The Oscorp Industries lobby was a monument to clinical, corporate intimidation. Polished Italian marble stretched across the first floor, reflecting the harsh, recessed lighting above. A senior VP of acquisitions paused by the security desk, his brow furrowing as he spotted the man sitting in one of the sleek, modernist waiting chairs.
The man didn't belong here. He was middle-aged, balding, and wearing a worn corduroy jacket that smelled faintly of machine oil and ozone.
"Why is he still here?" the executive hissed at the receptionist.
"He said he absolutely has to see Mr. Osborn, sir. He refuses to leave."
The executive pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Osborn doesn't have time for this." He adjusted his silk tie and marched over to the waiting area. "Dr. Adrian Toomes. Security has already warned you twice. I'm going to have to ask you to—"
"I want to see Norman Osborn!" Toomes shot to his feet, his hands curled into tight, trembling fists. He didn't yell, but his voice carried a raw, scraped-out desperation that silenced the immediate vicinity.
Before the executive could signal the guards, the heavy glass doors of the private elevator chimed open.
"Now, now, there's no need to be disrespectful to Dr. Toomes," a smooth, baritone voice echoed across the lobby. "The man is an outstanding scientist."
Norman Osborn stepped into the light. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his hair immaculately swept back. He was currently on his way to inspect the 'Emily Osborn Research Center' but he always had a moment for an old business acquaintance. Norman's lips curled into a predatory, camera-ready smile as he opened his arms.
"Adrian! It feels like it's been ages."
Toomes didn't reciprocate the gesture. He closed the distance between them, his chest heaving. "You stole my technology. You took my life's work, stripped the serial numbers off, and used it to secure the Department of Defense contract!"
The executive lunged forward to intervene, but Norman held up a single, manicured hand. He didn't drop the smile. He simply looked at Toomes the way a man might look at a barking stray dog.
"You know better than that, Adrian," Norman said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. "Oscorp's single-soldier flight platform won the military tender because it works. Your previous 'Falcon' project proved far too physically demanding on the pilots. The G-forces tore their shoulders apart. The military mothballed it. Your new proposal was just a band-aid on a broken concept—you were still trying to make a man fly by strapping mechanical wings to his arms. Oscorp's proposal utilizes a completely revolutionary anti-gravity propulsion matrix."
"I developed that anti-gravity system!" Toomes roared, spit flying from his lips. "I filed the patent three months ago!"
Norman nodded slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. "I will concede that our engineering teams explored similar avenues. Great minds think alike, as they say. But 'similar' isn't enough to prove corporate espionage, Adrian. Let's be pragmatic. Oscorp is willing to reach an amicable agreement regarding the overlap in our design concepts."
Norman paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the killing blow. "We will buy your patent rights outright. Five million dollars."
Toomes froze. The blood drained from his face. "Five million? For a multi-billion dollar military contract? You thief. You shameful, arrogant robber!"
Norman closed the distance between them. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just inches from Toomes's ear. The genial warmth evaporated from his voice, replaced by the cold, crushing weight of reality.
"Yes," Norman whispered. "It is five million. But if you take me to court, Oscorp's legal team will keep you buried in discovery and injunctions for a decade. Your poor little salvage studio will bankrupt itself on legal fees before you even see the inside of a courtroom. Take the five million, Adrian. It's a lot of money for a guy like you."
Toomes snapped.
With a guttural cry, he swung his right hook. The punch connected squarely with Norman's jaw with a sickening crack. Toomes followed it up with a desperate flurry of blows, cursing Oscorp, the military, and Norman's bloodline.
Norman didn't even stumble. He absorbed the hits with frightening rigidity, his neck barely turning. Security swarmed Toomes in seconds, tackling the older man to the polished marble and pinning his arms behind his back.
Norman casually pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed a drop of blood from his split lip. He looked down at the struggling, hyperventilating inventor.
"Call the police," Norman instructed the breathless executive. "Press full assault charges." He turned and walked out the glass doors, the smile returning to his face as if nothing had happened.
The NYPD didn't waste time. By mid-afternoon, Adrian Toomes was sitting on a cold steel bench in a cramped holding cell at the precinct. He rubbed his bruised knuckles, staring at the peeling gray paint on the wall.
He wasn't alone. The cell was packed with a half-dozen bruised, bleeding enforcers from some local syndicate. One of them was nursing a broken nose, groaning loudly to his buddy.
"I'm telling you, man, the bug is out of his mind today," the thug complained, pressing a wad of toilet paper to his bleeding nostrils. "He didn't even use the webs. The truck was doing forty down Queens Boulevard, and he just planted his feet and caught the bumper. With one hand! Like it was a damn baseball!"
Toomes tuned them out, staring at his shoes. His mind was racing, replaying Norman's whisper over and over.
He's right, Toomes realized, a cold knot forming in his stomach. I can't beat him.
Even if he maxed out his credit cards and remortgaged his house to hire a lawyer, Norman had the Pentagon in his back pocket. The game was rigged from the start. But if he took the five million, he could pay off his crew. He could keep his family fed. But his lab? His dreams of flight? Dead in the water.
He listened to the thugs whining about the wall-crawler.
There are freaks everywhere now, Toomes thought bitterly. It used to be that a smart man with a good crew could carve out a piece of the world. Now? You've got billionaires in flying suits, super-soldiers, and Spider-Man who catch trucks bare-handed.
If you wanted to survive in a world of gods and monsters, you couldn't just be an engineer anymore. You needed power. You needed to take the skies back. You needed... wings.
The heavy metal door of the holding area clanged open, snapping Toomes out of his dark reverie. A tall man in a crisp white shirt and tie walked in, holding a clipboard. Captain George Stacy scanned the cell, his sharp eyes settling on Toomes.
"Unlock it," Captain Stacy told the desk sergeant. He pulled the cell door open himself. "Dr. Adrian Toomes? You're free to go."
Toomes stood up, his joints popping. "I am? What about the assault charges?"
Stacy's expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of distaste in his eyes. "Norman Osborn's lawyers just called down to the precinct. Said the whole thing was a 'simple misunderstanding' and asked us to drop it. Your daughter is waiting for you out front."
A misunderstanding. Toomes sneered internally. Norman was playing him. Reminding him who held the leash.
He followed Captain Stacy out of the holding area and into the chaotic bullpen. Sitting on a wooden bench near the entrance was a teenage girl, her backpack clutched tightly in her lap. She jumped up the second she saw him.
"Dad!" Liz rushed over, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"I'm so sorry, Lizzie," Toomes muttered, resting his chin on the top of her head. He felt the tension bleed out of him. The anger, the grand plans for revenge—it all evaporated under the weight of his daughter's embrace.
Liz pulled back, giving him a small, relieved smile. She turned to the police captain. "Thank you so much, Captain Stacy. Gwen told me you'd look into it."
"Keep him out of trouble, Liz," Stacy said with a weary smile, tipping his head before walking back to his office.
As they walked out of the precinct and into the crisp New York evening, Toomes kept his arm securely around his daughter's shoulders.
"You didn't have to come down here, sweetie. I'm sorry you had to see this."
"You're my dad," Liz said simply, bumping her shoulder against his. "Besides, I know how hard you've been working. You're just trying to look out for us."
Hearing her say that was the final nail in the coffin for his pride. Toomes stopped on the sidewalk. Family was more important than ego. It was more important than sticking it to Norman Osborn. Five million dollars meant Liz went to college. It meant his wife didn't have to worry about the mortgage.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed the Oscorp legal department, and left a curt voicemail accepting the settlement terms.
When he hung up, Liz was staring at him, her eyes wide with shock. "You took the deal? But... Dad, you've been building that flight system since I was in middle school. I thought you'd fight it."
Toomes forced a chuckle, pocketing his phone. "Maybe Norman was right about one thing, Lizzie. The idea of giving a man mechanical wings... it's outdated. Time to move on."
He steered her down the block toward the subway station, eager to change the subject. "Let's talk about something else. What was the name of that boy you mentioned? The one you went to the Homecoming dance with?"
Liz groaned, a blush creeping up her neck. "Dad, please."
"I'm serious! I want to know who's taking my daughter out."
"His name is Harold Lyman," Liz mumbled, looking at the pavement. "But everyone at Midtown just calls him Harry."
Toomes smiled, genuinely this time. A nice, normal kid from Queens. Exactly what she needed. "If he's really a good kid, maybe you should bring him around the house for dinner next week. I'd like to meet this Harry."
PS: Fun fact for you history buffs! Norman's strategy here—using lengthy, ruinously expensive litigation to cripple small tech studios and force them to surrender their patents—is a classic robber baron tactic. The Morgan Group famously pulled the exact same stunt back in the day, suing a competitor over alternating current (AC) technology until they bled them dry. They forced the competitor to drop their support for Nikola Tesla, and just like that, the Morgan Group scooped up the AC project for themselves. Norman Osborn would have fit right in with the 19th-century capitalists!