Flashback
Barton Hamilton pushed open the heavy oak door to his consulting room. He stepped aside, gesturing for his newest patient to enter. Norman Osborn crossed the threshold, his posture impeccable.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Osborn," Hamilton said, offering a practiced, comforting smile. "How would you prefer I address you today? Norman?"
Norman straightened his tailored jacket, his demeanor a masterpiece of engineered warmth. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Dr. Hamilton. I'm told you are the premier psychiatrist in New York."
"My colleagues are too generous." Hamilton chuckled, taking his seat behind his mahogany desk and glancing at the intake file. "Multiple personality disorder. Fascinating. Generally speaking, unless there is a strong genetic component, dissociative identities stem from profound childhood trauma. Do any specific events come to mind?"
The clinic smelled of aged paper and an expensive, imported incense—a heavy, earthy blend designed to induce a state of physical relaxation and mental pliability.
Norman steepled his fingers in his lap. "His name is the Green Goblin. I... I can't pinpoint the exact moment he first appeared. It feels as though he has been sitting in the back of my mind since I was a boy."
Hamilton leaned forward. Dissociative Identity Disorder wasn't merely a matter of an active imagination; that was closer to paranoia. True DID functioned as a neurological fortress. It required a perfect storm of conditions: prolonged emotional neglect, severe trauma or abuse, and the subconscious fracturing of one's own identity. A second persona emerged to absorb the pain the host could not endure.
Because of this, the new personality was almost always extreme. It was a defense mechanism.
"A child is helpless," Hamilton explained, his voice taking on a clinical rhythm. "But an adult possesses agency. Your secondary personality assumes the power you lacked as a boy. Often, these personas remain emotionally frozen at the age of their inception, yet they wield the capabilities of your current self. When faced with high-stress situations, this alternate identity steps in to protect you."
Norman nodded slowly. "Your perspective is highly creative, Doctor."
Hamilton frowned, his pen hovering over his notepad. "It isn't creativity, Norman. It's clinical consensus. Consider the Hulk. In psychiatric terms, the Hulk is the ultimate manifestation of DID. He is essentially a three-year-old throwing a tantrum, armed with limitless rage and physical power. He surfaces to protect Bruce Banner from physical harm."
Hamilton leaned back in his leather chair. "But simultaneously, the Hulk despises Banner's cowardice. He hates that Banner tries to suppress him instead of utilizing that power to fight back."
Norman's face went completely blank. The engineered corporate warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, flat emptiness.
"But I am not that kind of monster."
Hamilton blinked. "I wasn't calling you a monster, Norman. I was simply making a—"
Hamilton stopped. He stared at the man sitting across from him. Norman's posture had shifted. The slight slump of a burdened CEO was gone, replaced by a rigid, predatory stillness. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a terrifyingly wide, unblinking smile.
"The Green Goblin?" Hamilton whispered, his heart skipping a beat.
"The Green Goblin," the man replied. His voice was smoother, darker, and infinitely more relaxed than Norman's. "The ultimate power fantasy of a frightened little boy hiding in his father's study. You know, Doctor, in classic tabletop games, small, wretched creatures like goblins possess a racial trait called 'Small Rage.' It allows them to inflict disproportionate damage on creatures far larger than themselves."
The Goblin leaned forward. He reached across the desk and delicately picked up Hamilton's porcelain teacup. "May I?"
"Please," Hamilton breathed. Surprise and clinical delight warred on his face. "I've read the literature, but I've never interacted with a spontaneous manifestation this lucid. Even in textbook DID cases, the transition—"
"Calm yourself, Doctor," the Goblin interrupted, taking a slow sip of the tea. "Norman remained entirely ignorant of my existence for decades. He only experienced the 'lost time.' But I am different. I possess all of his memories. Every single one. If I'm not mistaken, I am far more suited for intellectual conversation than he is."
"Yes," Hamilton said, eagerly pulling his chair closer to the desk. "Yes, of course."
The Goblin maintained his chilling smile. His eyes drifted from Hamilton to the massive oak bookshelf lining the far wall. "Ah. How refreshing. Honoré de Balzac squeezed between Freud and Jung."
Hamilton stared at him in utter disbelief. "You... you read Balzac?"
"I read significantly more than Norman does," the Goblin chuckled, a dry, elegant sound. "Norman squandered his life chasing wealth, utterly convinced that his net worth was the sole metric of his existence. But I don't share his limitations. Do I?"
Looking back, Hamilton would realize that this very first session had set the hook. Over the next twelve months, he learned that this alter ego was nothing like the man who carried it. If Norman Osborn was a ruthless, ambitious industrialist, the Green Goblin was a philosopher. He spoke with chilling eloquence, drawing upon obscure Eastern texts, Western history, and Machiavellian political theory.
The Goblin would patiently dissect Hamilton's other high-society patients. He analyzed the depravity of New York's elite with surgical precision.
Then, after a full year of these "therapy" sessions, the Green Goblin made his first actual request.
"As a man of science," the Goblin mused one rainy afternoon, "have you ever considered conducting a small-scale social psychology experiment?"
Hamilton adjusted his glasses. "I suppose that depends on the parameters. How small?"
The Goblin tapped his chin, his eyes drifting to the muted television screen playing the local news. "You maintain quite a robust network of friends within the city council, do you not? Could you, perhaps, persuade them to restructure the disciplinary protocols for police officers who fail to prevent super-criminal jailbreaks?"
Hamilton frowned. "I don't follow."
"The rationale is beautifully simple," the Goblin purred, leaning forward. "Supervillains possess abilities far beyond the scope of a standard beat cop. Ergo, ordinary officers shouldn't be expected to lay down their lives to stop a superhuman threat. The union would love it. Why not draft a policy that officially shields officers from disciplinary action if they simply step aside and let a supervillain escape?"
"That sounds..." Hamilton trailed off, chewing his bottom lip. "Highly controversial."
"It sounds like you're saving lives, Doctor," the Goblin smiled, his voice dropping to a hypnotic cadence. "You would be protecting innocent men and women in uniform from making unnecessary sacrifices."
Hamilton slowly nodded. Put like that, it made a twisted kind of sense.
"And," the Goblin added casually, brushing a piece of lint from his slacks, "we get the added benefit of observing whether the supervillain escape rate mathematically increases. What do you think, Hamilton?"
Hamilton stared into the man's cold, calculating eyes. "I think... it just might."
"I couldn't agree more."
The Green Goblin and Barton Hamilton exchanged a long, knowing smile. It was their very first social experiment.
It would not be their last.