Look 'bad luck' up in the dictionary. Go on. We'll wait. See there? That picture of an awkward college student tripping over his own feet? That's Peter Parker. He's majoring in chemical engineering, and by some stroke of (you guessed it) bad luck, t...
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The Empire State University campus, like any other educational facility, was hauntingly eerie at night when the halls were empty and silent. Maybe a few straggling students would be drifting through the courtyard on their way to or from the library, but otherwise it was just teaching staff dragging themselves home.
A staff member in particular had just arrived; fortunately, she wasn't there to work.
"I thought Karlson said something about me having to throw you out if I ever saw you around here after taking leave," whistled the security guard.
Martha Connors reached into her pocket and dug around for her lab keys. "Right. Well good luck with that. I've forgotten my son's birthday present in the back room and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some small sarcastic man stop me from making him happy on his special day."
The guard shook his head with a smirk. "You're a terrible mother."
"I don't recall you being father of the year, mister 'I'm going to get help for my daughter's science project from an actual biology professor instead of doing it myself'," she quipped as she finally scooped her keys out.
She slid the key into the lock as the guard pressed, "What's he getting this time? A dictionary?"
"Don't be stupid. That was for his twelfth. He's getting a Nintendo Switch."
"Damn. Should've let myself in and had a game or two," said the guard as he started to trudge lazily down the hall.
"Bye, Gary," Martha dismissed with an eyeroll.
She pulled the door open and its ivory surface immediately gave way to pitch black. A wave of heat swept forth and seeped into Martha's face. She reeled back in surprise, then reached toward the light switch.
Martha flicked the switch.
Stark white flooded the lab, painting the mess-strewn tables and floors in blinding light. Papers fluttered across the room from the gush of inward flowing air caused by the opening door. Petri dishes were haphazardly speckled about the desks.
"G-Gary," Martha called sternly. The shock stuffle what should've been a clear and audible bark.
No one came, only the papers mid-flight settled on the floor and the room became still... Well, almost still.
In the far corner, at Curt's desk, was a writhing shape. Martha took several steps forward, arms frozen in fear. As she closed in, the shape became a pair of shoulders clad in stained clothes; someone was sitting in her husband's chair, hunched over his work desk.
Her lips thinned and she clenched her fists when she spied several spent injection syringes lined up on the table. She tried to work something up to say to this junkie, but his sporadic twitching and jerking seized her mind.
Suddenly, the figure turned over his shoulder and sent a pair of fearful eyes toward Martha.
"...Curt?" she spat. "W-What the hell are you doing here?!"
