Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

Sleep not brought relief. Peter tossed in bed, his body was pierced by convulsions, and in temples pounded obsessive, vibrating pain. To him dreamed nightmares, in which he drowned in sticky, endless webs, and from ceiling on him poured thousands of shimmering eyes. He woke up from alarm clock. And sharply turned it off, breaking it. He not expected this. Body ached, as after marathon, but consciousness was unnaturally clear, heightened. And neck... neck burned with fire. Memories of yesterday day surged avalanche: Oscorp, spiders, bite, metro... Quietly, to not wake up Kurt, he got up from bed and on tiptoes crept into bathroom. Click of switch sounded for his sensitive ears as shot. In light of lamp he approached mirror, cautiously pulling collar of sweatshirt. Skin around bite was inflamed, crimson. But this was not most terrible. Fingers, sliding over sore spot, stumbled upon something thin and elastic, embedded in skin. Something like splinter or... thread. Heart Peter fell. He carefully brought hand behind neck, trying not to press. With tips of fingers he felt finest, almost weightless thread. It was incredibly strong. He pulled at it cautiously. Thread yielded, but was very long. Feeling of squeamishness and fear bound him. What this? Part of spiderweb? Something worse? Gathering will in fist, he jerked sharper. Sounded quiet, wet click, and sharp pain pierced neck. Peter quietly cried out, biting lip, to not scream loudly. In his fingers ended up small, shriveled, completely dead spider. That very, blue-red one. It was attached to finest, similar to spiderweb thread, which, apparently, and was its proboscis, broken off at bite. Peter with disgust threw it into toilet and several times flushed water, until small body not disappeared in whirlpool. He stood, breathing heavily, leaning on sink, and looked at his pale, frightened reflection. Now he knew for sure. With him happened something. Something, related with this spider. Morning not became better. When he, with difficulty waiting for seven, again entered bathroom, his movements still were wooden, and consciousness — clouded. On autopilot he took tube of toothpaste, squeezed it onto brush and brought to mouth. He not calculated force. Under pressure of his fingers tube shot out dense white projectile. But not onto brush. Clump of paste with loud splat hit directly into center of mirror, with force smearing across glass and reflected in it shocked sleepy face of Peter. He froze with open mouth, looking at himself. This was so absurd, that at first he even not understood. Then it dawned on him. Strength. That very, that was in metro. It nowhere not gone. Embarrassed, he brought toothbrush to mirror and collected slightly paste, displeasedly grimacing. He decided to turn on water, to wet brush. Turned faucet... Metal handle with ringing crack tore off in his hand. From water pipe gushed powerful stream of icy water, hitting him in chest and beginning to flood all around. — No – no - no! — hissed Peter, trying to plug hole with towel. Water splashed in all directions, instantly flooding floor and walls. He with force, which himself frightened, shoved towel into pipe, and for moment flow stopped. Breathing like chased beast, he rushed to door, to call for help. Grabbed handle... And again characteristic crunch. Door handle remained in his palm. He found himself trapped in flooded bathroom with broken mirror, broken faucet and door handle in hand. Panic began to approach. He closed eyes tightly, trying to calm down. "Quiet, — he ordered himself. — Slowly. Very slowly." He approached second door, leading into corridor (in their bathroom were two exits). He touched handle with two fingers. Index and thumb. And began to turn slowly and with minimal pressure. Click. Door opened noiselessly. Peter slipped out into corridor, as shadow, and cautiously quickly closed door behind himself, leaving behind back battlefield. Fifteen minutes later he sat at kitchen table, trying with trembling hands to eat oatmeal. He felt every granule on tongue. Kurt, already dressed for work, drank coffee and looked at him across table. — You today some kind... quiet, — noticed Kurt. His gaze was attentive, analytical. — And bathroom... I heard from there some kind noise. All in order? Peter almost choked. — Yes! Yes, all... excellent. Just... — he desperately searched for excuse. — Dropped glass. Into sink. Water splashed. And... handle at door old, itself fell off. He not dared to raise eyes. He felt on himself heavy, studying gaze of Kurt. That knew, that he lies. Knew every detail of this house. Knew, that glass stands on shelf, and not in sink. — Understood, — slowly uttered Kurt. He took sip of coffee. Rose from his place. — With your permission, I Still will look, what there. — In bathroom... faucet broke. Water little bit flows. — quickly said Peter. Kurt looked at him suspiciously. He heard heavy sigh and steps on stairs upward. Kurt went upstairs, holding in hands adjustable wrench. — Little bit? — he asked again, looking at puddle, spreading from under door. He entered inside, and Peter heard his new, louder sigh. — Peter... How? You what, with crowbar it turned? — I simply... turned, — weakly answered Peter from behind door. About ten minutes later Kurt came out, wiping wet hand from water, about his clean trousers. His clothes were damp. — Thread stripped. Will have to call plumber. And new handle to install. — He looked at Peter with strange expression — mix of tiredness, bewilderment and something else, similar to subconscious alarm. — You today some kind... destructive. — Sorry, — mumbled Peter, lowering head. — I not on purpose. — I know, — Kurt put hand on his shoulder. Touch was warm and heavy. Peter froze, afraid to move. — Just... be careful, okay? World not from rubber. He went downstairs, to call plumber. Peter remained standing in corridor, looking at his hands. They looked ordinary. Hands of teenager. But inside them lurked strength, capable to rip tube and break faucet. Strength, which he not could control. Kurt came after couple minutes. — I arranged with plumber. He will come evening. Peter… maybe, to you to stay home? — No! — too sharply blurted out Peter. — No, I in order. To me needs to school. He was afraid to stay home alone. Afraid, that not will can control his body, break something else or, what worse, give himself away before Kurt. Kurt sighed. — As you know. Keys in place. In evening we'll see. He went out went to kitchen. Peter stood, shrinking, and listened, as front door slams. Only then he allowed himself to relax, lowering head on table. Morning and truly began "greatly". And ahead was whole day, which needed to be lived, not crushing anyone and not breaking school. This seemed impossible mission. *** Bookstore "Astoria Bookshop" on 30th street in Queens smelled of old bindings and dust, which for heightened senses of Peter was equivalent to being at perfume factory during shift. He stood in narrow aisle between shelves, clutching between knees stack of textbooks on higher mathematics, quantum physics and biochemistry, and feverishly flipped through one of volumes, trying to find at least something, that will shed light on mysterious symbols "∅∅". His fingers, still not accustomed to their new strength, almost punctured page when he stumbled upon sought. Eyes widened. Symbol: ∅ Name: "Empty set" Meaning: Set, in which no not one element. This analog of zero, but for sets. Zero (0) — this is neutral element for addition: a + 0 = a. Empty set (∅) — this is neutral element for union of sets: A ∪ ∅ = A. Examples of use: • Set of people in room older than 200 years: ∅. • Set of solutions of equation x = x + 1: ∅. • Intersection of sets "even numbers" and "odd numbers": ∅. Example 1: Sets Set of natural numbers between 2 and 3: A = {x ∈ N | 2 < x < 3} = ∅ Set of solutions of equation x + 1 = x: B = ∅ Intersection of sets of even and odd numbers: C = {even} ∩ {odd} = ∅ Example 2: Properties of empty set Union with any set: A ∪ ∅ = A Intersection with any set: A ∩ ∅ = ∅ Cardinality of empty set: |∅| = 0 Peter froze, his brain, already working at limit, began to build connections. "Empty set". "Nothing". His father used this symbol, to cross out his own genius formula. He marked with it folder. This was not key. This was verdict. Warning. And then his gaze fell on next page, where ordinary, university formula neighbored with his discovery. And it dawned on him. Law of radioactive decay: N(t) = N₀ * e^(-λt) Where: • N(t) — quantity of undecayed nuclei at moment of time t. • N₀ — initial quantity of nuclei. • λ — decay constant. • t — time. He looked at formula, and before eyes his stood that, other — elegant, woven from Greek letters and mathematical operators, which his father outlined with blue pen, and then branded with red "∅∅". "Father was genius, — whispered Peter, flipping through purchased book on biochemistry and finding section about cellular apoptosis, programmed cell death. — He completely it changed." He understood. Algorithm of Decay Speed not was simply physical formula. It was biological. It described not decay of atoms, but decay of life. Controlled, accelerated self-destruction of cells. But why? Why to accelerate decay? And here puzzle fell into place with almost audible click. Regeneration. To build something new, need first to clear place. For lizard to regrow tail, cells at place of injury must first perish, creating space and signals for new ones. Kurt tried to force cells to divide, grow, but they not knew, when to stop, and began to mutate, turning into cancerous tumor, and then died. To them not Enough "instruction for dismantling". Algorithm of Decay Speed was that very instruction. It had to be first stage — total, controlled cleansing, "nullification" of damaged tissues (∅!), to then start process of perfect regeneration. But something went not so. Formula was unstable. As radioactive isotope with too short half-life, it destroyed all, not leaving chances for restoration. It led not to "empty set" as to clean slate, but to real, final Nothing. "He understood, that created not medicine, but weapon, — with horror thought Peter. — And therefore hid it. Therefore marked with these symbols. He tried to stop this. To stop Kurt." Stack of books slipped from his weakened hands and with crash scattered on floor. Salesman threw disapproving glance at him. Peter nothing saw. Before him stood ghost of father, not carefree smiling person from photographs, but serious, frightened scientist, who sacrificed his work, and, possibly, and life, to hide monstrous truth. And now this truth, and key to it, were in hands of his son. Son, in whose veins, thanks to bite of one of creations of this very science, flowed blood, capable of who knows what. Connection was obvious and frightening. Spiders of Oscorp, algorithm of father, his mutation... All were links of one chain. He quickly gathered books, paid at register with crumpled bills. To him needed again to look at these papers. Now, with new understanding, they should have sounded differently. He not knew, how to approach Kurt. To say: "Dad, I found briefcase of my real father, and there formula, which you searching, but it — weapon of murder, and, seems, I became spider"? No. Not now. First to him needed to understand all to end. Because one evening, sitting on ceiling of his room and trying to master his new abilities, Peter Parker understood one simple thing: with great power comes great responsibility. And he had to bear it alone. At least for now. *** That night Kurt Conners again sat late in study. But on this time he not struggled over formulas and not peered into holograms of dying mice. He sat motionless, staring at old photograph, which brought Peter. Richard Parker looked at him from paper with stern, warning gaze. That Richard, as he him saw last time, before disappearance. "Why, Richard? — mentally repeated Kurt. — What you saw such, that forced you to fall silent? What forced you to run?" He passed hand over face. He was exhausted. Pressure from side of Ratha and board of Oscorp was becoming unbearable. Demanded results. Threatened. Hints at that project may close, and him — fire, sounded all more openly. And still was Peter. His boy. His son. He was changing. Kurt saw this with own eyes. Yesterday's incident in bathroom was not accident. Sharp movements, unnatural strength, with which that almost broke him hand, shaking it at farewell in morning... And that gaze — frightened, alienated, full of secrets. Instinct of scientist screamed to him, that happens something anomalous. But instinct of father forced to brush this aside, writing off to teenage age and stress. He took from table his tablet and opened file with latest results. Next batch of lab mice. Introduction of modified serum based on latest calculations. Explosive growth of tissues. And... rapid, uncontrollable decay. Again and again. Algorithm of Decay Speed was key. Cursed, unattainable key. "I am close, Richard, — he whispered into silence of study. — I feel it. I will can correct your mistake. I will do this for us. For that, to no one else not had to feel myself incomplete." He not knew, that at home his adopted son, clutching in hands covered with formulas folder, looked at same symbols and came to completely opposite conclusion. His father not made mistake. He consciously stopped. He tried to prevent catastrophe. Two scientists, father and son, separated by place and abyss of unspoken secrets, on that night thought about same. About legacy of Richard Parker. Same formula for one was obsession, meaning of life, and for other — suicide note, warning about danger. Peter pressed palm to wall, feeling, as tips of fingers almost not stick to rough surface. He looked out window at illuminated windows of Tower Oscorp, which now seemed to him not symbol of progress, but citadel of evil. "What you hide, dad? — thought he about Kurt. — You search this algorithm, to heal yourself? Or... or is other reason?" He clenched folder so, that paper crumpled. He not could be silent forever. Truth, as and his new abilities, tore outward. Collision was inevitable. And he prepared for it, flipping through textbooks and trying to understand, what but exactly "great responsibility" laid upon him this "great power". *** On next day after school they stood on kitchen over tea. Silence was comfortable, disturbed only by ticking of clock. Peter, holding mug with incredible caution, not to crush it, finally broke silence. — I read your book, — said he, looking at steam from tea. Kurt, immersed in his thoughts, slowly raised on him gaze. — Ooo, — he drawled, and in corners of his eyes They 've been identified rays of light smile. — Impressive, — honestly answered Peter. He made pause, gathering with spirit. — And.… you truly think, that this possible? Interspecies genetics? — Yes, of course, — voice of Kurt became firmer, in it sounded old, tempered in battles convictions. — Long time over us with your father laughed. And not only in world of science, but even in very Oscorp. Us called psychos. — He bitterly smirked. — Then your father bred spiders, and.. immediately all changed. Kurt fell silent, his gaze went into past, beyond misty border of memories. — Results surpassed all expectations. They shook us. We would change life of millions... — his voice trembled, and he pointed at right stump, — ...including and mine. Silence hung in air, thick and heavy. — But then all ended, — quietly, almost whisper, continued Kurt. — And… he disappeared. Taking developments. And I knew, that alone to me... — he clenched fist, his knuckles whitened. — I so angry at him. Even not came to funeral. I ask to forgive me, Peter. Peter listened, holding breath. He for first time saw this raw, uncovered pain. — And if... — cautiously began Peter, catching his gaze. — Here, let's say, at you succeeded. Strong whether will be influence of other species? What will be side effects? Kurt sighed, and his shoulders dropped under weight of disappointment. — Difficult to say. For now not one subject not survived. Problem always in one... — Algorithm of Decay Speed? — quickly, but clearly interrupted him Peter. Kurt froze. His eyes widened from astonishment. He slowly nodded, not in strength to utter word. — Yess... — he exhaled, marveling at mind of boy. Not saying more not word, Peter moved aside mug and stood up. He approached table, where lay pencil and notepad. Heart his pounded, echoing in temples with loud knock. He not began nothing to invent. Not began to simplify. He simply began to write. With firm hand he output on paper elegant, almost poetic sequence of symbols — that very, which his father once outlined with blue pen, and then branded with red "∅∅". He output its basis, its quintessence. At first Kurt simply observed with sad smile, thinking, that son draws some his schemes, even closely not standing with that, what task was in reality. But then his gaze began to catch on familiar outlines, on unique logic of construction. Smile slid from his face, replaced by complete bewilderment, and then — shock. Kurt came closer, his shadow fell on notepad. He breathed intermittently, his eyes ran over lines, again and again, as if not believing that they see. Peter quickly turned notepad to him and put pencil on table, beginning to sway from side to side in anticipation of answer. — Astonishing... — he whispered, and his voice was soundless, torn. — How you to this thought?... He sharply raised head and stared at Peter. In his eyes raged storm — astonishment, disbelief, and that very old, familiar pain, mixed with suddenly flared, almost insane hope. Peter not could answer. He not could utter not word. All prepared in advance excuses stuck lump in throat. He simply stood, lowering eyes, feeling burning shame and fear. He not could lie to him directly. Not now. Instead of words he only embarrassed, almost childishly, shrugged shoulders and lightly tapped tip of pencil on his temple, as if saying: "Simply came to head". This silent confession of his genius, which in reality not it was, sounded louder than any scream. — Peter, not want whether you Somehow on days to drop by to me in tower after lessons? — seriously asked him Kurt. — Want. — quickly nodding and adjusting glasses said Peter. — Thank you. — answered Kurt, exhaling. Before sleep, Kurt stood before mirror in his bedroom and looked at formula. Dressed he was in white t-shirt and gray pajama pants. He was slightly skinny, but stomach was a little bit more visible from good food. He put notepad on table before mirror and turned slightly leftward. Sideways, to look at stump in mirror. He never loved his appearance. War took from him hand, when he operated comrades on battlefield.