Chapter Text
Earth-96283
Storm clouds rolled in, heavy with bruised underbellies. An imposing performance of bad temper. No one brooded like nature. No one except for Dr. Otto Octavius. He was disgustingly alive and cursed with the hot, bubbling poison, which was love. Why didn't it just die when she did?
Love was recognition, a tight feeling in the chest, and no thoughts other than the realization of "oh, there you are. I have been waiting for you for an awfully long time." But, the recognition had only occurred once to Otto, and now, it was only a burning memory. Heartache. Blazing in his golden hell alone, but not without thousands of disembodied voices all clamoring to drown out his own thoughts.
He drank, smoked, and forced himself to slave away in the lab, creating all night, but all of the experiments were uninspired and faulty. There was no reason for testing and building anymore, only destroying. Octavius would look in the mirror, unfeeling black eyes beneath dark brows. Beneath, even darker circles. His reflection wouldn't move; only the red-eyed actuators spread out behind him like a black halo, dark rays. His disillusionment and delusion prevailed.
Those four mentally-controlled telescoping tentacles were all he had. All he was. Who was Otto? The voices always dominated his own. They did not have a flawed design. He was the one with the defects, he was sure.
The pincers rotated in a screwdriver-like twisting motion. Although there were no nerve endings throughout the length of his artificial arms, Octavius could "feel" basic sensations with them as a result of the mutagenic changes. He could mentally perceive "tactile" sensations by feeling the amount of electrical resistance the pincer's electric motors feel when the pincers grasped an object. But it was a muted sensation. Much duller than feeling with his own hands, but he began to rely on the artificial limbs more and more. Everything felt much duller like he was underwater.
And despite having been orderly and methodical his entire life, the dirty tiles and the flickering fluorescent buzz in the yellowed bathroom showed just how far he'd fallen since (Y/N)'s death. He was just an echo. Despite living in the epicenter that was New York City, he was uncannily alone. Alone with his decaying body and the overpowering influence of his creation.
The only thing that kept Octavius from going down in flames was the arguably hotter hatred for Spider-Man. The sole cause of all his misery and strife.
If he could kill Spider-Man, he could die feeling fulfilled, having avenged his darling (Y/N).