To the world, he was William Baker. But William Baker, the man who had spent the last five years trying to become better, died today in a sterile room before three indifferent faces. Died when they denied his parole yet again.
He sat there, clutching a stack of letters from his ex-wife in sweaty palms. The letters on thin paper blurred, but he knew every word by heart. "Keely's gotten worse again...", "The doctors say we need money...", "She keeps asking about you...". His daughter. His little Keely. She had cancer. And the only thing William wanted was to be there. To hold her hand. To earn, steal, beg, do anything to pay for her treatment and atone for at least some of his mistakes.
He'd been honest with them. For the first time in his life, he'd been completely honest with the suits. He laid it all out, even showed them the letters. But their verdict was merciless as prison steel. "Denied." No explanation. Three more years. Here. At Rikers Island, this concrete wasteland of an island, where he'd continue rotting. But his rot would only be metaphorical. His daughter was dying for real.
The moment the commissioner's gavel struck the table, William Baker vanished. Inside him, Flint Marko awakened once more. Pragmatic, reckless, desperate thief for whom the end always justified the means. He'd never become the good family man now. Most likely, he'd have to rejoin the gang, go back into hiding. He wouldn't be able to spend much time with Keely. But he could get the money. His stashes... they were still there, waiting for their moment, and maybe they would've already gone toward helping his daughter... if the letters weren't being read and visitor access hadn't been banned...
"Decided," thought Marko. "Plan 'Escape.' Today."
While the administration was kissing the important commission's ass, they had no time for another loser. This was his chance. The sewers. Crude, stinking, but the most effective path to freedom, whose layout he'd accidentally glimpsed from a careless worker. Extra deliberation meant extra seconds of his daughter's suffering. He acted.
And, of course, everything went to shit almost immediately.
A guard, young and overly zealous, decided to make an unscheduled round. The empty cell of the "legendary" thief Marko. An alarmed radio query to maintenance. Negative response. And the wail of a siren tearing through the night silence.
The escape was discovered just three minutes after Flint was already standing on the East River shore, breathing in the putrid but intoxicating air of freedom. Sensing pursuit with his ass, he bolted wherever his eyes led him. Away from the prison. The docks. Rusty containers, leaning warehouses, the smell of fish and fuel oil. This was the best possible option. Weaving between buildings, he stumbled upon it, a damn massive cistern with an almost worn-off "Hammer Industries" label. The stairway leading up was solidly welded. This was a sign.
"Pff... Just sand," Flint exhaled, climbing up and peering into the open hatch.
Golden grains glinted welcomingly in the moonlight. Perfect. He jumped inside. They definitely wouldn't find him here. Lazy cops wouldn't bother climbing up, and if they did, he'd just bury himself in the sand for a couple minutes. The hardest part was behind him. All that remained was to wait. Just one day. What was one day after five years of hell? The main thing was that it didn't rain.
Evening enveloped the city. Exhaustion was taking its toll. Trusting his keen prison sleep, Flint closed his eyes, burrowing into the cool sand. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait a whole day. At night, under cover of darkness, he'd get out and start his journey to Keely.
...
Did William know this wasn't just a cistern, but a giant industrial homogenizer? Did he know its purpose wasn't storage but mixing sand with radioactive particles for one of dozens of secret Hammer Industries projects? Did he know that this very night another tired, lazy worker sent to start the cycle wouldn't bother climbing the stairs in his bulky hazmat suit to check the contents? Did he know the initiated process would end in critical failure, leading to a monstrous explosion?
No. This simple street thug didn't know any of that. He couldn't even imagine that someone would have the audacity and recklessness to experiment with radioactive materials within city limits.
And he also couldn't imagine that this night wouldn't kill him, but change him. Radically and forever.
Reed Richards. That name was acid in Otto Octavius's soul. The genius who made it. The idol of millions, smiling from screens, pontificating about the stars, while he, Otto, a true titan of thought, languished in this pathetic laboratory on handouts from Norman Osborn. On the humiliating charity of a man whose intellect was that of a merchant, not a creator. "Never mind," Otto hissed, looking at his reflection in the polished manipulator casing. "You'll learn my name yet. You'll all learn it."
His gaze moved to his life's work, resting on the stand like four sleeping serpents. His manipulators. Not just machines. This was perfection itself, created by his brilliant mind. Titanium alloy reinforced with carbon fiber, strong as mythical adamantium and light as a feather. They could withstand a load of five tons, yet possessed the flexibility and precision of a surgeon's fingers. Telescopic, invulnerable to heat and radiation. This was a masterpiece.
Their presentation, just three weeks away, was supposed to change everything. He imagined the faces of those moneybags, those dim-witted investors. They had to understand! His technology's applications were truly limitless. Managing nuclear reactors without radiation risk. Manipulating toxic substances. Precision satellite repairs in orbit. Surgical operations beyond human hands' reach. His manipulators were meant to become science's hands and eyes, accelerate progress by decades!
Otto cast an angry glance at his experimental gamma reactor. Its assembly would've taken half the time if he'd had more confidence in his own creation back then.
And the manipulators themselves were just the tip of the iceberg! The neural interface! Revolutionary technology allowing mental control, like one's own limbs. He created it. Alone. Without corporate help or government grants. So why?! Why was he still trapped in this pitiful, makeshift laboratory?! Why was his name, the name of a world-class scientist, always mentioned in humiliating comparison to that bastard Richards, with wallet Norman, with daddy's boy and rich brat Stark?!
No... He was a Genius. And Richards, returning from his cosmic odyssey, would bring back glory, new discoveries, and tens of billions in investments. And what would remain for him? Otto Octavius with his "tentacles"? He'd become a footnote in history, a forgotten eccentric. This thought was unbearable. It was like physical pain.
"No. This won't happen."
Looking at his creations, Otto suddenly understood. His technology's true potential could only be demonstrated by its creator. Personally. He needed to move up the presentation. Conduct it before Richards's triumphal return. But how? How to make those fat cats come running at his beck and call? The answer was obvious. He himself would become the living demonstration. He'd show them not just a machine, but a new human. A creator-human.
Without another second's thought, he took the miniature neural interface chip. Cold metal touched his neck as he attached it to his spine. Thousands of tests and simulations. The process was perfected. He put on the torso mounting mechanism, and four titanium limbs came alive, smoothly rising behind his back. He made several test movements: one arm handed him a glass of water with perfect smoothness, another opened and closed the laptop lid. He felt them like his own. It was a divine sensation.
All that remained was filming a short video, sending it to investors with an ultimatum invitation. "Come tomorrow, or miss the chance to touch the future." Yes, September 23rd would become the day of his triumph.
Pointing the camera at himself, he headed toward the bedroom to change into more presentable attire. He had to cross the entire laboratory. All of it, cluttered with equipment, cables, and tool boxes. His new dimensions... in the heat of revelation, his genius hadn't accounted for such a trifle as doorway width...
FUCK!