Fandom: Spider-Man 3
Word Count: 596 words
Betas: mark_clark and van_el
Summary: “Harry Osborn’s senses only register in some distant part of his mind, the part that can still objectively notice the world around him. A part of him which has long since been buried by pain, anger, betrayal… and watered with drugs, alcohol and his father’s blood.”
Author's Notes: A birthday fic for jadeblood, who asked for Scarred!Alive!Harry Osborn.
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A flash of streetlights.
The whipping of a flag on the side of a building.
The fleeting darkness of a low pass through an alley.
Police searchlights above a crowded street.
Harry Osborn’s senses only register in some distant part of his mind, the part that can still objectively notice the world around him. A part of him which has long since been buried by pain, anger, betrayal… and watered with drugs, alcohol and his father’s blood.
But a strange sort of flower has been blooming in that fertile ground now. Harry feels a tendril of hope – hope that there is one last chance.
The blaring of horns in traffic far below.
Wind whistling past the edges of his face mask.
The whine of the motor at his feet.
A distant booming which is somehow also directly ahead.
Harry knows that these sounds are all around him, but his focus is not on them. But they serve to remind him that time may be running out. And one other sound, one only he can hear. The voice of Peter, pleading with him, “I need your help, Harry.”
The dull ache from the side of his face, of muscles forever ruined.
Cold, which cuts through the fabric of his costume, dueling with the fire which burns through his veins.
A sense of vertigo as he swoops downward toward the cacophony, only blocks away now.
The impressions from his senses are coming more quickly now, and Harry embraces them, letting the rush of his mission coalesce them into pure purpose. He can taste the dust in the air, even behind the mask. He smells the acrid scent of battle, the enhancement formula seizing on it, making his blood pound more strongly than ever, more strongly than it had been whilst fighting Peter that terrible night.
And then he is there at the construction site. He glides to a stop, out of sight, not that anyone’s attention is anywhere but on the webslinger, the man made of sand and the red-haired girl suspended in the grotesque, black webbing.
Peter is badly outmatched. Anyone can see this – it doesn’t take a set of enhanced senses to perceive.
Harry hovers for a long moment, surveying the scene before him with an almost preternatural calm. His eye, in that moment, catches his reflection in the mirrored glass of the skyscraper beside him. He turns his head to face the window. The Sky Stick glows iridescent green at his feet, and reflects eerily against his black clothing.
He lets the face plate recede, showing his scarred face clearly in the glass. Only hours before he had regarded this visage with disgust and burning rage, one more reason to destroy Peter Parker and everything he stood for…
And now he sees it with new eyes. He feels as if his entire purpose for living has been transformed. No longer is he a puppet of his deranged father, still able to pull the strings of his son’s sanity. He can use this gift not for destruction, but for salvation. Others’ salvation… and his own.
Harry sees the form of the Sandman raising a massive fist to bludgeon Spider-Man into oblivion, and in an instant, he is diving, the rush of blood and his own triumphant laughter in his ears. He hears the whine of the bomb launching from his outstretched hand, feels and sees the answering flash of heat and light. The shock and relief of the crowd washes across all five senses, but he is focused on one single thought.
“Dad, this one’s for you.”
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