Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

The glass walls of Kurt Connors's office in the research wing of Oscorp opened a panoramic view of the laboratory — a sterile kingdom of chrome, glass, and flickering holographic interfaces. But today Kurt saw neither his empire, nor the skyscrapers of New-York outside the window. His world had narrowed to several monitors, covered in code, and a holographic projection, making the heart contract. In the center of the room, in a ring of sensors, floated a three-dimensional, most detailed model of a mouse. Its paw, marked with markers, glowed a poisonous green — an indicator of the introduction of the regeneration serum. Nearby, in real time, ran the lines of that very "Decay Rate Algorithm" — a formula which was supposed to become the key to the immortality of tissues, but instead became an elegy of death. Dr. Connors, wearing a white lab coat and with eyes sunken from lack of sleep, stared into the projection. His single hand flicked quickly across the keyboard of the virtual tablet. — Introducing the catalyst, — he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper, accustomed to it over long hours of solitude in the laboratory. On a separate monitor, in the corner, were demonstrated in accelerated filming the results of the last series of experiments. Test mice. First — the introduction of the formula. Then — an explosive, incredible growth of cells. The paw, so to speak, began to regenerate with a phenomenal speed. On the projection the cells of the "paw" exploded with a riot of life. The division proceeded with a fantastic, unthinkable speed. Bones, muscles, nerve endings — everything was restoring before the eyes. For an instant Doctor Connors allowed himself to exhale — a smile of triumph had already begun to touch his lips. And immediately it froze. On the monitors, tracking the stability of the cells, crept alarming red graphs. Molecular bonds, just recently being so strong, began to weaken. First, the molecular structure of the new tissues lost stability. Then began an uncontrolled, avalanche-like decay. The cells began to devour themselves, turning into an amorphous, mutated mass. The projection showed this in the smallest details: the healthy tissues began to blacken, become covered with ulcers and blister, until they turned into a meaningless biological slime. And under each such video stood the same cold, lifeless stamp: SUBJECT № 733 - DECEASED. The next mouse on the screen let out a last, pitiful squeak and froze. Its only just regenerated paw represented a terrifying sight — a jumble of bones, skin, and something unidentified, similar to a tumor. It fell and died. — No… — whispered Kurt. — No, no, no! Hold on! Stabilizer… activate the stabilizer! He poked his finger at the tablet's interface, entering commands. But it was too late. The process had become irreversible. On the hologram, the perfectly restored paw began… to disintegrate. Not like a wound, but like a sandcastle in the rain. The cells were losing their shape, turning into an amorphous, mutated biomass. The bones crumbled, the muscles spread out into a gray slime. This was not decay — this was a total, instantaneous collapse at the molecular level. Apoptosis, raised to the absolute. The projection of the mouse let out a quiet, digital squeak and went out. On the main monitor, a red indicator began to blink, and a cold, lifeless font output the message: SUBJECT № 734 - DECEASED. REASON: COMPLETE CELLULAR DECAY. The silence of the laboratory was torn by a furious, animal cry. Doctor Connors grabbed from the table a stack of printouts — the results of months of work — and tore them with a force, on which his scholarly appearance did not seem capable. Scraps of paper with formulas and graphs showered down onto the sterile floor, like snow on a grave. — Why?! — his cry echoed off the glass walls. He grabbed his head, his finger dug into the gray temple. — Everything is stable! All calculations are correct! The division speed is perfect! What is missing?! What am I missing?! His gaze fell on the safe in the corner of the office. There lay the few surviving after the catastrophe records of Richard Parker. Fragmentary notes, sketches, genius guesses, not brought to completion. Richard worked differently — he saw the solution, like a flash, and then built the theory under it. Kurt was his opposite — scrupulous, pedantic, verifying every step. And now this difference was killing him. "He knew, — raced in Kurt's head, and his breath caught. — Damn it, he found the answer! He found the stabilizer! And took it with him to the grave!" Despair, bitter and familiar, rose to his throat. He had spent years. Years of life, years of research, the resources of an entire corporation. And it all rested on one single, ill-fated variable, which he could not calculate. He slowly lowered himself onto the rotating chair, staring at the monitor blinking red. His gaze caught on the line: "SUBJECT DECEASED". And suddenly an icy lightning pierced his consciousness. Not a scientific guess. A terrible, unbearable parallel. "All subjects have deceased." The airplane. Richard and Mary. "Objects". Missing without a trace. Recognized as perished. "Have deceased". "I cannot understand what is missing" What if the airplane not simply fell? What if with it happened something… different? Something that took it apart into molecules in the air? A certain… decay rate algorithm? He could not understand what had happened with the airplane. Why there were no wreckage. Why there was no signal. "What was missing?" in that data, that was provided to him. The word "decay" sounded in his head with a sinister, universal echo. Decay biological. Decay physical. Two sides of one medal? Two facets of one incomprehensible catastrophe? With one trembling hand he launched the simulation again. On the hologram another digital mouse began its short path from hope to horror. Kurt did not tear his gaze away. He was looking not at science. He was looking at the ghost of an airplane, disappearing in the sky. At the ghost of a best friend, who, perhaps, just like he now, in the last seconds of life desperately tried to understand: what is missing? What went wrong? He was a boy, who had lost a friend. A man, who was afraid of losing a son. And a lonely, desperate person, who was peering into the very essence of decay — into its merciless, all-consuming nature — and was not finding an answer. Only the silence of the high-tech laboratory. And the cold, dead stamp on the screen, which was an epitaph to all his hopes. "DECEASED".

***

The door to the house opened with a quiet, almost inaudible click. Kurt Connors entered the hallway, driven by muscle memory alone. His shoulders were hunched under an invisible weight, his face — a gray, lifeless mask. The smell of ozonated air from the laboratory seemed to have soaked into him through and through, driving away any semblance of home comfort. He mechanically hung up the brown jacket, his gaze emptily slid over the ideal order in the hallway and drowned in the semi-darkness of the living room. Silence. Thick, pressing. He was accustomed to silence, but this one was different — not peaceful, but empty. And then his gaze fell on the kitchen. On the table, under a glass dome lid, stood a plate. Next to it — cutlery, neatly laid out on a napkin, and a glass with water. This was a dinner. Prepared, set, but untouched. Kurt froze, his tired brain slowly processing the information. Peter. He had waited. He had prepared dinner and waited. An icy wave of shame and guilt washed over him, washing away the remnants of professional indifference. He approached the table and touched the glass lid. Cold. Everything had long cooled down. An icy wave of shame and guilt washed over him, washing away the remnants of professional indifference. He approached the table and touched the glass lid. Cold. Everything had long cooled down. He snatched back his hand, as if burned. His gaze darted to the electronic clock on the wall. It was long past midnight. He had missed their usual dinner. He had not warned. He had again gone into his work headlong, having forgotten about everything in the world. "I am becoming the same as all of them," raced through his head as a chilling realization. — "Like those scientists who see in the world only objects for research." He set the kettle to heat, his movements were sharp, angular. While the water was heating, he on tiptoe, with an absurd caution of a big man, went up to the second floor and slightly opened the door to Peter's room. The boy was sleeping. But his sleep was restless. He lay on his side, having buried his face in the pillow, dressed in day clothes — apparently, never having managed to change, while he waited. His face was pale, dark shadows had laid under his eyes. On the bedside table lay an open physics textbook and a bitten apple. Kurt's heart contracted. He had tried so hard not to be like his own indifferent parents. Had tried so hard to give Peter what he himself had been deprived of — a feeling of being needed, of importance. And here he, in pursuit of a ghost of a solution, had behaved exactly the same. He carefully closed the door and went back down. The kettle had already switched off. He poured himself a mug of the burning liquid, but did not drink, just watching the rising steam. He passed into the living room and lowered himself onto the sofa. His gaze fell on the tablet left by Peter. The screen was not locked. On it was opened an article about the regenerative properties of arachnid cells. Next to it — several tabs with forums where smart high school students discussed complex problems. And the most important thing — in the most visible place was saved a drawing. A schematic, but very accurate depiction of a tie clip, which Kurt had wanted to make for himself many years ago. The caption read: "Version 1.0. For greater stability. Designed by P.P.". Peter had not simply waited. He had waited, trying to be closer to him. Delving into his world. Making his world his own. Kurt threw his head back onto the sofa back and closed his eyes. Before him again floated up the images: the mouse disintegrating on the hologram, the cold letters "DECEASED", the furious feeling of powerlessness. And then — the photograph of Richard. His smile. His confidence. And here it dawned on him. Not a scientific insight. A simple, human one. Richard had not found the answer. He had found the "approach". He saw science not as a set of formulas, but as an art. He trusted intuition. And Kurt had been trying to squeeze the genius, living guess of his friend into the dry, lifeless frames of his own algorithms. He had been looking for the stabilizer in the formula, and not in the principle. He was so desperate to recapture the past, to grow a new arm, to prove something to his friend's ghost, that he forgot about the present. He forgot about the boy who was waiting for him here, in this quiet house, with a cold dinner. The boy who was Richard's most real, most important legacy. Kurt rose from the sofa, approached the table, and removed the lid from the plate. He took a fork and began to eat. The cold pasta, the dried-up sauce. He ate it, not feeling the taste, swallowing it in lumps together with his own guilt and a new, bitter understanding. He had not found the answer in the laboratory. He had found it here. In the cold food and in the warmth of the child sleeping upstairs. The answer was not in defeating decay. The answer was in valuing what had not yet decayed. What was alive. And required his love not as a genius scientist, but as a father. Having finished, he carried the plate into the dishwasher, washed the fork, and put it in its place. He went back upstairs, looked into Peter's room once more, straightened the blanket on him which had slipped onto the floor, and quietly closed the door. The next morning he will wake up Peter not as always, but with a plate of hot toast and a mug of cocoa. And he will say only three words: — Sorry, I am late. And this will be more important than any scientific sensation. Because this will be the truth.

***

The silence in the house the next day was different. Not tense, but rather reconciled. Kurt woke Peter not with the ring of an alarm clock, but with the clatter of a plate with toast and the aroma of fresh cocoa, brought into the room. — Get up, — he said with a voice in which the usual dryness was mixed with a new, uncertain softness. — We will be late. Peter, still sleepy and remembering yesterday's resentment, stared at him in surprise. But the sight of Kurt in an apron over a white formal shirt (an absurd sight) and the sincere embarrassment in his eyes melted the ice. They ate breakfast in silence, but already without the heaviness. — There's a science fair at school today, — Peter said suddenly, setting down his empty mug. — If… if you're not too busy. — Peter didn't finish. He was afraid Kurt wouldn't come because of work. Kurt, usually immediately immersed in thoughts about work, only nodded. — At what time? This greatly surprised Peter. He became happy and said: — At 3:15. The fair was in full swing when Kurt entered the school gym, deafened by the din of voices and the motley variety of projects. He felt out of his element among the crowd of enthusiastic parents and excited children. He was looking for Peter. And found him at a modest stand in the corner. Not at a huge model of a volcano or a complex model of the solar system, but at a table on which stood a transparent container with soil, and above it rose a strange framework of wire and plastic, to which small wires were connected. Peter, in his best shirt, with confidence on his face, was explaining something to the teacher who had approached. Seeing Kurt, he froze, and on his face hope flared up. — This… what is this? — asked Kurt, approaching and attentively studying the construction. — This is a biomimetic stimulator of the root system growth, — blurted out Peter, his words beautifully flowing like a river. — I read about the influence of weak electric currents on cell division in plants. And I thought… if it is possible to accelerate the growth of roots, perhaps this can be applied in areas with poor soil or after landslides, to restore vegetation faster… This… this is only a prototype for now. He spoke about voltage, about frequencies, about cell metabolism. And in his words, in his burning eyes, Kurt saw not a school project. He saw a spark. The very one that was in Richard. Not a dry following of formulas, but a bold, almost crazy idea, an attempt to do something important. He spoke about voltage, about frequencies, about cell metabolism. And in his words, in his burning eyes, Kurt saw not a school project. He saw a spark. The very one that was in Richard. Not a dry following of formulas, but a bold, almost crazy idea, an attempt to do something important. At that moment, Flash Thompson with his gang approached the stand. His project — a huge, garishly painted model of a rocket — was displayed in the center of the hall. — Well, Parker? — he snorted, — showing how batteries kill the grass? Brilliant. I hope you win the prize for the most boring sight. Peter shrank, his confidence instantly evaporated. But before he managed to say anything, Kurt stepped forward. He did not raise his voice. He simply turned to Flash, and his cold, collected, "professorial" gaze made him retreat a step. — "A boring sight," — repeated Connors with a light, cunning mockery in his voice. — Interesting. And how to explain (can you explain) the principle of operation of your jet engine? Or did you simply glue together a pretty cardboard tube? — Kurt specifically asked him a tricky question, knowing that he would have a stupor and would not be able to answer. Flash reddened and opened his mouth, but could not produce anything except a mumble. Flash reddened and opened his mouth, but could not produce anything except a mumble. — I thought so, — Kurt said quietly. — Mister Parker, — he turned back to Peter, — … on the contrary, can not only explain every aspect of his project, but also sees its practical application. This is real science. And not bright packaging. He turned his back to the stunned Flash and again addressed Peter, as if nothing had happened. — Did you use alternating or direct current? And how did you solve the problem of soil electrolysis? Peter's eyes lit up again. He started the setup, and they began talking about numbers, about resistance, about potential. Kurt asked precise, complex questions, seeing in Peter a colleague, not a child. The parents around watched with curiosity the strange pair — the famous scientist and the lanky teenager, heatedly discussing something by the modest stand. At the end of the fair, Peter did not win the main prize. It was received by the model of a volcano, erupting vinegar and soda. But when the winners were announced, Kurt was standing nearby, and his hand was lying on Peter's shoulder. And this was more important than any ribbon. On the way home, Peter did not fall silent for a second, analyzing every project, every word said by Kurt to Flash. — …and he just stood and was silent! — he finished rapturously. Kurt looked at the road, but at the corners of his mouth played a smile. — Brute force has nothing in common with the power of the mind. Remember that. They entered the house, and Peter immediately reached for his project to put it away. — Wait, — Kurt stopped him. — Leave it. Let me look at it some more. He approached the table and attentively, already without hurry, studied the construction. — Do you have the drawings? The calculations? — Of course! — Peter dashed upstairs for the notebook. They sat at the kitchen table until late evening. Kurt, with a pencil in hand, showed Peter where it is possible to strengthen the current, what material to choose for the electrodes better, to avoid corrosion. He did not do it for him. He guided. He taught. And Peter caught every word. He saw in Kurt's eyes not disappointment from another failure in the laboratory, but excitement. Interest. Pride. "For him." Before sleep, Peter stopped in the doorway of his room. — Thank you for coming, Dad. Kurt, who had already taken off his glasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, looked at him. — Thanks for the invitation. It was… the most interesting project at the fair. And this was not simply politeness. This was the truth. In this clumsy, raw, but bold project he saw something that he had long lost in his own work — the belief that science can be not just a struggle with decay, but an act of creation. And this belief was returned to him by his son. And this was not simply politeness. This was the truth. In this clumsy, raw, but bold project he saw something that he had long lost in his own work — the belief that science can be not just a struggle with decay, but an act of creation. And this belief was returned to him by his son.