Well? Shall we heal him, or let him live?
A slightly irritated elven healer.
*********************************************
I knew Doctor Connors was slightly insane. Who else would worry about and help settle a terrifying monster from space? But only slightly. What that man proposed...
Once I became the Dark Lord—provided it did not resemble that dream, brr—I would absolutely appoint him my adviser. Or chief executioner. With his imagination, the position would suit him perfectly.
Mengele proposed nothing less than injecting a portion of my cells into Parker—not pure, but suspended in saline after subjecting them thoroughly to sound of a particular frequency and volume. The cells would clearly not enjoy the process.
In that 'half-disassembled' condition, they ought to revert to instinctive behavior. Inside Peter's body, they would therefore merge completely with the most 'advanced' cells—the ones whose evolution had progressed farther than the rest. Then I would restore my own original cell count, killing the agents sent into Spider-Man's carcass. In turn, they would take Parker's mutated cells with them into death.
Afterward, we would only have to remove the dead tissue from his body—there should be little, and the body could theoretically manage by itself—and inject several stimulants and strengthening compounds. The method might genuinely help, though not completely. It would not stop the evolution, but it would eliminate unpleasant effects such as losing his powers.
At the same time, my identity would remain hidden from Spider-Man. Everything could be explained as preparations we had 'invented.' When I asked why Doc had not handed me over, I received a wounded, bewildered look and a lecture.
"You're a good person, even if you often behave like a complete pest. But you haven't become a monster, Nazgûl." He studied me carefully. "And you try to do good as you understand it. Of course, I owe you a great deal, just as I owe Spider-Man. I would rather wait until the two of you resolve your differences yourselves than betray one friend to another. I don't have so many friends that I can afford to betray them," the professor finished sadly.
"All right. I'm sorry, Doc. I was wrong," I admitted.
At that moment, I wanted to tell Curt the whole truth rather than only the fragment I had given him during our earlier conversation. But common sense defeated sentimentality. Connors did not need to know everything. The truth would strike him too hard, and I still had no desire to lose such a mentor and, after all, a friend.
"Forgotten," the professor concluded. "Now, what do you think of my plan?"
Curt returned to the subject.
"What can I say? It will hurt. A great deal. And if the process has already advanced far enough to affect his brain and nervous system, the 'treatment' might kill Spider-Man—or leave him an idiot. But he seems to have come to us in time, so it should be fine. Probably."
"Hm. We need to reduce the risks."
"We'll try. First, no acoustic treatment. I can give my fragments the necessary instructions myself. I've had time to practice."
"Good. Should we add dye? Anthracite-black liquid inside a syringe may awaken suspicions you don't want Spider-Man to have," Doc said thoughtfully.
"Changing the color isn't a problem. The liquid will be transparent. I'm more concerned about pain. We'll effectively be cutting living tissue throughout almost his entire body at once."
"I can offer nothing beyond analgesics. I doubt Spider-Man trusts us enough to agree to general anesthesia."
"We should offer it, but keep a syringe of morphine close at hand," I said with a nod. "Still, all of this treats consequences. What about the cause?"
"We can pass him through the emitter. It will slow the process, but even then he'll become a monster in approximately five years."
Curt sighed heavily.
"Five years isn't nothing. We may invent something during that time."
We spent the rest of the day arguing ourselves hoarse, proposing and rejecting theories while searching for other methods. Nothing came of it. Then the moment of truth arrived.
Spider-Man entered the laboratory through the window we had politely left ajar. Everything was ready for treatment. Three syringes lay on the table: one containing my cells, one an analgesic, and one a stimulant.
"Any progress?" Spider-Man asked, slightly nervous.
"How should I put it? We cannot cure you completely—not yet. But we've found a way to slow your evolution considerably. Walter, please explain the details."
"Using your blood, I managed to construct... hm... antibodies is probably the closest term. They will search for tissue in your body that has mutated beyond the necessary point and remove it.
"Because the tissue isn't concentrated in one place but distributed throughout the body, destroying it will cause painful but nonfatal damage." I paused thoughtfully. "Oh. We should try the same approach against cancer cells. It might cure certain types at an early stage... Right. Forgive me, I became distracted.
"After my antibodies have done their work—and they truly were mine in every sense—Doctor Connors will use his emitter to slow the evolutionary process itself.
"But understand: even this combined method gives you only about five years. At most."
I had perhaps overdone it. The news struck him hard. It was painful merely to look at Peter. The mask hid his face, but his fallen shoulders and the despair in his emotions spoke clearly enough. Learning that you might not reach thirty—and that if you did, you might reach it as some kind of monster—was terrifying. Wait.
I could sense his emotions? How? I tried to understand. If I learned to feel other people's emotions, perhaps later I could transmit emotions as I had done with the Hobgoblin. I withdrew so deeply into myself that Curt's shout and light shaking were required to return me to reality.
"Walter! At last. Did you go inside yourself and get lost?" Doc complained.
But I could distinctly sense his concern. Was I going to feel everyone like this permanently? No. Absolutely not.
"Forgive me. I was thinking. Shall we begin?"
Peter nodded.
"There are two options. General anesthesia, which I recommend, or local anesthesia while you remain conscious. Which do you choose?"
"Local anesthesia," Spider-Man decided after some thought and rolled up the costume's sleeve.
I cleaned the skin with an alcohol pad and injected the analgesic, followed by the 'antibody' solution. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then Parker convulsed so violently that I began fearing for his spine. And that was after an entire syringe of morphine. Instead of a scream, a rasp escaped his throat. My cells had evidently reached the vocal cords.
When it ended, Spider-Man rose with difficulty. The experience had not been pleasant for me either. After entering the organism, I had to determine exactly what to capture and separate from Peter, while making certain I did not tear away anything extra—brain tissue, for example.
As training in taking control, the experience was priceless. Yet even at close range, directing the work of thousands of cells throughout Spider-Man's body was extremely difficult. It felt as though my own brains would soon emerge through my ears.
I appeared to have succeeded.
As expected, some brain cells had already begun transforming, but nothing could be done about those. A frightening voice pulled me from analyzing my sensations and the information that still reached me through some unexplained channel from cells inside the patient.
"How often do I have to endure this?"
His voice now resembled my Nazgûl hiss.
I approached Peter, rolled both sleeves up, and used a scraper to collect the brown sweat that had appeared. At the same time, I gathered and reabsorbed my cells, leaving only the minimum 'watch set' inside Parker.
"At least once a month. Next time will be much easier. Today we cleaned everything accumulated from the moment you became Spider-Man until now, so we destroyed most cells that had transformed or begun transforming.
"But you should give blood once a week. I need to know how the evolution proceeds so I can optimize the antibodies before the next treatment."
"Thank you, Walter. I owe you."
"Forget it. In the square, you saved my ass too. This is less than I owe you. Now it's time for Doctor Connors."
"Ah, I've dreamed all my life of becoming a mad scientist's laboratory rabbit," Peter said, trying to sound cheerful.
"Then don't waste the opportunity. Doc is waiting."
I smiled and injected the stimulant.
"I can hear every word, you know!" Curt called cheerfully from the next room.
"Oops..." The former and current assistant responded in perfect unison.
Several hours later, the exhausted Parker crawled away in an unknown direction. My marker reported that it was somewhere southwest. Curt and I held another conference.
"What do you think?"
The professor looked tired and somewhat older.
"As expected. Five years, unless the speed of his transformation changes sharply for some reason.
"But my method can treat him for no more than three. After that, there is a chance he'll die from pain shock. You saw what happened today, and that was after a full syringe of analgesic."
Doc grew darker.
"Do you have any ideas at all?" Exhaustion and despair sounded in his voice.
"None except Bonding. But that would also be death—perhaps not for the body, but certainly for Peter's personality."
"Bad. We'll keep thinking."
We failed to produce anything useful. We closed the laboratory and went home. As I walked, I thought. How had Peter been cured in canon? I remembered a preparation that dramatically accelerated his evolution, but how had they reversed the process? I had considered the evolution-accelerating compound several times. What might such a substance do to me?
I hoped I had demonstrated enough value that Parker would consult me before injecting an unknown medicine with an extremely vague description into his body. That preparation was precisely why I had not chosen the simplest solution: knock Spider-Man unconscious, fill him with myself, and return him to normal within several days.
It would not be truly simple, but it was possible. Selfish? Yes. Dishonorable? Without question. But I had never dressed myself in a paladin's armor and did not intend to begin.
For Spider-Man, the substance would cause only problems. For me, it might be extremely useful. The funniest part was that I had not lied in a single word. The method described above was effectively partial Bonding. Full Bonding truly would kill Peter's personality, because I had no intention of killing my own.
I suspected Curt would dislike my reasoning. But he could not be upset by something he did not know, correct?
****************************************
Michael Morbius.
"Mayer! Bastard! Humiliating me in front of the entire group—in front of Felicia!"
The student struck the wall of his room with all his strength. A startled bat fell from the ceiling.
"How am I supposed to show my face when my mere appearance anywhere near the institute produces Homeric laughter?"
Michael continued raging.
"No. That bastard needs an accident. Something like this cannot be forgiven. Perhaps I can find something interesting and compromising in his laboratory. It's worth trying."
Morbius left his home and walked toward the laboratory building. Inside one of its rooms, in a refrigerator, lay a sample of extremely interesting blood. At the same time, inside a supposedly escape-proof prison, a small robot carrying an unusual device and a note entered the isolation cell of one of the most dangerous criminals.