like a car, more like a jetpack from the movies.
Alistair ignored it—probably a car, or some neighbor kid's RC plane.
Then—crash.
The window in his mother's room shattered. A hollow, razor-edged laugh cut the air; his mother screamed.
A wet squelch—and then silence.
Alistair's mind went blank. Instinctively he reached for his phone to call the police—when his bedroom door blew inward and something was tossed into his hands.
"Mother…"
He looked down and saw what it was. Even with paralyzed legs, strength seemed to flood them; he wanted to run, to call for help.
Just before he could work that miracle, the ghastly laugh sounded again. The killer stood at his bedside.
One swipe—and Alistair's heart was yanked from his chest and crushed. In his final instant he saw the murderer clearly: a demon in all green, eyes glowing yellow.
His consciousness snapped. A pumpkin bomb clinked to the floor, beeping, while the Green Goblin kicked his glider through the roof and shot into the sky.
Boom!
The bomb erupted, fire and smoke swallowing the building as the shrill laughter faded upward.
…
Drip, drip.
Water echoed in the quiet sewers.
Batman moved silently through Brooklyn's tunnels, closing on the site of Otto Octavius's fight with the police.
One corner away now—the clank of metal rang faintly, as if someone were hammering.
He eased an eye around the bend. Octavius stood with his back to him, four mechanical arms working in concert to repair equipment damaged in the day's battle.
Click.
Armor plates slid off Batman's forearm; his micro-computer popped out. He tried to hack into the arms.
He'd seen it in the lab: though neurally linked, the tentacles had a chip to translate neural signals into electronic control.
If he could hack them, taking down a paunchy middle-aged scientist would be much simpler.
But…
"Failed. No electronic signal from the arms."
Batman studied the junction where arm met spine—and saw the ruined chip.
"The chip's gone, but he can still operate them… Which means they're no longer electronically driven—they're wired straight to his nervous system.
"Is that what turned a seemingly cold but world-minded physicist into a murderous 'Doctor Octopus'?"
Conclusion drawn, he stepped out.
Hypotheses had to be tested. Only then could he work out how to restore Octavius.
Swish!
The instant he revealed himself, Octavius still had his back turned—but all four arms lifted in the same heartbeat, three-pronged tips opening and closing like snakes' tongues.
The arms' reaction spun Octavius around. He watched Batman advance down the sewer.
"Mask and skulking. You here to stop me?"
Batman halted ten meters out. "No. I'm here to help."
He wasn't going to start a fight here; this was under a busy district—any clash could cause collateral damage.
"Dressed like that? I doubt your sincerity."
Doctor Octopus grinned. Two arms jabbed to the floor and vaulted him forward; the other two speared over his shoulders toward Batman—one at the chest, one at the head. No words, no warning—straight for the kill.
"His style is different now. Is it the arms affecting him—or a buried evil brought to the surface?"
Ice raced up Batman's spine; the danger sense he'd trained made time stretch.
He stepped in, not back. A tip scraped his shoulder plate with a spray of sparks.
His right hand flicked. Two batarangs—thicker than normal—whispered toward the arms.
"…A joke? Batarangs against my tentacles?"
Ting.
Lightning-fast, the arms knocked them aside. Octavius sneered.
Batman said nothing. His left hand skimmed his belt; a gel bomb arced out. Otto snatched it with a tentacle, glanced at it, and tossed it at his feet.
"If that's the best you've got—oddball toys—don't waste my time."
Spikes slid from all four arm tips.
"Chip destroyed. Arms slaved to his nervous system…" Batman thought, drawing a new tool from his belt: a sonic device.
A moment later, a high-frequency blast—nearly inaudible to humans but brutal to precision sensors and direct neural feedback—poured into the arms' control pathways and, through them, into Octavius's brain.
"Aaaaah!"
Octavius screamed—a shrill, flayed sound—as though needles stabbed his mind. The arms convulsed, thrashing like berserk pythons against wall and floor.
The sonic—"shock-sonic," really—had been prepped after the Daredevil fight; it worked just as well here.
Thunk-thunk.
Two batarangs snapped out. The gel canister Octavius had dropped split; the special fluid foamed and hardened, pinning his feet.
Huff—huff.
Gasping, Octavius tried to rally. One arm dragged up and swiped, but it was slower and weaker; Batman slipped aside.
Then Octavius saw a faint white vapor seeping from those two thicker batarangs he'd blocked at the start.
Batman hadn't closed the distance; Otto's heavy breathing had already pulled in a lungful.
"Sedative gas?" he rasped—knowing the answer.
Batman didn't reply. A final custom dart flew—the tranq.
As with the Spider-Slayer, Batman had prepped multiple plans—up to and including special explosives for the arms or attempts to tear them free.
He didn't need them. Doctor Octopus fell—cleanly—before careful prep and a complete plan.
~~~
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