Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

Left lip Peter swollen and ached, and under eye ripe bruise poured crimson-blue color. Fight with Flash Thompson in yard of school on lunch was short, stupid and predictable. Reason — another one taunt about "daddy-cripple". On this time Peter not restrained. He not regretted — adrenaline still buzzed in blood, — but look his was miserable. He came to aunt May and uncle Ben not through front door, as usually, but through black motion, hoping to slip unnoticed. Not came out. — God right! — gasped May, having seen him on kitchen. — Peter! What happened? — Nothing, aunt May, — he muttered, averting gaze. — Just unsuccessfully fell. Uncle Ben, with newspaper in hands, appraisingly looked at him. He silently stood up, took out from freezer steak and extended to Peter. — Apply. Will remove pain, — said uncle. Peter pressed cold meat to left lip. — In basement leaked capacitor. Let's go, will help. — said uncle Ben to Peter. — Apply. Blow right always will recognize. Peter, pressing cold meat to lip, nodded. Basement met Peter cool dampness and smell of old wood. Water already subsided, but on concrete floor gleamed puddles, and several boxes in corner got wet through. Peter sighed and took up for work, dragging wet cardboard coffins with family archive to dry part. — Honestly tell, to me to call his father? — asked uncle Ben, sorting things in box. His voice was calm, without condemnation. — No — no. — calmly said Peter. Uncle Ben bent down to box, closer to Peter and said. — Understood. Aunt May nothing not will say. You to me believe, in anger she terrible. Okay. Look, that here still can be saved and come up. — said uncle, going up by stairs. Peter bent down, to lift another soaked one box, and froze. Behind it, in niche between beam and wall, where fell off piece of paneling, lay object, which not could there be. Worn leather briefcase. Heart Peter skipped beat. He recognized it. Instantly, without shadow of doubt. ...rain knocks on glass of car. Night. Mom drives, her hands confidently lie on wheel. On passenger seat, next to her, on right side — dad. He opens this very briefcase, that very, with worn corners and faded leather. Takes out from there thin folder with two red crossed-out zeros, something checks, leafs through. His face serious, preoccupied. He turns around, looks at Peter, who sits on back seat of car and puts folder back into briefcase. It was last time, when he saw them alive. Peter, forgetting about bruise and about pain, bent down and pulled out briefcase. It was very light, damp to the touch. Fingers Peter stumbled upon cut-out, even inscription above clasp of briefcase. He wiped dirt with thumb. Protruded engraving: R.P. R.P. Richard Parker. He stood, not moving, squeezing in hands past. Noise of argument on kitchen, cold of basement — all this went away somewhere far. Finally he took deep breath and, pressing find to chest, trudged upstairs. On kitchen reigned habitual chaos. Uncle Ben something convincingly told aunt May, she was indignant about price on work of plumbers. They both fell silent, having seen Peter. He slowly, like sleepwalker, approached dining table and looked at briefcase in his hands. Uncle Ben and aunt May sharply fell silent and looked at him. — Would you believe it... — said uncle, and his eyes rounded from astonishment and something else, similar to pain. — I completely about it forgot... Briefcase of your father... H–h-he asked us it to keep... — he fell silent, swallowing lump in throat. Peter silently looked at him, not in strength to utter word. — He saw it in shop on Ninth Avenue, — continued uncle Ben, sitting down at table, and on his face appeared warm, bitter smile. — To him was nineteen. Who at nineteen walks with briefcases? And guess, who stood behind counter? Peter, still being under power of shock, only shook head. — Not know. — said Peter, shrugging shoulders. — Your mom, — smiled Ben, and aunt May stood in kitchen, making likeness of smile. To her was unpleasant this topic. — So they and met. — finished uncle, encouragingly smiling to Peter. Aunt May sadly smiled, wiping hands about towel. Peter slowly ran fingers over leather, feeling roughnesses and traces of time. — Why he asked you it to put away? — quietly asked he. — There but... there but nothing is. You looked? There is nothing, — still in state of shock spoke Peter to uncle Ben, looking in face and shaking head, not knowing, what else to say. Aunt May sighed. — Your father was very secretive person. Peter smirked and in shock, shaking head in sign of agreement uttered: — This I know. He unfastened worn locks and opened briefcase. Inside smelled of old leather, paper and dust. He began to sort through contents: several pens, calculator, page of something. Disappointment began to creep up to throat. Emptiness. And then his fingers stumbled upon something soft, lying on bottom, not crumpled. Envelope? No, photograph. He pulled it out. Black-white shot. Two men in white coats stood next in modern laboratory. One — his father, Richard Parker, gloomily looked into lens of camera. Serious. Second — young Kurt Conners, with one left hand, looking into camera with serious, concentrated confidence, like Richard. Peter looked at inscription, slightly above shot. It was printed in large black letters: "Genetics of crossbreeding species — scientific fiction or scientific fact?". And below, was signed shot. Who on it depicted: "Doctor Richard Parker (on right), shot made in Tower Oscorp. Next to him — doctor Curtis Conners." Peter slowly raised eyes and looked at aunt and uncle. His own reflection in glass of kitchen cabinet in passing showed him swollen face, but he already not felt pain. He felt incredible, all-consuming connection. Peter slowly raised eyes and looked at aunt and uncle. His own reflection in glass of kitchen cabinet in passing showed him swollen face, but he already not felt pain. He felt incredible, all-consuming connection. — Look, — he whispered, handing them photograph. They bent down, and in silence of kitchen was audible only ticking of clock. Ticking, counting down time until that moment, when this photograph will see Kurt Conners. And when secrets of past will begin finally to reveal.

***

House met Peter habitual silence, disturbed only even humming of systems. Kurt still not was — he was delayed on one of endless meetings in Oscorp. This postponement was gift of fate. Peter almost on tiptoes went up to his room. Heart pounded somewhere in throat. He felt himself strangely — as if held in hands not photograph, but live, sleeping grenade. He shoved briefcase deep under bed, in darkest corner, where not reached even thorough cleaning. Dust settled on leather, hiding it for time. But shot he left. He sat on edge of bed, examining it in light of table lamp. Young, whole, concentrated Kurt. Serious, with shadow of thoughtfulness in gaze, Richard. They not looked into future with carefree smile — they looked into lens with expression of deep concentration of scientists, frozen on threshold of discovery. Peter ran finger over face of father, then over face of person, who became him father. Sadness and trembling excitement mixed in him into one heavy tangle. He heard, as downstairs opened and closed door. Steps sounded — firm, tired, but familiar to every note. Kurt was home. Peter took deep breath, shoved photograph into pocket of jeans and went downstairs. Kurt was taking off jacket in hallway. His face was mask of professional tiredness, but eyes, as always, came alive at sight of Peter. — How passed day? — asked he, hanging jacket on hanger. His gaze slid over bruise under eye of Peter, and in it flashed instant, sharp alarm. — Again Thompson? — Trifles, — brushed off Peter, feeling, how burns cheek. — Dad, I… I something found today at aunt and uncle. He tried to make his voice maximally natural, showing, that this simply interesting trinket. He pulled out from pocket photograph, trying not to look at it. — Sorted old boxes in basement, stumbled upon. I think, to you will be interesting. Kurt extended hand. His movements were such same precise, as always. But when his fingers touched paper, something in them flinched. He brought photograph to light, and his face changed. All tiredness, all tension of day instantly washed away. His features as if collapsed, became softer, more defenseless. He not said not word. He simply looked. His breathing became barely audible, intermittent. He slowly walked finger over image, repeating gesture of Peter, but with completely different, deeply personal pain. — Tower Oscorp, — finally whispered he, and his voice sounded alien, muffled. — Old laboratory on 38 floor. It rebuilt under server room… seems, years 3 ago. He tore gaze from photograph and looked at Peter. His eyes were shiny. — Where you found this? — asked he, and in his tone was not suspicion, only bare, unprotected surprise. — In box with old magazines, — lied Peter, and lump of guilt painfully curled in his stomach. — Lay between pages. Kurt again stared at snapshot, as if trying to burn it with gaze, pierce through time and return to that moment of time. — This snapshot… — his voice was low, almost whisper. — It made for press-release. But we were against. Too raw data, too many questions without answers. — He bitterly smirked. — We were similar on two racers on one car, where I pressed on gas, and he tried in time to press on brake. I rushed to result, thirsted breakthrough, hurried events, and he… — Kurt tapped finger on his stump, — and he was my conscience. Voice of reason, which was very cautious in everything. And how often he turned out to be right… How many times my haste led to failures, which he then helped to correct… He fell silent, again plunging into silent contemplation. In silence of kitchen his quiet breathing seemed deafeningly loud. — Thank you, that showed me this, Peter, — finally uttered he, and his voice acquired little firmness. He not began to inquire further. He accepted story about box. Perhaps, to him too desperately wanted into this to believe. He put photograph on kitchen table, as on altar, and turned to refrigerator. — Got hungry? I brought that lasagna, which you love. This was proposal of truce. Proposal to postpone pain of past and return to present, to their usual life, to dinner and conversations about science. Peter nodded, feeling, how lump in throat gradually dissolves. — Yes, great. I will set table. While Kurt reheated food, Peter furtively observed him. He saw, as that still several times threw glance at photograph, lying on table. Not with pain already, but with quiet, bitter tenderness and strange, aching longing for that time, when they with Richard were simply two serious people in white coats, doing science. Lie pressed on Peter heavy burden. But he saw, what wound slightly opened. And understood, that briefcase, hidden under bed, — this not simply artifact. This bomb. And he must be absolutely ready, when decides it to defuse. Not now. Not today. Today evening they had dinner, speaking about everything in world, except most main. And photograph of two young geniuses, frozen in serious, concentrated poses, lay between them on table, silent witness of that life, that was shattered into fragments, and that new life, that they, fragilely and uncertainly, tried to build together. Dinner passed in relaxed, almost mundane atmosphere. They discussed new articles in scientific journals, plans for weekend, all whatever, except photograph, which so and lay on table, as mute reproach to Peter for his lie. But Kurt, seemed, found in it some appeasement. He looked less tense, sometimes his gaze softly stopped on snapshot, and for moment in corners of his lips appeared something similar to smile. When Kurt went into study, to work with reports, Peter washed dishes, trying to act as can quieter and more natural. His heart pounded from impatience and alarm. As soon as last plate was put away on drying, he almost at run rushed upstairs into his room. He locked door and, holding breath, pulled out from under bed hidden briefcase. Brown leather was cool and slightly damp to touch. He carried it to table, placed under light of lamp and again unfastened locks. This time he was ready to study every trifle. He carefully shook out contents on tabletop. Objects, lain in darkness more than ten years, froze in mute cry. First thing Peter saw scientific calculator HP 48G — old-fashioned, with cracked buttons. Next fell 4 ballpoint pens Parker with logo Oscorp. Then — charcoal-black, brutal telephone Ericsson, symbol of era, long gone into flying. Next — case for glasses from soft leather. Inside glasses. Black. He took off lenses, carefully put them in small case, and put on glasses. Looked at himself in mirror. To him suited. Glasses matched vision, that surprised guy. And last on table fell white pass. Plastic card. Peter froze, holding breath, and lifted it. On pass was color photo of his father. Richard Parker looked at him seriously, almost sternly. On his face were those very black glasses with thin metal frame, that gave him appearance rather scientist-scout, than laboratory assistant. He was in white coat, collar of shirt neatly peeked out from under it. Below in bold font was output: Richard Parker Still lower — slightly smaller: Genetic Laboratory But most interesting was on sides from photo. On left, built in vertical line, were letters, foldingin word: PERSONAL. On right from photo was number: A00473. Peter turned over pass. On reverse was symbol OSCORP in circle. He sat and looked at these things, laid out before him, as archaeologist on just discovered artifacts of ancient civilization. He took in hands every object, trying to feel connection with person, who to it touched. He imagined, how his father dials number on this telephone, how writes with these pens his genius formulas, how takes off glasses and puts them in this case. Pass he held longest. He ran finger over cold plastic, over strict image of father. These glasses, this gaze... He seemed such unattainable and alien on this photograph. Such unlike smiling person from family snapshots. Peter not knew, what to him to do with this find. Show Kurt? But this meant to confess in lie about photograph. He looked at pass. Level of access A00473. Genetic Laboratory. Possibly, this was key. Key to that, over what his father worked in last days. To that, what, maybe, and led to catastrophe. He carefully gathered all things back into briefcase, leaving on table only pass. He put it next to photograph, where Richard and Kurt were together. Two sides of one secret. Two parts of puzzle, which to him yet only I had to to assemble. He hid briefcase back under bed and lay down to sleep, but sleep not came to him. Before eyes stood serious face of father on pass and concentrated faces of two scientists on old photograph. He felt, that stands on threshold of something huge. And that hidden under bed briefcase — this only beginning of long and dangerous path. Peter sat on edge of bed and took out briefcase of father. Put on knees. He already sorted through all obvious: pass, calculator, telephone. But something not gave him peace. Sensation, that most important part of puzzle still hidden, drilled him from inside. Scientific intuition, that lived in him, suggested — here something is. He turned briefcase flap down and several times smoothly rocked it from side to side, holding in air. Inside something softly, barely audibly moved. Not crash of calculator or telephone, but quiet, sliding sound. Something flat and light. Fingers his trembled. He hooked tiny slider and slowly, almost afraid to breathe, pulled it along seam to right. Zipper unfastened with quiet, silky sound, opening narrow, flat pocket, hidden in thickness of wall of briefcase. Heart Peter wildly pounded. He shoved two fingers inside and began to slide in upper fold of briefcase. Under zipper. THUMP! Suddenly, finger caught on protrusion and felt edge of something hard, smooth. Paper? Plastic? He slowly, with reverent trembling, extracted contents. This was folder. Thin, flexible, from worn yellow cardboard. Its corners were intact. On cover was neither title, nor name, nor number. Nothing, that could identify its contents. Only two characters in upper right corner of cover of cover, drawn with bold red permanent marker on white sticker: ∅∅. Peter frowned. He moved finger over these strange circles, crossed out with line. What they meant? Zero? Diameter sign? This could be anything — from mathematical symbol to personal cipher of his father. No obvious semantic load these signs for him not carried, only vague alarm. Looked they threateningly, as warning. Hands Peter almost not obeyed him, when he opened folder. Inside lay several sheets of paper, covered in that very handwriting, which he saw in notebooks of father — compact, neat, incredibly capacious. Formulas, chemical equations, schemes of molecular bonds. Many of them were fiercely crossed out — not simply crossed out with one line, but scribbled over, as if author tried to destroy the very thought, in them captured. Peter turned pages, and his eyes caught strange details: two neatly drawn squares 8x8, filled with digits, similar to cipher or code. And so he reached last sheet. On right, in chaos of digits and formulas at very bottom, was output elegant, almost artistic sequence of symbols. This was not simply formula. This was chain, woven from Greek letters, mathematical operators and chemical elements. It looked as spell, as magic formula from fantasy novel. It was so beautiful, that for moment Peter forgot to breathe. Someone — obviously, his father — with light, almost weightless pressure outlined this sequence with blue ballpoint pen, as if highlighting masterpiece in museum. And on top, over this elegance, by alien hand — or same, but in moment of fury or despair? — was delivered blow. With bold red marker, that same, that drew symbols on cover, over all this beauty were output those same two fatal symbols: ∅∅. As brand, as verdict. And slightly to right, already by other hand — or same, but trembling, tired, — sloppy, faltered, careless handwriting, was output: Algorithm of Decay Speed Peter froze. *Algorithm of Decay Speed*. — flashed in head of Peter. Words echoed in his consciousness with dull echo. He heard them! From behind door of study of Kurt, through sleep, in those rare moments, when Doctor lost control. This was his obsession, his Holy Grail, cause of his sleepless nights and quiet outbursts of rage. That very algorithm, which no way not succeeded to stabilize or think through. And it lay here. In hands of Peter. Carefully hidden by his father. Icy wave rolled down his back. He almost dropped folder. *Dad hid this. From Kurt.* Question burned brain, as red-hot needle. Why? They but were friends, partners. Kurt raved about this formula, this was case of all his life. Why Richard Parker, knowing this, hid most important discovery? Why marked it with these ominous symbols and shoved into secret pocket, as if not proof, but evidence? Why left this briefcase in house of his brother, and not took away to himself? Thoughts rushed about, colliding with each other. Maybe, algorithm was erroneous? Dangerous? Maybe, father wanted to finalize it, check, but not had time? Or maybe… Maybe, was other reason? That, about which not could be spoken even with best friend… Peter looked at door, behind which sat Kurt. Person, who raised him, who became him father. Who with hope and melancholy looked at their common with Richard photograph. And then it dawned on him. Cruel, cold insight. He cannot show this to Kurt. Not now. Not while he not understands, what exactly he found and why this was hidden. Instinct, deaf and incontrovertible, screamed to him, that to hand over to Conners this folder — all equally that to bring match to powder keg. He saw his obsession. And if this algorithm was that, what needs Kurt… what he will be ready to do, to get it? And why Richard deemed necessary to protect it even from his friend? With trembling hands Peter put sheets back into yellow folder. He threw glance at screen of his computer. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will sit in library, will dig in textbooks on higher mathematics, quantum chemistry, search meaning of these symbols. He will go into depths of internet, into scientific databases, to which he had access through network Oscorp. He must understand this himself. He carefully, as bomb, placed folder back into secret pocket and fastened zipper. Briefcase again looked as if nothing happened. He hid it under bed, in darkest corner, and crawled back, as if afraid, that it now will explode. He lay in bed and stared at ceiling, before eyes his stood elegant symbols of formula, curved letters Algorithm of Decay Speed and two red, crossed out circles. ∅∅ Key? Or warning? He not knew. But he knew one: he just now found secret of his father. And this secret could destroy all, that he had.