Reflections and Refractions
It can't be true. There's no way.
The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the concrete stairs echoed in the dim stairwell, each step more desperate than the last.
- That sanctimonious little brat obliterated my life's work. He left me mutilated. Ruined me.
He rounded another railing, gripping the handrail tightly as he propelled himself upwards.
- And in so long, the first person to treat me like I'm just another human being...
Now taking the stairs two at a time, he could feel the gnawing sense of betrayal gnashing at his insides.
- She's there, putting him on a pedestal, making him look like a savior.
The cool draft of the upper floors passed through him as he got higher.
4. I can't blame her, can I? She's just doing her job, drawing, but knowing she spends her time sketching my tormentor - it's a bitter pill.
With a final burst of energy, he launched himself onto the floor landing.
Just a few steps more, and he reached his door. His hand made its way to his pocket.
He groans, "Right. I'm not wearing pants." His hands pat down the fabric that covered his upper body, desperate for the familiar jingle.
"Keys? You there? Arg. Where are you hiding?"
After a few more seconds of panic, he stops. He sulks and presses his head against the door, the coldness stinging him. Oh god.
He does not want to face management for a replacement, not like this.
Seconds felt like hours as anxiety gnawed at him.
His gaze dropped, fixating on the carpet below. Its intricate patterns began to blur as the world slowly faded.
But then, a familiar sight caught his attention - the dark, inky splotches warping and creeping around his calves.
"Aha!"
He places his hand on his chin in satisfaction. "Perhaps they were the real key all along."
He pulled a blob of the dense, dark substance from his body, positioning it expertly next to the doorknob. Taking a moment to focus, he tentatively pushed his hand through, reaching around to grasp the door's inner handle.
As a distinct click reverberated in the silence, he couldn't help but let out an elated "Yes!"
He eases the door open and steps across the threshold. The familiar symphony of scents greets him – the rich slickness of oil, the sharp bite of metallic tang, the acrid heat of overworked rubber, the potent sting of acidic chemicals, the pure and raw smell of cut lumber, a whisper of ozone, and the faintest hint of long-forgotten cups of coffee and leftover meals.
Releasing a relieved sigh, he took a moment to assess the chaos of his room. He quickly mapped out a path to his destination. With exaggerated steps, he evaded the tangled wires that crisscrossed the floor, waiting to trip the unwary.
Passing a series of enclosures lined up along a narrow table, he caught sight of his eight-legged roommates, each nested in its own habitat.
"Hey, little ones," he murmured affectionately, his voice softening. "Hope you're all having a good day." Noting the utter blackness outside the window, he quickly amended, “I guess it's night now. Oops. Sorry for waking you diurnal ones! I didn't mean to, but... eh, you'll be fine. It's fine. You'll be fine. Sorry!"
Pushing himself to his feet, he veered towards the expansive pinboard that consumed a significant section of his wall. It was a chaotic tapestry of notes, photographs, magazine pages, news articles, and blueprints. This board was a tangible reflection of the many projects that consumed him.
His gaze settled on the item he'd been hunting for, anchored securely at the board's lower edge.
"The Second Spiderman."
With a swift motion, he yanked the book from its position and turned to its introductory page.
He scans the credits: writers, cover artist, penciler, colorists, editors... penciler!
And there he saw it—your name.
So it is true.
With a weighty sigh, he laid the comic on a nearby desk.
Even though the first Spiderman was a constant thorn in Alchemax's side, the disparities and heroic portrayal woven into the comic storylines never genuinely aggravated him.
In fact, he had always been captivated by the depiction of the 'villains' - figures like Green Goblin, Tombstone, and the Prowler. Back when their true personas were shrouded in mystery, comic creators had little to go on except Spiderman's anecdotes from media interviews and press briefings. This often forced them to let their imaginations run wild. Having encountered them firsthand, he'd share a laugh with colleagues over the pronounced discrepancies between their authentic appearance and their exaggerated comic counterparts
And then came the new wall-crawler.
"The Second Spiderman."
None of the comics infuriated him as much as the one you contributed to.
This release was like a hit to him, a spit to his face. To know you were in the process of working on another felt like salt to a festering wound.
However, directing his ire toward you felt unjust. You were merely translating the vision that the writers handed down.
After his fingers traced the cover, he turned to the opening page.
During his previous perusal, he scrutinized each detail in the narrative, mumbling complaints about every misrepresentation.
But this time, as he sifted through the pages, his attention was drawn away from the story and was instead captured by the intricate illustrations.
Recollecting the raw sketches you shared with him, he thought he could discern traces of your distinctive touch beneath the finishing lines and colors applied by someone else's hand. There was a particular finesse in how you portrayed the characters' movements, a fluidity that seemed to breathe life into the paper.
These elements were unmistakably yours.
Amidst these musings, his thoughts naturally gravitated towards his own art brand. His gaze wandered upward, settling on the masterpiece he once sculpted, the embodiment of his scientific artistry: the meticulous blueprints of his supercollider. Well, his and Octavius' collider.
Those intricate designs may have appeared as mere geometry and numbers to any casual observer. But to him, they encapsulated far more than just technical data. Each line, each label, and equation enshrined countless hours of relentless labor, cerebral toil, and tireless revision.
Nostalgia swelled within him. He ached for the intellectual duels he'd once had with colleagues, the thrill of presenting groundbreaking ideas at conferences, and the adrenaline rush that accompanied incremental progress. The demolition of his supercollider was devastating, yes, but his exile from his academic and professional community had been soul-crushing. The fact that they were advancing, unearthing mysteries in his absence, was a stab to the heart.
Today, however, your conversation had punctuated that solitude, albeit briefly. It was as if he'd caught a fleeting whiff of his old life, offering a bittersweet reminder of what he'd been and lost.
Yet, as he thought back to your exchange, he questioned the authenticity of your conversation. There was genuine intrigue in your eyes initially, but as he delved deeper into his work, he noticed a hint of overwhelm in your demeanor. He had perhaps been too presumptuous in his excitement, launching into a technical tirade without pausing for breath or comprehension.
A twinge of remorse struck him. He had thrown so much at you, and for what? To relive his past? To find solace in a stranger?
This moment of introspection forced him to recognize a painful truth: his existence was solely defined by his work in science; it is his food, his rest, his very air. While others cherished interpersonal relationships and nurtured their social circles, he was engrossed in equations, experiments, and innovations. To him, camaraderie and rapport were often just pleasant side effects of collaborative projects.
Considering this deep-seated aspect of his identity, forging a genuine friendship with you — someone so detached from his universe — seemed almost unattainable.
Yet, given that you're the first person who hasn't reacted to his new appearance with either disgust, laughter, or dismissal, he realizes that he can't just 'give up.'
Part of him urged to talk to you once more, but he stopped himself.
What would he do, anyway? Fiddle with the ATM again to pretend he had a reason to be there? His first 'heist' already gave him enough to support himself this month.
Besides, he did not want to distract you from your work once more. You told him you'd hang out 'this weekend' for a reason.
He abruptly dismissed these thoughts, shaking his head.
Why should he care? It doesn't matter. Nothing that's happened these past two months matters. He turned to his newest work, the amalgamation of his desperation, aimed at one thing: restoring him to his former self.
Once finished, he could return to his old life. He could resume conversations that delved into cutting-edge scientific theories with his colleagues. He could return to an environment where brilliant minds hung on his every word. He'd find his way back to genuine happiness.
In essence, he could forget any of this ever happened.
"Alright, design 3B, I think I can have you ready for your first trial by tomorrow. I just need a Quantum flux stabilizer to fix the temporal displacement fluctuations."
Whirling around, he scanned his space. "I'm sure I have one of those lying around somewhere."
The chair creaks as he gets up and scours every nook and cranny of his dwelling, each moment growing more frenetic. "Quantum flux stabilizer, yoo-hoo, where are you?"
Yet, after an exhaustive hour-long quest, resignation washed over him. "Who am I kidding? I have to get one from the lab." He groans. It was never a quick trip. Not from here.
However, the sooner he stole that stabilizer, the sooner he could reclaim his life.
But how the hell could he even sneak in there looking like this?
As a small pool of dark matter swims around his hand, he chuckles.