"Hello, Peter. Why didn't you tell me you were coming to Oscorp?"
Norman Osborn didn't miss a beat. He stepped fully into the isolation lab, his immaculately tailored charcoal suit a stark contrast to the sterile, utilitarian environment. But what chilled Peter wasn't the sudden appearance of the billionaire—it was the casual, ruthlessly corporate pivot Norman immediately made.
Without skipping a breath, Norman began outlining a monetization strategy for Connors' regenerative serum. His proposal was simple and utterly horrifying: sell the unstable, mind-erasing lizard serum to the U.S. military as a deployable biological weapon. Drop the mutated soldiers into a hot zone, let them shred the enemy lines to pieces like a pack of rabid animals, and then hit them with the counter-agent to turn them back into manageable human assets.
It sounded exactly like a plot point lifted straight out of a Resident Evil game.
Peter kept his face entirely neutral, though his stomach tied itself into a cold knot. It was a morally bankrupt concept. Even Connors looked visibly nauseated by the idea. Peter made a quiet, immediate resolution: he was going to intentionally sabotage the cost-efficiency of the counter-agent. If he engineered the reducing serum to require hyper-rare, astronomically expensive synthetic isotopes, Norman would look at the profit margins, deem the project unviable, and scrap the entire monstrous idea.
"It was a spur-of-the-moment detour, Mr. Osborn," Peter lied smoothly, offering a polite smile. "I remembered that Dr. Connors was a close colleague of my father's. I just wanted to drop by and see his work."
"Ah, is that so? That's a real shame," Norman sighed, adjusting his silk tie. "Dr. Miles Warren has been heading up our European branch for the past year. Otherwise, you could have spoken with another of your father's most brilliant protégés."
Peter's internal warning bells instantly went off. Miles Warren. The Jackal. He suppressed a grimace. Note to self: absolutely avoid Europe. The last thing I need is to trigger some convoluted clone saga.
"Well, it's a pleasure to have you here regardless," Norman continued, gesturing toward the heavy steel doors. "If you have a moment, Peter, there's something I want to give you. A gift."
A gift from Norman Osborn? Curiosity and a healthy dose of paranoia warring in his chest, Peter followed the CEO out of the Super Soldier wing and up the private elevator to the executive penthouse.
The last time Peter had been in this office, a whip-wielding Vulture variant had tried to assassinate Norman right through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass had long since been replaced, but a faint, humming tension still lingered in the air.
Norman walked over to a seemingly blank, mahogany-paneled wall. He didn't reach for a keypad. He just spoke to the empty room.
"Green Goblin. Open the private workshop."
The wall seamlessly split down the middle, sliding apart to reveal a hidden armory bathed in harsh, fluorescent light. It looked far less like an executive laboratory and entirely like a supervillain's staging ground. A sleek, bat-winged metallic glider rested on a hydraulic workstand. Rows of spherical, orange-hued explosives sat in foam-lined cases, looking uncannily like mechanical pumpkins.
Peter's muscles coiled tight beneath his clothes, his flight-or-fight response threatening to take over.
Norman either didn't notice the teenager's tension or simply didn't care. He walked over to a workbench and picked up a piece of tactical gear. It looked like a high-tech compression vest, interwoven with dense, dark-grey circuitry.
"A bioelectric field diffusion matrix," Norman explained, holding the heavy garment out to Peter. "I designed it specifically around your unique bioelectric output. When you channel your current into these micro-relays, the vest projects a localized kinetic-dampening field roughly one meter in diameter."
Peter blinked, the technical specifications clicking together in his brain. "Wait. You mean..."
"It creates a stasis bubble," Norman confirmed, a flicker of genuine scientific pride in his eyes. "If you catch a falling civilian at terminal velocity, or you need to carry someone while moving at supersonic speeds, the field absorbs the sheer G-force. No whiplash. No shattered spines. You can maneuver at maximum velocity without worrying about the physical frailty of your passengers."
Peter reached out, taking the vest. The mesh was incredibly light, yet durable. It was exactly the kind of tech he needed. The remember of Gwen Stacy in another universe snapping back on a web-line. This vest negated that exact risk.
"This... this is incredible," Peter breathed, running his thumb over the intricate wiring. "Thank you, Uncle Norman."
"I put a considerable amount of late nights into that design. I am still a scientist at heart, after all," Norman chuckled softly, though the sound quickly faded into a wistful sigh. "Harry mentioned your little club trip to Puerto Rico. Oscorp can't legally provide you with field support down there for a whole week, Peter. So, I had to ensure you were adequately prepared before you left."
Norman reached into a nearby crate and tossed Peter a heavy bandolier of cylindrical canisters. "High-intensity stun grenades. Designed to disrupt large-scale fire attacks or crowd-control a small army. They might prove useful."
He paused, looking at Peter with a heavy, calculating stare. "You're exceptionally brilliant, Peter. I have incredibly high hopes for you. Your insight down in the lab today could completely alter the trajectory of the super-soldier program." Norman shook his head. "If only Harry had half of your intuition."
Ten minutes later, Spider-Man was a blur of motion, swinging high above the congested arteries of Manhattan.
The cold November wind whipped past his masked face. Beneath the sleek black exterior of his suit, the symbiote had completely absorbed Norman's tactical vest, integrating the bio-field circuitry directly into his own biomass.
"I think Norman is a little too harsh on Harry," Peter muttered aloud, firing a web-line at the corner of the Chrysler Building and launching himself into a massive, arching pendulum swing.
[HE DOES NOT HATE HIS SON,] a deep, resonant voice vibrated directly against Peter's skull.
[HE SIMPLY DESPISES STUPIDITY. UNFORTUNATELY, HIS CALCULATION FOR WHAT CONSTITUTES STUPIDITY IS UNREALISTICALLY HIGH.]
"Fair point," Peter conceded, tucking his knees to his chest as he vaulted over a passing news helicopter.
He plummeted toward the street before firing another web, snapping his descent into a smooth glide. They had discussed this before. If Venom could freely manipulate its biomass, growing tendrils and forming solid shields, Peter didn't understand why it couldn't just sprout a pair of wings and let them fly.
Venom had been very clear on the limitations of aerodynamic physics. If Peter flew at his standard speeds, the sheer air friction would generate localized high temperatures. Breaking the sound barrier would trigger a concussive sonic boom right against their own skin. Heat and intense sound were the symbiote's two lethal weaknesses. Flying would essentially be an elaborate form of suicide.
"Don't worry," Peter said, banking hard toward the gleaming, stylized 'A' of Avengers Tower. "Reed Richards said he's making progress on that long-lasting molecular stabilizer. Once we get that drug in our system, you'll be fireproof and soundproof."
Peter landed gracefully on the Tower's high-altitude helipad. The glass doors slid open automatically as he stepped inside the sprawling, empty penthouse.
"Nobody home today. Good morning, JARVIS."
"Good morning, Mr. Parker," the crisp, British AI responded from the ceiling speakers. "The Avengers are currently deployed. You have the Tower to yourself."
"Perfect."
Peter bypassed the main holographic table and walked over to an isolated, heavy-duty Stark quarantine terminal. He pulled the encrypted USB drive from his belt pouch—the one Felicia had routed to him through Gwen—and slotted it into the port. He wasn't about to plug an unknown drive into his own servers in The Web. Black Cat was an ally, but she was also a master thief. Never underestimate a cat's curiosity, or her tendency to leave backdoors in computer systems.
"JARVIS, run a full diagnostic. Any hostile subroutines?"
"Scanning... No malicious hidden programs or viruses detected, sir."
"Alright. Open it up."
Cascading files of encrypted ledgers, shipping manifests, and surveillance photos spilled across the holographic display. Peter leaned over the console, his eyes darting rapidly across the data.
"Human trafficking... weapons smuggling..." Peter muttered, tapping a highlighted route. "And the final shell companies all loop back to Pentagon black-budget accounts."
Felicia was still aggressively digging into the Super Soldier serum conspiracy. She had successfully mapped out the logistical chain, but the core problem remained: the assassin pulling the strings. The Hydra sleeper agent buried deep within the Pentagon.
Peter's jaw tightened. He wasn't worried about standard super soldiers. But if Felicia kept pulling this thread, she was going to accidentally summon the Winter Soldier. And Peter knew exactly what the metal-armed ghost was capable of. He had murdered Peter's parents. If Felicia crossed his path, she wouldn't stand a chance.
"Eject the drive, JARVIS."
Peter snatched the metal stick as it popped out of the console. He needed to hand this data over to Daredevil and the Defenders. Matt Murdock could handle street-level mob logistics while Peter was out of town.
But before he dealt with the big picture, he needed to clean up his own backyard. He pulled out his heavily encrypted burner phone and dialed a familiar number.
The line clicked open, followed by the faint sound of city traffic and a soft, amused hum.
"Hey, Black Cat," Peter said, staring out at the sprawling concrete jungle of New York. "Spider-Man has a quick question for you. Which mob bosses are moving product tonight? I've got a flight to catch, and I need to do some spring cleaning before I leave."