I'm sorry I've been on such a long break. I actually forgot what had happened in the story and had to go read it again before I could get to writing! Same old, same old. Good day.

As per usual, my ownership is decidedly limited, although I have gotten my first laptop! No superheros though... bummer.

The reaction was, as promised, spectacular, and involved what was possibly a new world record in drink spitting. Fury's face had been bright red for hours, as, unfortunately for him, his act had ben discreetly recorded by a nearby smartphone, and became a YouTube hit within minutes, under the title, Idiot Boss Spits Coffee across Bridge!

Poor Fury.


Dying… his friend was dying and he had no idea what to do. Peter paced in his bedroom, trying to clear his head enough to plan a comprehensible course of action.

His progress so far was something like, 'Blood? Blood… spiders, um… England. Er… go to Harry, Oxford, explain, Gwen…'

He gripped his temples and shook himself. Harry's problem took priority, Gwen could wait. He dressed in his suit, threw on some casual clothes on top, and left for Harry's apartment.


"I can't give you my blood."

The words of the conversation were still ringing in Harry's ears. How dare he? How dare he have the audacity to come in here and turn him down flat! Him, an Osborn!

He took his anger out on a tray of expensive spirits, half yelling and crying, "You're a fraud, Spiderman!"

He mentally screamed at himself, screamed at his father, screamed at the vigilante-turned-hero who would let him die if he had his way.

No, no, screw him. Harry was going to get through this. He would go to Oscorp, and he wouldn't stop looking until he found answers. In this state of mind, he stormed out of the doors of his apartment, ordering is driver harshly to take him to the Oscorp tower.

It took him three hours of fruitlessly rifling through files before he got the message the world was sending him: There isn't a cure. Naturally he headed straight for the liquor cabinet, downing at least two glasses from the crystal decanter before his anger, and his determination, melted away, leaving only his depression and despair.

What had he been thinking? That he would find some 'miracle cure' and that all his problems would be solved? His father had tried with no success for almost forty years to achieve what Harry had foolishly expected to stumble upon within hours.

He bitterly swirled his drink around to take another gulp, but was interrupted by a shy voice in the doorway.

"Harry… I think I know how I can help you."

His determination came back with a vengeance.

Short and sweet, people, just the way I like it. Triangles forever!