Chapter 273: Corpses
"What did I do?" Norman Osborn felt somewhat wronged. He'd been obediently behaving—hadn't done anything!
Batman didn't explain. He needed Norman Osborn seeing for himself.
Though this was Oscorp Tower, Batman appeared more familiar with it than the building's owner Norman Osborn. Leading him downward from the top floor, they arrived at underground level two.
Because Oscorp's underground level two had previously experienced criminal cases involving fifty homeless people dying from human experimentation, while underground level three experienced accidents where seven scientists died horribly.
Until today, Oscorp Tower's underground levels two and three remained sealed—not restored to normal operational states like other floors.
Inside underground level two's laboratory, those homeless people's corpses had long been sent to morgues under New York Chief Medical Examiner's Office jurisdiction.
But those fifty-plus enormous glass tanks once used for human experimentation remained here.
Batman didn't speak a word. Half his body merged into shadows, observing Norman Osborn somewhat bewilderedly passing by glass tanks one after another.
Norman Osborn occasionally stopped, frowning while contemplating, then continuing forward.
He wasn't stupid. Even if he couldn't recall what had occurred here, the glass tanks contained restraint straps for binding human bodies, medication delivery tubes inserted into homeless people—
Most importantly, beside each glass tank hung nameplates marked "Experimental Subject XX."
Nameplates recorded experimental subjects' blood types, races, heights, weights, plus extensive human data information.
Very obviously, humans had been confined inside.
Norman Osborn felt his head aching. He leaned back against one glass tank, slowly crouching down, both hands holding his head.
Fragmentary images flashed before his eyes. But those images appeared abnormally distorted—like paintings reflected through countless convex and concave mirrors—making him completely unable distinguishing image contents.
Norman Osborn didn't want carefully contemplating those images either. Because he could sense how bloody, how terrifying those images were.
"Sorry. I can't remember." Norman Osborn said.
Batman emerged from shadows. Still not speaking half a sentence, he led Norman Osborn departing underground level two, arriving at underground level three.
Compared to level two—though eerie and cold, all equipment maintained intact conditions—underground level three's laboratory resembled ruins.
Monster-shredded experimental equipment, shattered walls, exploded transparent octagonal cage...
Everything indicated violent incidents had occurred here.
Norman Osborn felt secretly alarmed. He observed one obviously-fist-punched-wall-leaving-marks trace, then stealthily glanced at Batman.
Beyond Batman plus that green monster giant—who else could accomplish all this?
The laboratory floor, experimental instruments bore residual bloodstains. But that blood had long dried—transforming into black traces, covered by dust—nearly invisible that rivers of blood once flowed here.
Batman still didn't speak. This time leading Norman Osborn departing Oscorp Tower, heading straight toward Queens.
This time both parties arrived at one apartment.
Reconstruction was underway here. But remaining ruins still showed explosion and fire-burning traces.
Norman Osborn still didn't understand what had happened here. More fractured images flashed before his eyes—images containing flames, corpses.
Images remained distorted. Every fragment resembled hell.
Both parties' final stop was one location making Norman Osborn somewhat uneasy: one institution under New York Chief Medical Examiner's Office jurisdiction—the morgue.
This morgue differed from Metropolitan General Hospital's. There, most corpses were patients.
The Medical Examiner's Office morgue refrigerated various corpses discovered by NYPD during investigations—those who'd died horribly.
Norman Osborn felt dazed. He didn't know how Batman bypassed guards, avoided surveillance, bringing him to the morgue.
The morgue's cold air made him shudder. He watched Batman leaving him aside, independently opening one, two...
Opening total sixty corpse refrigeration cabinets.
Norman Osborn crossed his arms over his shoulders. He felt so cold he wanted curling into a ball, wanted leaving this morgue.
He didn't understand why Batman brought him to this sinister, terrifying location. His mind flashed with bloody, horrifying images again.
Wait—he seemed seeing one familiar name... Spencer Smythe?
Wasn't this Oscorp Group's robotics field expert?
When did he die?
Doubt conquered fear of fellow human corpses. Norman Osborn slowly approached, observing white-cloth-covered, frozen-stiff corpses.
He cautiously lifted one corner of white cloth, observing Spencer's face—one eye having become blood hollow, currently long transformed into pitch-black cavity.
Norman Osborn startled, involuntarily retreating several steps.
This retreat—he observed several more familiar names: Alistair Smythe—Spencer's son. Martha Smythe—Spencer's wife.
Norman Osborn's heart trembled. Images flashed through his mind—aerial flight scenes plus consecutive explosions and flames.
He rubbed his increasingly-aching head, looking toward other corpses.
Seven more familiar names were written on seven corpse refrigeration cabinets: Alec Henderson, Maurice Tanner, Leon Rockwell...
Norman Osborn saw fists covered in fresh blood and white brain matter. He saw these seven Oscorp Group veteran scientists collapsed in blood pools. He saw how one monster personally took their lives.
Batman consistently silently stood aside—resembling one speechless statue. Visibly wispy white cold vapor surrounded him, dyeing Arkham suit with frost layers.
Norman Osborn panicked somewhat. He looked through them sequentially. Among remaining fifty corpses, some names he still remembered; some had long been forgotten.
But seeing each name, Norman Osborn's mind flashed images—how one beastly-hearted individual personally screened homeless people, how he promised them benefits, how he confined them into transparent glass tanks, how he made them die in human experimentation.
Norman Osborn felt thunderstruck. He knew who that individual was. He also understood what those mind images truly were.
That individual was Norman Osborn himself. Those images were crimes he'd once committed.
Norman Osborn sat on ground—disregarding the morgue floor's icy hardness. His head ached increasingly. Mind images grew increasingly clear.
He'd personally killed seven scientists. He'd driven Spencer Smythe to death. He'd bombed his son and wife to death. He'd killed fifty homeless people.
Norman Osborn looked toward Batman, then struggling upward from ground, bending down while viciously smashing his head toward the morgue's autopsy table's hard metal corner.