Inside Dr. Otto Octavius's laboratory, silence reigned supreme.
The world-renowned nuclear physicist stood alone before his workbench, holding the latest issue of the Daily Bugle in his hands. His sharp eyes were fixed on the front-page photograph—the grotesque image of the Squid Man, captured mid-motion, tentacles flailing as he fled into the sewer.
Dr. Otto did not blink.
From his days as a student to his rise as one of the foremost minds in nuclear physics, Otto Octavius had always been exceptional—too exceptional. His brilliance had earned him prestige, funding, and respect, but it had also shaped a flaw deep within his personality.
He despised incompetence.
So much so that he had developed a kind of "idiot-phobia," an intolerance toward clumsy hands, slow reactions, and careless mistakes. Even assistants who were considered elite by academic standards often failed to meet his expectations.
Eventually, Otto stopped working with people altogether.
When he turned his focus toward clean energy through controlled nuclear fusion, the laboratory became a solitary kingdom. The only things allowed near his experiments were machines—cold, obedient, and predictable.
Several mechanical arms stood nearby, mounted on wheeled bases like those used in industrial workshops. They helped him lift components, stabilize equipment, and handle radioactive materials.
But they were inadequate.
They obeyed commands, but they did not think.
They reacted, but they did not anticipate.
They were tools—not extensions of his will.
Dr. Otto lowered the newspaper slightly, his gaze never leaving the Squid Man's image.
And suddenly—
His eyes lit up.
"This…" he murmured.
The photograph felt like inspiration arriving at the exact moment it was needed, like a pillow appearing beneath one's head just before collapse.
"If I had four mechanical arms attached directly to my body," Otto said softly, "driven by my nervous system…"
His thoughts accelerated.
"I wouldn't need to stop an experiment when alarms sound. I wouldn't have to abandon a reaction mid-process. I could stabilize, repair, and adjust—simultaneously."
The more he stared at the Squid Man's tentacles, the faster his heartbeat became.
He grabbed paper and pen with sudden urgency.
Blueprints began to take shape under his hand.
A small stick-figure representation of himself stood at the center of the page. Behind it, four mechanical limbs unfurled, flexible and segmented, capable of extending, retracting, gripping, welding, shielding, and manipulating at microscopic precision.
They were not arms.
They were tentacles.
To counterbalance the tremendous weight and torque such appendages would generate, Otto quickly sketched a reinforced support frame spanning the back, waist, and legs. It was simple—but reliable.
The design was rough.
Unrefined.
But the concept—
The concept was perfect.
Dr. Otto leaned back and laughed aloud, the sound echoing through the empty laboratory.
The laughter had barely lasted a few seconds when a knock interrupted him.
Before he could respond, the door opened.
Harry Osborn stepped inside, followed closely by a young man in a plaid shirt.
Dr. Otto paused, then smiled faintly.
"I remember you," he said. "Peter… Parker, correct?"
Peter nodded politely.
"Yes, Doctor."
Harry clapped Peter on the shoulder with familiarity.
Batman—wearing Peter Parker's face—returned the smile, though it felt stiff even to himself.
"I can't abandon this identity," Batman thought. "Peter Parker can go places Batman cannot."
Just as Bruce Wayne had always served as Batman's daylight shield, Peter Parker now played the same role in this city.
He would need it—especially here.
Maintaining Peter's connections was essential. Dr. Otto, in particular, mattered. When Batman eventually corrected the nuclear fusion formula and allowed Peter Parker to profit from it, the association needed to feel natural.
Dr. Otto gestured casually.
"You're both welcome here," he said. "Just don't interfere with my experiments."
As long as his work wasn't disrupted, Otto was not an unkind man.
When Peter wandered off toward a nearby workstation, Dr. Otto quietly pulled Harry aside.
"Peter seems… different," he said in a low voice. "Three days ago, he looked like he'd lost his soul. He doesn't seem fully recovered."
Harry hesitated, then sighed.
"About a month ago," he replied, "Peter lost someone very important to him."
Uncle Ben.
Harry didn't say the name, but Dr. Otto understood immediately.
His expression softened.
"As his friend," Otto said, "you must help him through it."
"I'm trying," Harry replied. "That's why I brought him here. I thought this place might help him focus."
Dr. Otto nodded slowly.
When he was young, his own father had been cruel—violent toward both him and his mother. She had always shielded him.
When she died, Otto had nearly broken.
Compared to that pain, Peter's current state was painfully familiar.
Otto glanced toward Peter again.
"He has talent," he said. "A natural curiosity."
At that moment, Batman stood before an experimental console, studying the scrolling data.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he spoke.
"Dr. Otto," he said calmly, "I believe I've found the error that triggered the lab alarm last time."
Both men turned sharply.
"What?" Harry exclaimed.
Dr. Otto rushed over, scanning the data.
Batman pointed to a specific fluctuation.
"The containment equation fails to compensate during the energy spike. A simple correction would prevent the cascade."
Silence.
Then realization.
Dr. Otto's eyes widened.
"You're right…"
Harry laughed.
"I told you—Peter's a genius."
The problem that had haunted the lab for days was resolved in minutes.
Batman stored the correction carefully in his mind.
The alarm had once triggered his Spider-Sense. Fixing it now laid the groundwork for future improvements.
They didn't stay long.
Outside, Harry turned to Peter.
"I know you miss Uncle Ben," he said quietly. "I do too. But you still have Aunt May. And you have me."
Batman nodded.
"I know," he replied. "I'll be okay."
Harry climbed into his sleek Cadillac and drove off.
Batman watched the car disappear, then turned toward the Williamsburg Bridge.
"Now," he thought, "to build my first real weapon."
Beneath an old, unremarkable building near the bridge lay a hidden factory—illegal, underground, and humming with activity.
The smell of oil, metal shavings, and sweat assaulted Batman's senses the moment he entered.
A man stepped forward, crowbar in hand.
"Hey! Get out—"
Batman's fist ended the sentence.
Blood splattered.
Other workers raised their weapons, poorly crafted but deadly.
Batman tossed a bundle of cash onto the floor.
"Five thousand dollars," he said evenly. "One hour."
Silence followed.
He got to work.
Unlike standard cylindrical nitrogen springs, Batman needed flat, curved springs, shaped like military canteens—compact, powerful, and wearable.
An hour later, he left with three completed springs.
They were filled with high-pressure nitrogen at another facility.
By nightfall, Batman returned to the abandoned shipyard.
The components lay neatly arranged before him.
The foundation of his first upgraded weapon was complete.
The hunt could truly begin.
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