Taptaptap…
Tap tap.
Taptaptap…
Tap tap.
The sleek, heavy fountain pen resting between his index and middle finger sang a repetitive song, the gold plated design of the expensive writing tool standing out with a shimmer against the dark Bocote wood of his executive desk.
In the corner of his eyes, he could see flames curl and sway from the fireplace across the room, the wood crackling as it burned into embers. The hot colors dancing from the mantle against the wall reflected in the rimless glasses resting on his face. Yet the sound barely touched his ears, all of it a faint, distant white noise to the tapping from below.
Taptaptap…
Tap tap.
Taptaptap…
Taptaptap…
Taptap —
“Sir,” a timid voice accompanied the squeaking of an open door. “I apologize for the intrusion. I understand you wish to be left alone —”
His fingers gripped the pen hard, the cap coming loose and slipping out of his grip. It rolled across his desk.
Without looking up, he asked, “What do you want, Doctor Murphy?”
The man swallowed hard, his gulp audible even from across the room. “The reports came in, sir.”
A log from within the fireplace burned in half, the scorched wood making a loud crackle as it split apart. Gently resting the fountain pen down below on his desk, he looked up towards the doorway, an eyebrow raised high.
“And?”
Murphy’s stare lingered for a long moment, his hesitance carrying with him nervous energy that penetrated his attempt at composure.
“There...” Murphy swallowed hard again, his lips struggling to speak. “There was nothing. The divers were unable to salvage any of the remains. The facility sank to the bottom of the ocean, the walls succumbed to the pressures, the formula —”
“Understood, Murphy.” His calm interruption was followed by the removal of his rimless glasses. Slowly, with ease, he set them down next to his green banker’s lamp. “Thank you.”
Murphy furrowed his brows, his expression torn with sympathy coating his features, highlighted by the fireplace he stood near. The yellow and red flames tinted the whites to his eyes. He took one step further into the office, not daring to risk two.
“Sir, I understand this is...devastating news,” Murphy started, “but know that we still have the chemical process design for the structural formula. We can still recreate —”
“Did I ask for anything further?” His tone was frigid, as deep as the stress lines that etched into his face. His calm composure only intensified the sharp sting to his words.
Murphy froze in place, his wildly excited hands coming to a stop mid-air. With his breath held tightly in his chest, he shook his head.
“That’s what I thought.” Gesturing to the doorway behind the scientist, he nodded his dismissal. “Thank you for your time.”
The doorway behind him lead back into the hallways from where he came, and yet Murphy found himself taking that second step into the luxurious office.
“If I may, sir —”
A white-coated female pushed him aside, rushing into the room with a stack of papers in her hands.
“Mr. Osborn,” she harshly announced, “you need to look at this.”
Two fingers rubbed harshly at his temple, a deep breath the only thing containing the outburst boiling deep in his throat. Despite the papers being waved in front of his face, creating a breeze that ruffled through his brownish red hair, he never looked up.
“Doctor Adler,” Norman flatly greeted. “I do not believe I need to do anything for you. Last time I checked, you worked for me. Not the other way around.”
Adler gave the documents one more push, the papers flapping in her grip. Her professional, stern attitude didn’t go unnoticed, especially when compared to the apprehensive man standing behind her.
Looking at her only with his eyes, his chin staying low to his chest, he reached out for them. The green banker’s lamp to his side tinted his features a sickly color, a bright olive mixing in with his pale complexion.
The files were heavy in his grip, the records on top masking numerous radiological films beneath. He sorted through them carefully, cautiously, one at a time.
“It’s the PET scan report,” she explained. “It’s not good.”
With his elbow leaning against his desk and his chin going to rest in the cup of his palm, Norman held image by image up to the light, the flickering of the fireplace illuminating the films. X-rays, MRI’s, bone scans, CT scans — the surplus of tests were too many to count.
“The findings from the latest notable laboratory test results show that this has gone metastatic,” she explained. “The pathogenesis of immunological tolerance and unrestricted hyperactivation of the immune system still remains uncertain, however, the nuclear scan reports show that the periodic remissions and relapses that have occurred are growing smaller —”
“Yes, doctor,” Norman set the films aside, covering them with the stack of paper medical records. Out of sight, out of mind. “I can read. Thank you.”
Adler sighed, both frustrated and dejected. “The disease is progressing. Rapidly. We’re losing the ability to control manifestation. If we don’t find a substitute to slow this down, and quickly at that...you could be looking at a couple months. At best.”
“You don’t need a substitute,” Murphy cut in, still standing by the doorway. The doctor turned to face him, puzzled. “Give us a couple weeks, we can still recreate the Oz formula. It was successful, it worked —”
“It began to cause early signs of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder,” she rebutted, accusation lacing her tone.
Murphy shrugged. “While true, it also halted the disease at a remarkable eight-nine percent.”
Adler’s face hardened as she retorted, “At the risk of a psychotic break!”
“Excuse me,” Norman interrupted, an open palm high in the air. “That’s enough of that.”
The two fell quiet, though not before Adler managed a glare in the direction of the doorway, further sparking the nervous energy of the scientist.
A shuffle of papers could be heard over the crackling fireplace, Norman’s hands diligently and slowly sorting through the reports.
“How long would you estimate a time-frame given that you reconstruct the formula into something more stable?” Though he never looked up from the documents, it was clear who the question was directed towards.
“I...really couldn’t say,” Murphy admitted, a waver in his voice. “That would take the chemical structure back to stage one. It could be months...perhaps longer.”
Adler turned from Murphy over to Norman, her frown deepening. “You don’t have months, Mr. Osborn.”
Norman set the papers aside, his elbow still leaning heavily against his desk. With a far off stare, he pinched his index finger and thumb together, rubbing the two in a repetitive motion. The skin-on-skin friction hissed in his ear, rough calluses on his fingertips like sandpaper against concrete.
“To quote the great Genevan philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau...” Norman looked over at the two, the crisp collar of his white button-down ruffling at the movement. “Every man has the right to risk his own life in order to preserve it.”
His face remained mostly expressionless, no twitch to his brows, no curve to his lips — contained, professional and stoic.
It left Murphy confused. “You...want to...restart the Oz treatments?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint your team, Murphy, but no.” Norman leaned back in his Italian leather chair, waving casually to the door. “You may kindly leave now, thank you.”
The scientist's shoes barely made a sound on the heavy Persian carpet below him, the unique Oriental designs hardly visible in the low lit office.
Once sure he'd departed down the hallway, Adler took a step forward, her hands resting deep in the pockets of her white lab coat.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, her voice low.
Norman folded his hands together, letting them rest across his stomach. He observed the woman quietly, calmly, his jaw set tight.
“I have spent my entire livelihood in research studies, doctor. OsCorp has been sitting on what could possibly be the greatest genetically engineered protoplasmic cure for human ailments, and yet we’ve been too afraid to put it to the test.” He sat forward, his hands going to rest on the desk, fingers still laced tightly together. “The answer we seek could possibly lay in what we’ve already created. Who am I to deny the world such a blessing?”
Another log from within the fireplace mantle split in two, a hard snap creating a fresh burst of hot red embers.
Adler gave a curt nod. “Very well, then. You know what to do.”
She turned and left, closing the door behind her.
Norman straightened his posture, digging into his blazer jacket and retrieving his cell phone from the inner pocket. For a brief, fleeting moment he stared at the dark screen, his own reflection mirroring back at him. The crow’s feet around his eyes stood out like unwanted scars, imprinted deeply in his skin.
It took only a few seconds to turn the display on and access his contact list, dialing the phone number he needed.
It took less than that for someone on the other end to answer.
“It’s me. It’s time to initiate phase two protocol.” Norman returned the fountain pen between his fingers, still naked of its cap, unsealed with the engraved nip exposed. It dripped black ink down below on the neatly stacked papers, each beat he tapped saturating the documents. “Tomorrow...we begin Project Symbiote.”
Taptaptap…
Tap tap.