Norman Osborne sat on his cot, bristly hair scratching his palms as thought about, quite literally, the impending doom about to befall the planet he had tried to save. He could have saved them all. All their sorry asses. Even Stark. EVEN Parker.
Better than any so called "hero" they could muster.
The Goblin still cackled outside Norman's cell. Was Rogers withholding his meds out of spite... he only hoped the man had it in him.
The bright red flashes of Cap’s fists still flashed like deadlights whenever he closed his eyes. They had chosen their own path, let them have a soldier... and not a scientist... lead them, let them beat down each others doors and wage a war of false ideals until a greater force, even it isn't Von Doom, destroys EVERYTHING I HAVE WORKED FOR like a fledgling virus consigned to a &%@$%#$# oven.
The Goblin outside his cell whispered plans of sweet escape in its native tounge of madness.
Best to let nature take its course. One day perhaps Rogers would realize his true enemy, either that or he could always die again.
Osborne simply turned away on his cot and tried to sleep, his back to his ego.
The tiny hint of a sparkle illumined the cell floor, unseen by the sleeping former leader of S.H.I.E.L.D., and quite demurely a small talking cricket stepped out through a gap in reality.
And damn could he sing.
His name was Jiminy. Jiminey Cricket.
To Be Concluded!