"I really don't have any hostile intentions here," Peter said, his voice echoing clearly across the cavernous, brightly lit hangar bay of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. He kept his hands raised in a placating gesture, completely ignoring the dozens of laser sights painting his chest. "If I wanted to pick a fight, I would have just ripped out the primary turbine couplings while I was hanging onto the exterior hull. Consider my polite knocking a sign of absolute sincerity."
The sea of black-clad tactical agents parted. The woman who stepped forward wasn't a gender-swapped Nick Fury, though she clearly occupied the exact same terrifying echelon of authority. It was an elderly Peggy Carter. Her hair was stark white, pulled back into a severe, military bun. A black eyepatch covered her left eye, but the deep, weathered lines on her face did nothing to dull the predatory sharpness of her remaining eye. She was Earth-65's Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Furthermore," Peter continued, casually hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward Gwen, who was currently hiding behind a lumpy, horrific mask constructed entirely from Venom's black biomass, "my lethal associate here already disarmed you. Notice how she didn't even leave a scratch?"
Director Carter's single eye narrowed. She looked down at her right hip. Her custom sidearm was gone. She slowly turned her head, spotting the heavy pistol resting neatly on top of a yellow munitions crate ten feet away.
Carter let out a slow, measured breath, looking back at the teenager in the red and blue suit. She raised her hand, signaling the tactical team to lower their weapons. "What exactly do you want, Spider-Man?"
"My way of hopping dimension is currently experiencing some technical difficulties," Peter said smoothly, lowering his hands. "My partner and I need temporary housing on this ship. I also need immediate, unrestricted access to the stowaway you just fished out of the river. In exchange, we are perfectly willing to operate as highly skilled, pro-bono mercenaries for S.H.I.E.L.D. during our stay."
Carter stared at him, weighing the tactical variables. A dimension-hopping vigilante offering free labor in exchange for a bed. "I will arrange your rooms," Carter said finally. "But I think you need to see our guest first."
Ten minutes later, Peter and Gwen followed Carter down a heavily fortified corridor in the detention block. They stopped in front of a massive holding cell secured by three feet of reinforced, high-density polymer glass.
Inside the cell sat Dr. Connors.
The reversal aerosol Peter forced down his throat at the docks had done half the job. Connors was no longer a towering, fifteen-foot prehistoric monster. He had shrunk down to roughly seven feet tall. The massive, whip-like tail was now just over three feet long. He still possessed the dense, super-soldier musculature and the green skin and minimize scaled hid but the savage, animalistic posture was gone. He sat on the steel bench, looking profoundly exhausted.
The moment the heavy blast doors slid open, Connors' head snapped up. His reptilian eyes locked onto Peter. He immediately pushed himself off the bench, his claws scraping against the steel floor.
He opened his jaws. A long, forked tongue flicked out, and a raspy, distinctly human voice echoed through the cell's intercom.
"Peter," Connors breathed, gripping the reinforced glass. "You're here. Thank God. I don't... I don't understand how I ended up in this place."
Damn it doc, there goes the whole secret identity.
The four armed S.H.I.E.L.D. guards stationed around the cell visibly flinched, tightening their grips on their shock-rifles. They had dragged the beast out of the Hudson River assuming it was a mindless, bloodthirsty aberration. Hearing a refined, academic cadence coming from a giant lizard completely shattered their threat assessment protocols.
"Take a breath, Dr. Connors," Peter said, stepping right up to the glass. "We took a bad left turn at the multiverse. This isn't our Earth. But don't panic—I am going to get you home. I promise. More importantly, this universe should have its own version of Curt Connors. A version who never synthesized the cross-species genetics. If we can secure a baseline blood sample from him, we can formulate a secondary retrovirus back home and completely strip the super-soldier strain out of your DNA."
Connors' rigid shoulders slumped. A profound, overwhelming look of relief washed over his scaly features. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool glass.
"Thank you, Peter," Connors whispered, his voice trembling. "Thank you. That madman... Otto... he turned me into a monster. When I get my hands on him—"
"Otto is dead, Doc," Peter interrupted quietly.
Connors froze, his eyes snapping open.
"He was assassinated," Peter explained, keeping his voice level. "Shot in the head inside a police transport before we left."
During their high-altitude flight up to the Helicarrier, 616-Gwen had fully briefed Peter on the intelligence she and Harry had gathered. The scope of Norman Osborn's manipulation was staggering. Harry had uncovered Oscorp's deep-space terraforming project—the Counter-Earth. Felicia had located the original, preserved radioactive spider sitting like a twisted trophy in Norman's hidden lab.
But Gwen's audio recording was the real bombshell. Norman had casually confessed to ordering the sniper hit on Doctor Otto. It was all a calculated, ruthless corporate maneuver. Norman had allowed Otto to steal his weapons and terrorize the city specifically to demonstrate the lethality of the Savage Force tech.
He used the resulting chaos as leverage to force the Military into buying the super-soldier program at an astronomical premium. Norman possessed absolutely zero moral boundaries. He only recognized profit.
Yet, Peter found himself far more disturbed by the secondary file Gwen had found. The medical blueprint for a neural-inhibitor meant to suppress Dissociative Identity Disorder.
Norman Osborn was fracturing. His mind was splitting presumably under the pressure of the Goblin serum. Peter had originally planned to swing straight into Oscorp Tower and drag Norman out by the collar, but the medical warning changed the math entirely. If Peter pushed Norman too hard, the stress could permanently shatter his fragile psyche, completely locking him into the Green Goblin persona. If that happened, Manhattan would burn.
"Dead?" Connors muttered, sinking slowly back onto the steel bench. "My God..."
Peter didn't offer any empty platitudes. He simply promised Connors he would return soon to begin the extraction process, then turned away from the glass.
Director Carter had stood silently near the door, absorbing every single word of the exchange.
"It seems your dimension is quite turbulent, Peter Parker" Carter noted, her single eye tracking Peter's movements.
"What? How?" Peter questioned.
"I am Director of S.H.I.E.L.D and for context, our Otto Octavius is currently alive, well, and quietly teaching physics."
Carter stepped over to a small observation desk. She picked up a crystal decanter and poured a measure of amber liquid into a heavy glass tumbler. She held it out toward Peter.
"Care for a drink, Parker?"
"I'll pass," Peter said immediately, waving a gloved hand. "It completely messes with my state of mind."
Carter didn't press the issue. She set the glass down. Behind the thick symbiote mask, Gwen mentally winced. She was testing your age, Peter.
Peter ignored the silent observation.
"Director Carter," Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We need this world's Curt Connors. He should be the head of genetic engineering at Oscorp. Can your intelligence division locate him?"
Carter didn't blink. "That might be difficult. Dr. Connors disappeared without a trace roughly five months ago."
Peter frowned beneath his mask. "Disappeared?"
"He vanished in the immediate aftermath of a domestic terror incident," Carter explained, her tone entirely clinical. "A massive, reptilian humanoid invaded the Midtown High School prom. Initially, we suspected the tech-syndicate LOOM. had abducted him to weaponize his research. However, given recent intelligence, S.H.I.E.L.D. now formally suspects that Connors himself was the creature at the high school."
No, he wasn't, Peter thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. That was my variant. That was Earth-65 Peter Parker.
The psychological decay of Earth-65 was staggering. Everyone here was a twisted, broken reflection. Even the local variant of Kitty Pryde—the sweet, phasing X-Man Peter knew back home—had somehow grafted adamantium claws onto her forearms and developed severe, psychopathic sadism. This dimension was a meat grinder.
"There is a possibility that he might not become a monster," Peter said firmly, "I need him. I need his DNA to cure my friend. I'd appreciate any resources S.H.I.E.L.D. can spare to track him down."
Carter stared at the vigilante for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded. "I will have my analysts review the cold case files."
A junior agent escorted Peter and Gwen out of the detention block and down a labyrinth of grey, utilitarian corridors. They finally stopped in front of a heavy bulkhead door marked Barracks 4-C. The agent punched in a code, the door hissed open, and he immediately marched away.
Peter stepped inside, followed closely by Gwen, who waited until the door latched before ordering Venom to retract the suffocating black mask from her face. She gasped for air, brushing her blonde hair out of her eyes.
They both stopped and stared at their assigned quarters.
It was a windowless metal box roughly the size of a walk-in closet. A single stack of three incredibly narrow bunk beds was bolted to the right wall. A fold-out metal desk was bolted to the left. If either of them extended their arms fully, they would punch the steel bulkheads.
Peter let out a slow, exhausted breath, pulling his red mask off his face.
"Right," Peter muttered, tossing his mask onto the bottom bunk. "I keep forgetting that no matter how many stealth generators or repulsor turbines you bolt onto a Helicarrier, at the end of the day, it's still just a Navy boat. And the Navy absolutely despises legroom."