Harry's chest.
"Clear!" a doctor shouted. Verifying that no one was touching Harry's body, the doctor triggered the paddles and Harry's body violently spasmed. Peter watched, trying not to panic and not succeeding.
"No response," said the nurse, checking the readings.
"Recharge and go again!" the doctor snapped.
At that moment, someone noticed that Peter was standing in a restricted area, and two orderlies descended upon him. He offered no resistance as they pushed him from the room. The door swung shut, blocking his view of what was going on.
He felt stricken and terrified and guilty… but not guilty because he had caused the injury that had landed Harry in the hospital. No, it was guilt because Harry knew Peter's secret, and if Harry died, then the secret died with him.
The terrible truth was that Peter's life would be much easier if Harry Osborn died here in the emergency room. That realization produced not only guilt, but self-loathing. What kind of person was he, to dwell on the notion that someone's death would be personally convenient?
The kind of person who's concerned about other people. What if Harry recovers and he decides the best way to get to you is through your loved ones? Why not? Norman figured out that I was enamored of Mary Jane and played upon that. If Harry dies…
No! He's not going to diet
Peter angrily cut himself off.
He's going to make it! And… and we'll get it all worked out somehow
.
How?
Somehow! Now shut up!
He leaned against the wall, feeling as if his soul weighed a hundred pounds. He glanced at the clock. Still well before dawn. Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting fatigue, and decided that this had to be the longest night of his life. He briefly wondered if anyone was having a worse night than he was.
----
Chapter Five
THE LONGEST NIGHT (PART Two)
Dr. T. Alan Chafin hated his job.
What the hell was he, a scientist of his standing, doing testing a particle accelerator in the middle of the night? He should be home in bed, spooning with his wife, who was beginning to make loud noises about feeling like a widow thanks to the hours that her scientist husband was keeping. He would keep assuring her that things were going to change, and in one respect, he was right. They did keep changing. They kept getting
worse
, thanks to the increasing paranoia of Quest Research's upper management.
Ever since that incident when the test of their new mechanized war suit was destroyed by some lunatic on a glider, Quest had been frantic about the prospect of industrial sabotage. So Quest had chosen increasingly remote places to build research facilities and opted for strange times of night to conduct the actual tests. The belief was that atypical procedures were required if they were going to stay one step ahead of those who were going to spy on, or trash, their endeavors. That this policy was beginning to weigh heavily on their staff didn't factor into the equation.
"Alan? You okay?"
The question came from his assistant, Ashley Michel. She was diminutive, but with a solid frame, brown hair, and brown eyes. Chafin forced a smile and said, "Fine, Ash, fine. Just working hard on keeping everything together." He sat back in his chair, which was woefully uncomfortable, and continued, "So… where do we stand?"
"Capacitators are at seventy percent." Looking over the instrumentation, Ashley checked the dials with her customary meticulousness. She was well-known for her almost obsessive attention to detail; if the readings were off by so much as a fraction, she would notice it. She wiped a hank of her perpetually unruly hair from her face. "Estimate full charge in… three minutes, seventeen seconds."
A third technician, Donnie Blaswell, nodded confirmation. Not that anyone expected Ashley to be wrong. "Do you think we'll manage it this time?" he asked.
The other scientists looked at young Blaswell with amusement. Donnie's energy was legendary around the facility. He was referred to
"Clear!" a doctor shouted. Verifying that no one was touching Harry's body, the doctor triggered the paddles and Harry's body violently spasmed. Peter watched, trying not to panic and not succeeding.
"No response," said the nurse, checking the readings.
"Recharge and go again!" the doctor snapped.
At that moment, someone noticed that Peter was standing in a restricted area, and two orderlies descended upon him. He offered no resistance as they pushed him from the room. The door swung shut, blocking his view of what was going on.
He felt stricken and terrified and guilty… but not guilty because he had caused the injury that had landed Harry in the hospital. No, it was guilt because Harry knew Peter's secret, and if Harry died, then the secret died with him.
The terrible truth was that Peter's life would be much easier if Harry Osborn died here in the emergency room. That realization produced not only guilt, but self-loathing. What kind of person was he, to dwell on the notion that someone's death would be personally convenient?
The kind of person who's concerned about other people. What if Harry recovers and he decides the best way to get to you is through your loved ones? Why not? Norman figured out that I was enamored of Mary Jane and played upon that. If Harry dies…
No! He's not going to diet
Peter angrily cut himself off.
He's going to make it! And… and we'll get it all worked out somehow
.
How?
Somehow! Now shut up!
He leaned against the wall, feeling as if his soul weighed a hundred pounds. He glanced at the clock. Still well before dawn. Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting fatigue, and decided that this had to be the longest night of his life. He briefly wondered if anyone was having a worse night than he was.
----
Chapter Five
THE LONGEST NIGHT (PART Two)
Dr. T. Alan Chafin hated his job.
What the hell was he, a scientist of his standing, doing testing a particle accelerator in the middle of the night? He should be home in bed, spooning with his wife, who was beginning to make loud noises about feeling like a widow thanks to the hours that her scientist husband was keeping. He would keep assuring her that things were going to change, and in one respect, he was right. They did keep changing. They kept getting
worse
, thanks to the increasing paranoia of Quest Research's upper management.
Ever since that incident when the test of their new mechanized war suit was destroyed by some lunatic on a glider, Quest had been frantic about the prospect of industrial sabotage. So Quest had chosen increasingly remote places to build research facilities and opted for strange times of night to conduct the actual tests. The belief was that atypical procedures were required if they were going to stay one step ahead of those who were going to spy on, or trash, their endeavors. That this policy was beginning to weigh heavily on their staff didn't factor into the equation.
"Alan? You okay?"
The question came from his assistant, Ashley Michel. She was diminutive, but with a solid frame, brown hair, and brown eyes. Chafin forced a smile and said, "Fine, Ash, fine. Just working hard on keeping everything together." He sat back in his chair, which was woefully uncomfortable, and continued, "So… where do we stand?"
"Capacitators are at seventy percent." Looking over the instrumentation, Ashley checked the dials with her customary meticulousness. She was well-known for her almost obsessive attention to detail; if the readings were off by so much as a fraction, she would notice it. She wiped a hank of her perpetually unruly hair from her face. "Estimate full charge in… three minutes, seventeen seconds."
A third technician, Donnie Blaswell, nodded confirmation. Not that anyone expected Ashley to be wrong. "Do you think we'll manage it this time?" he asked.
The other scientists looked at young Blaswell with amusement. Donnie's energy was legendary around the facility. He was referred to
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