Chapter 501: Spider-Man: Year One (Part 1)"So, what's your specific take on Senator Kelly's Supervillain Registration Act?"
"I think the core purpose of the bill sounds great on paper, but in practice..."
Peter Parker was currently getting grilled by Mary Jane Watson. Technically, it was a mock interview. Senator Robert Kelly had recently introduced the highly controversial Supervillain Registration Act to Congress. Most people weren't even debating the actual merits of the law; they were just using it as a soapbox for their own political agendas.
The extreme wing of the Democratic Party insisted the bill was purely anti-mutant discrimination. After all, the vast majority of superpowered criminals were mutants, making this essentially a reskinned Mutant Registration Act. To be fair, that argument was a massive leap in logic—like saying anyone who wants to regulate sports cars secretly hates Italians.
On the flip side, the extreme wing of the Republican Party was convinced the whole thing was a deep-state political hoax. Their reasoning? Half the "supervillains" terrorizing New York didn't even have superpowers. Guys like the Shocker and Mysterio were just tech-heads utilizing advanced engineering. Was there some grand conspiracy to regulate genetic mutations while ignoring high-tech terrorism? It was a mess.
"In other words, you think the bill has good intentions, but it's a slippery slope toward government abuse," MJ said, her pen flying across her notepad.
As a Daily Bugle intern on the reporter track, MJ knew her boss, J. Jonah Jameson, didn't cater to political extremes. The Bugle positioned itself firmly in the center, speaking for the so-called "silent majority." Of course, the fact that the paper's revenue had been steadily tanking for years probably said something about that strategy.
The entire Nimrod crisis had left the general public completely in the dark. Nobody knew the world had just been invaded by an apocalyptic, future-timeline Sentinel. Nobody connected the destruction of A.I.M. to the mutant population. Even when Magneto publicly thanked the Avengers for their help with mutant rights, it just confused everyone. Conspiracy theorists assumed Captain America had sold out the country for half a million dollars of mutant blood money. And that didn't even touch the bizarre footage out of Europe: why were the X-Men in Paris? Where did that fifty-meter-tall scrap-metal robot come from?
Peter shifted his weight, his mind drifting back to the aftermath in Paris. The Xavier Institute had taken in a massive wave of mutant refugees from Anna Marie's—Rogue's—underground railroad. Many of them had severe physical mutations that made them targets for bigotry. Some chose to stay at the Academy. But when the rest heard the X-Men could grant them safe passage to Genosha, they packed their bags. For now, at least, Magneto's island remained a mutant paradise.
MJ snapped her notebook shut, pulling Peter back to reality. "Alright, that gives me plenty of material to pitch to JJJ. You really bailed me out here, Tiger. How about I buy you lunch?"
Peter blinked, caught off guard. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah, sure."
Deep beneath the Xavier Institute, Remy LeBeau was currently "detained" in a holding cell. Technically, the X-Men had absolutely zero legal authority to hold prisoners, making this a textbook case of illegal imprisonment.
Gambit didn't care. He sat casually on the edge of the metal cot, spinning a playing card between his knuckles. They hadn't fitted him with a mutant-suppression collar, which meant he could charge a card with kinetic energy and blow the steel door off its hinges whenever he felt like it. But he was in no rush. He wanted to see what cards the X-Men were holding.
The heavy door clicked open. Two interrogators stepped into the room: the southern belle he'd been sent to hunt, Rogue, and the feral mutant who had nearly sliced him to ribbons in Paris.
Remy's black-and-red eyes widened slightly. He offered a charming, crooked grin. "Well, I'll be. You're still breathin', brother!"
Logan didn't smile. The Wolverine crossed the room in two heavy strides, slammed his hands onto the metal table, and leaned into Remy's personal space.
"Cut the crap, bub," Logan growled, his voice like grinding gravel. "Where is Mister Sinister? And where is the kid?"
Remy leaned back, interlacing his fingers behind his head. "What, a grieving papa lookin' to reunite with his lost little girl? Bad idea, mon ami. Even though we ain't known each other long, I can tell you right now—"
Snikt.
Three adamantium claws erupted from Logan's knuckles, stopping an inch from Remy's nose.
Gambit raised an eyebrow, entirely unfazed. He slowly lowered his hands. "I know, I know. Good cop, bad cop. A classic. But if we're playin' games, why not just send in that shiny telepath lady of yours to scramble my brains?"
"Because we don't want to be your enemy," Rogue said softly, stepping up beside Logan. She crossed her arms, her leather jacket creaking. "I can tell you ain't a bad man, Remy."
Gambit offered a slight, appreciative nod. A very good cop.
"Which is why I'm guessin' you don't know the truth," Rogue continued, her tone hardening. "That little girl? She's a clone. Grown in a vat by Hydra. Engineered by the Weapon X division to be a perfect killer."
Gambit's casual posture evaporated. He sat up perfectly straight, the playing card slipping from his fingers to the floor. "Wait. Hold on. What did you just say? Hydra? As in... the Nazis?"
"The Avengers confirmed it," Rogue said. "Logan saw her with his own eyes at the Hydra stronghold in Budapest. She's the twenty-third product of the Weapon X program."
Remy let out a heavy sigh, aggressively rubbing his temples. He searched Rogue's face for a lie, but found nothing. A Cajun thief running errands for literal Nazis? It was so absurd it made his stomach turn.
Rogue tilted her head. "Where exactly did you meet Mister Sinister, Remy? And why are you runnin' his errands?"
Gambit stared at the floor for a long moment. He blew out a breath. "A few years back... my mutation started redlining. Got completely out of control. Almost everything I touched would spontaneously detonate, and I couldn't stop it. I went lookin' for a doctor. Thought I found a good one. He did surgery on my brain. Fixed the power output. Let me actually touch things again without blowin' 'em to ash."
Remy looked up, his red eyes locking onto Logan. "As payment, I did some lifting for him. Nothin' crazy. I'm a master thief, not a murderer."
Gambit sighed again, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Look. When I first tracked you to Genosha... I planted a bug on your jet. And I'm willin' to bet my trench coat you haven't found it yet."
Logan's eyes narrowed.
"A guy named Otto Octavius used Sinister's network to plant a dormant virus program in your Blackbird's mainframe," Gambit confessed. "You might want to go check your computers, mes amis."
Chapter 502: Spider-Man: Year One (Part 2)"I know it hasn't actually been that long, but it feels like I haven't sat through a normal class in a decade," Peter muttered, resting his chin in his hand.
Late May heat was already baking the brick walls of Midtown High. The school year was officially winding down, but Peter Parker was stumbling across the finish line completely exhausted. He had spent his entire freshman year surviving supervillains, multiversal incursions, and world-ending symbiote invasions instead of doing algebra homework.
Harry leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms. "You don't need to say 'it feels like it.' You literally haven't been to class in a decade. If Amadeus wasn't actively covering your lab hours, you'd be the undisputed king of Midtown High truancy."
"Hey, I don't like missing class either," Amadeus Cho chimed in, adjusting his glasses. "But when Hercules asks for your help saving the world, you kind of have to say yes."
Amadeus had been noticeably more upbeat lately. Running around the city with an actual Greek demigod had done wonders for his confidence. He constantly recounted his mythological adventures, though Peter and Harry hadn't seen a single news report corroborating any of them. It was as if Hercules and Amadeus were fighting shadow-wars in alleys that the rest of the city entirely ignored.
Harry let out a heavy sigh, kicking his heel against the floor tiles. "I feel completely useless, guys. Both of you are out there saving the world, and I'm just... taking up space."
Peter opened his mouth to offer Harry some reassurance, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and his posture instantly stiffened. He tapped the screen to answer, listened in silence for thirty seconds, and hung up. His jaw was clenched tight.
Harry frowned, stepping forward. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"
"No," Peter lied smoothly, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "It's nothing. Everything's fine."
Everything was absolutely not fine.
The call was from the X-Men. Hank McCoy had just delivered a tactical nightmare. Weeks before his apparent death, Otto Octavius had hired the mercenary Remy LeBeau—Gambit—to plant a dormant virus inside the X-Men's Blackbird jet. The virus had finally woken up. While Xavier's central mainframe was cycling through a hibernation state, the virus bypassed the firewalls and siphoned a highly classified data packet: the architectural schematics for the Danger Room.
The Danger Room was the X-Men's primary training facility. It didn't just project holograms. Utilizing salvaged Shi'ar alien technology, the room simulated physical collision volumes. It created hard-light constructs with real mass, real texture, and real impact physics. If a simulated enemy punched you in the Danger Room, you felt the bone-bruising pain.
Peter knew exactly who Otto had stolen that technology for. Quentin Beck.
Mysterio's light-particle manipulation was already flawless on a visual level. But his illusions couldn't touch you. If Otto integrated Shi'ar hard-light technology into Beck's fishbowl helmet, the illusions wouldn't just be optical tricks anymore. They would hit back. Peter wouldn't be able to rely on the lack of tactile feedback to determine what was real and what was fake.
Peter rubbed his temples. Dealing with the Sinister Six alone would be a nightmare. But he wasn't alone. If he called in the full Avengers roster to crush Otto's team, the fight would be over in ten minutes.
But Otto was too smart for a frontal assault. He would engineer a scenario to peel the Avengers away, isolating Spider-Man.
Peter's eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked together. Wait. Otto's consciousness was currently overriding a twenty-something cloned body. Why would Otto risk everything just to fight Spider-Man? Spider-Man was just an obstacle. Otto's real targets were twofold: he needed Dr. Jonathan Drew's experimental spider-venom peptides to cure his clone body's degrading ALS, and he was operating on a strict six-month timeline to exact his ultimate revenge on Norman Osborn. The Sinister Six were just the heavy muscle meant to keep the board clear while Otto moved on his true objectives.
"Alright, guys," Peter said abruptly, looking up at Harry and Amadeus. He pulled out his phone and rapidly fired off three encrypted text messages. "I need your help. We have to go to The Web right now. We've got a situation."
An hour later. In the Web
The room was packed. Dr. Jonathan Drew stood by the carbon-fiber weavers, organizing data tablets. Cindy Moon stood near the center console, adjusting the collar of her Silk suit. Felicia Hardy sat casually on a rolling stool, her Black Cat armor gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Peter had deliberately held off on calling Illyana Rasputin or Kitty Pryde; this was a street-level tactical crisis, not a multiversal magical threat.
But he did make one long-distance call.
"Hey, Silvija," Peter said, stepping up to the primary command monitor. "I hope the time difference isn't messing with your sleep schedule."
On the massive screen, the young commander of the Wild Pack, Silver Sable, stared back from a secure feed in Europe. She didn't smile. "You said you had business, Spider-Man. Business is never a bother."
"Alright, let's get straight into it," Peter said, pulling up a secondary holographic display. "Otto Octavius isn't dead. His consciousness survived the assassination. He hijacked a clone body, and he's calling himself the Tech Wizard. He intentionally got himself thrown into the Raft specifically to organize a breakout."
Peter tapped a key. Six mugshots snapped onto the digital board.
"Otto is the architect. He used Max Dillon—Electro—to sabotage the Raft's power grid. That let him recruit his roster." Peter pointed to the faces one by one. "Mac Gargan, the Scorpion. Aleksei Sytsevich, the Rhino. Flint Marko, the Sandman. And Quentin Beck, Mysterio."
Peter zoomed in on Beck's file. "Otto hired a mutant thief to steal Shi'ar hard-light schematics from the X-Men. He's going to use that data to upgrade Mysterio's illusions into physical, tactile constructs. There's no doubt about it. The Sinister Six are mobilizing."
Peter turned to face the assembled room. "But they aren't just looking for a street fight. Their goal is surgical. Otto wants the modified spider-peptides to cure his ALS, and he wants to utterly destroy Norman Osborn. And we're going to stop him."
Chapter 503: Spider-Man: Year One (Part 3)The Spider Squad wrapped up their grim strategic briefing regarding the Sinister Six. Action item: find Otto Octavius. Problem: Otto was a ghost.
Peter had even attempted to locate him using the baseline prophetic tracking magic he'd learned from Doctor Strange. Unfortunately, his Kamar-Taj training was still too green. The spell fizzled into sparks, leaving them with exactly zero leads.
On top of that, he had a massive magical chore waiting for him. He still needed to sling-ring back to Paris to stitch up the dimensional rift he'd torn open during the battle with Nimrod. The tear was massive. Stephen Strange was currently pulling double-shifts at the Sanctum Sanctorum to keep multiversal parasites from bleeding through the gap, and the Sorcerer Supreme was shooting Peter looks that could melt solid lead.
Peter rubbed his temples, mentally exhausted.
And then there was the question of his summer vacation.
"So, let me get this straight," Gwen said, leaning against his bedroom doorframe. "The Fantastic Four want you to be their babysitter?"
She looked him up and down, her blonde eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Do you even know how to take care of a toddler?"
"I'm highly adaptable," Peter deflected.
"Peter, Valeria is barely a year old, and Franklin is what, three? Four?" Gwen crossed her arms. "You're a high school freshman. They couldn't hire a professional nanny?"
Peter shrugged. The truth was, Reed and Sue Richards knew Peter was burning himself out on extinction-level threats. They wanted to force him into a low-stakes civilian routine to keep him grounded. Plus, Sue had explicitly refused to leave her kids with Doctor Doom in the event of an emergency, leaving Peter as the primary backup plan.
"It might be fun," Peter said, tossing a web-cartridge onto his desk. "I hear the Richards kids are geniuses. Probably easier to manage than a normal toddler."
He kept his secondary, highly-classified tactical reasoning to himself. If Franklin's latent abilities had awakened, the kid possessed reality-warping power. If Kang the Conqueror ever returned wielding the Cosmic Cube, a friendly Franklin Richards might be the only defense the universe had. The recent temporal incidents proved the future could be rewritten. Peter wasn't taking any chances.
"Peter? Hello? Earth to Peter!"
Gwen waved her hand directly in front of his face. Peter blinked, snapping out of his tactical spiral.
She sighed, her shoulders dropping. "What are you doing right now? Strategizing how to save the world again?"
"Uh. Pretty much."
"My god," Gwen groaned, shaking her head. "Can you turn it off for five minutes? The multiverse doesn't need you to save it today. You actually have a free weekend. Do you even know what a vacation is?"
Peter looked down at his hands. Did he need a break?
Gwen rolled her eyes. "I am seriously worried about your blood pressure. Go take a holiday, Tiger."
Gwen was right. Peter had completely forgotten how to just be Spider-Man.
No aliens. No time-traveling warlords. No magic rifts. Just the sharp, pure wind-pressure of a seventy-story freefall over Manhattan. He fired a web-line, feeling the familiar, comforting tension in his shoulder as he swung into a massive, sweeping arc over the traffic.
He was just a happy little spider.
Below him, a massive J. Jonah Jameson broadcast played across a Times Square jumbotron.
"The Superpowered Villain Registration Act?!" Jameson's mustache practically vibrated with rage. "Sounds wonderful on paper! But it only targets criminals after they're caught! What about the masked menaces swinging through our streets completely unchecked? Masked vigilantes like Spider-Man take zero responsibility!"
Jameson slammed his fist on his desk, his face turning an angry shade of purple. "It's a hollow, cowardly bill! Meaningless whitewashing! Unless that web-slinging arachnid comes down here and takes his mask off like a man!"
"Sorry, Jonah! Not my best angle!" Peter yelled over the wind.
He flicked his wrist, firing a high-velocity web-splat directly onto the jumbotron, perfectly covering Jameson's digital face in white silk.
Peter let go of his web-line, diving toward the street. The hairs on his arms stood up as his spider-sense delivered a mild, familiar hum.
Three blocks down, a hijacked armored truck was tearing down the avenue, a convoy of NYPD cruisers hot on its tail. A thug leaned out of the truck's passenger window, raising a heavy assault rifle to fire at the cops.
Thwip.
A web-line yanked the rifle cleanly out of his hands. Before the thug could blink, Peter swung down, grabbed him by the tactical vest, and effortlessly yanked him out of the window, pinning him to a passing brick wall with a rapid-fire web barrage.
Peter casually dropped through the open passenger window, landing comfortably in the leather seat. He reached over and pulled the seatbelt across his chest, clicking it into place.
"Hey there," Peter said to the driver. "So, what's the rush? Late for a bank deposit?"
The driver jerked the wheel, his eyes bugging out. He dropped his right hand to his hip, drawing a heavy semi-automatic pistol.
"You know, it's been months since I've just hung out with regular, non-powered car thieves," Peter rambled cheerfully. "It's not that I don't love you guys. I've just been doing the whole 'Avenger' thing. Super busy."
The driver aimed the gun at Peter's chest and pulled the trigger.
Peter's hand blurred. He caught the slide of the pistol, stripping the gun apart into its base components in a fraction of a second. He tossed the slide, spring, and barrel out the window.
"Honestly? I kind of missed this," Peter sighed, kicking his red boots up onto the dashboard. "Back before I had a magic sword and a demon lord trying to eat my soul. Things were so simple."
The driver screamed, unbuckling his seatbelt to dive for a backup submachine gun stashed on the floorboard.
Peter casually webbed the gun, yanked it up, ejected the magazine, and tossed the empty weapon back into the driver's lap.
"So," Peter leaned in, the white lenses of his mask narrowing playfully. "Did you guys miss me while I was out of town?"
"I'm gonna kill you!" the driver shrieked, entirely losing his mind.
Ten minutes later.
George Stacy pulled his cruiser up to the scene. The armored truck was neatly parallel parked against the curb. The remaining criminals were securely cocooned in a massive web-hammock in the cargo bed.
Next to them, spelled out in thick white spider-silk across the side of the truck, were the words: MISSED YOU GUYS! - SPIDEY
A young detective walked up to Stacy, scratching his head. "Reminds me of six months ago, Captain. Back when he first debuted."
Stacy looked at the webbed-up truck, then up at the Manhattan skyline. Knowing exactly who was under that mask, the police captain let out a slow, amused breath.
"Yeah," Stacy nodded. "Maybe Spider-Man had it easier back then."
Chapter 504: Spider-Man: Year One (The End)"Good afternoon, New York! We just dealt with a carload of criminals, what's next?"
Peter fired a web-line, swinging past a familiar street corner and dropping lightly next to a familiar hot dog cart.
The vendor, Miller, spotted him. He reached under his striped umbrella, grabbed a foil-wrapped hot dog, and held it out.
"You haven't been around in a while, buddy," Miller said.
"Uh, I've been pretty busy lately," Peter said, rubbing the back of his neck. He took the hot dog. "Wait. Do you prep one of these for me every single day?"
"Who knows when you're going to show up?" Miller shrugged. "If you don't come by, I just eat it myself."
Peter handed over a crumpled bill. Miller took it, eyeing the red-and-blue suit. "Having a rough time lately?"
"I wouldn't say rough," Peter sighed, peeling back the foil. "I just... feel really busy. And tired."
"Is Stark paying you?"
Peter blinked. The question caught him completely off guard. "You mean, like a salary? Oh, no. The Avengers are vigilantes. We don't take a paycheck."
"Then why do you treat being a superhero like you're clocking in for a shift?" Miller asked, leaning heavily on his cart. "You make it sound like a nine-to-five."
Peter took a bite of the hot dog. He chewed slowly, processing the words.
"Yeah," Peter said softly. "I think you're right. It feels like it's been a long time since I actually had fun being Spider-Man."
"Hope you figure it out," Miller smiled. He tipped his head toward the street. "Oh. That kid's back."
"Oh! Spider-Man!"
Eugene "Flash" Thompson came jogging up the sidewalk. He came to this specific cart all the time, strictly to buy "the hot dog Spider-Man eats." Even when Spider-Man hadn't shown up for weeks, Flash had kept the routine going.
Today, the routine paid off.
"I know you," Peter said, intentionally lowering his voice to hide his usual pitch. "Your name is Flash, right?"
Flash practically vibrated with excitement. Spider-Man remembered him. He nodded frantically. "That's right! I helped you out before, remember?"
"I remember you crashed a car into a fire hydrant and helped us take down a giant spider-monster," Peter said, pointing a finger gun at him.
"Oh my god," Flash gasped, his eyes wide. "You actually remember me."
"Uh, I gotta run, Flash," Peter said, feeling a sudden spike of awkwardness. He shot a web-line to a nearby fire escape. "See ya around, Flash!"
Flash watched Spider-Man launch into the sky. He took a deep breath, a massive, goofy grin spreading across his face.
Miller watched the kid. "You want another hot dog?"
"Yes!" Flash pumped his fist. "Of course I want one!"
Peter's patrol drifted aimlessly across the city. He swung toward a dilapidated rooftop in Queens, touching down on the gravel next to an elderly man named Howard, who was quietly tending to his pigeon coops.
"Good afternoon, Howard," Peter said, crouching on the ledge. "How's Carl doing?"
"Ah, Spider-Man," Howard smiled, his face crinkling. "It's been too long." The old man reached into the coop and pulled out a completely unremarkable gray pigeon. "Look. Carl is right here."
"He looks great," Peter said. "I'm glad he hasn't flown the coop again. Honestly, I haven't been around much lately. I was worried he'd get lost and I wouldn't be here to track him down for you."
"No, Spider-Man," Howard said gently, stroking the bird's feathers. "If Carl flies away and doesn't come back, maybe he just didn't want to come back. You can't be here every single day. You don't have to spend your life chasing my birds."
Peter stayed and chatted with Howard for a few more minutes before saying his goodbyes.
He grabbed a chicken sandwich from a fast-food joint on his way back into Manhattan and swung straight up to his favorite thinking spot: the needle of the Empire State Building.
He sat on the cold steel, unwrapping his sandwich, and looked out over the sprawling, grid-locked city.
The Avengers didn't need him right now. He had no world-ending crises to solve. For the first time in months, Peter just sat there and watched New York breathe.
His comms unit hummed with NYPD dispatch chatter—reports of muggings, gang skirmishes, and break-ins. But before Peter could even stand up, the Defenders or the local police responded. The city was handling itself.
Peter finished his sandwich. He sat in the whipping wind, staring blankly at the horizon.
A soft thwip echoed to his left. Another figure swung out of the concrete canyons, arcing gracefully toward the spire. Peter shifted over, making room on the ledge.
Cindy Moon landed smoothly next to him. She looked a little surprised to find him already there, but she sat down, letting her legs dangle over the thousand-foot drop.
She hesitated. "I sensed you've been sitting up here for a while. I came to check if something was wrong."
"Hmm? Oh. No," Peter said, leaning back on his hands. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just taking a break."
He closed his eyes, letting the high-altitude wind hit his face.
"For a long time, I thought being Spider-Man was just about being a friendly neighborhood guy," Peter said quietly. "But then... things kept happening. The enemies got bigger. The stakes got higher. Lately, it feels like I don't even have the time to be a friendly neighbor anymore."
Cindy pulled her knees up to her chest, turning to look at him. "Are you tired?"
Peter opened his eyes. He thought about Miller the hot dog vendor. He shook his head.
He wasn't physically tired. He had just turned saving the world into a chore. A relentless, exhausting routine.
They sat together on the spire in silence for a few minutes. Then, Peter stood up. Cindy stood up next to him.
They dove off the needle together.
They swung side-by-side through the steel canyons of Manhattan, trading web-lines and ricocheting off glass facades.
"Hey, Cindy," Peter called out over the rushing wind. "How many New York landmarks have you actually visited?"
"I don't really travel around the city that much!" she shouted back, spinning a silk line to match his pace. "I haven't seen a lot of it!"
She shot him a sideways glance through her mask. "Do you want to show me around?"
"You bet," Peter grinned under his mask.
The two Spiders spent the next hour bouncing across the city, touching down on historic monuments, famous bridges, and tourist traps, just taking in the view.
Eventually, Peter landed on the roof of a 24-hour bodega. He hopped down the fire escape, bought two cheap deli sandwiches, and climbed back up. He handed one to Cindy.
He unwrapped his food, looking out at the glowing neon lights of the street below.
"I'm not sure if I've really found the answer to my whole existential crisis yet," Peter admitted, taking a bite. "Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a full-time Avenger. Maybe Spider-Man really is just supposed to be a friendly neighborhood guy."
He looked at the city skyline. "Or maybe... I just like being Spider-Man in New York."
"I remember you telling me once that you never actually felt happy being Spider-Man," Cindy pointed out softly.
"Yeah," Peter smiled. "But at least here, I feel like I'm... living. I'm not just being dragged around by a never-ending string of apocalypse."
Peter took a deep breath, speaking half to himself, half to the city.
"Welcome back to New York, Spider-Man."
Chapter 505: The Sinister Six's Strengthening PlanOtto Octavius sat bathed in the cold, blue light of his subterranean monitors. He scrolled methodically through encrypted video files forwarded by his "allies." He knew perfectly well these anonymous benefactors were Hydra operatives playing shell games. He simply didn't care. Their mutual goal was the permanent eradication of Spider-Man and Osborn, and Otto would gladly use their intelligence to fuel his own endgame.
He leaned closer to the screen, watching a playback of Spider-Man single-handedly dismantling a future-tech Nimrod Sentinel.
Otto fell into a deep, frustrated silence. He exhaled sharply. From a strict thermodynamic perspective, Spider-Man's finishing move—severing the machine's arm with a localized spatial tear—was impossible. Otto half-suspected the footage was a deepfake, but Hydra didn't trade in cheap fabrications. If Spider-Man could weaponize reality-warping portals on a whim, a frontal assault was suicide.
Fortunately, tactical analysis suggested a limitation. Spider-Man rarely deployed the spatial tear. It likely required intense concentration and setup time. If the Sinister Six could corner him instantly, smothering him in relentless, overlapping attacks, Spider-Man wouldn't have a second to cast it.
To achieve that, Otto needed his team operating at their absolute apex.
Quentin Beck's upgrades were already complete. The Danger Room schematics Gambit had stolen from the X-Men's mainframe were a revelation in hard-light architecture. By integrating Shi'ar collision algorithms into Beck's projection tech, Mysterio's illusions were no longer just optical tricks. The system telepathically integrated physical feedback directly into the target's nervous system. A holographic brick wall would shatter a real jaw. Spider-Man's legendary combat instincts would be violently hijacked by his own perception.
The system had one vulnerability. A standard high-frequency sensor sweep could pierce the neural-illusion field and expose the trick.
Otto tapped his desk. Max Dillon would fry those sensors. Electro was already practically a god of living plasma; he didn't need biological upgrades. He just needed uninterrupted voltage to keep his current stabilized during the ambush.
Aleksei Sytsevich and Mac Gargan were straightforward biological equations. Otto had already scheduled a second round of structural reinforcement surgery for the Rhino, grafting denser polymer plating directly to the Russian's epidermis.
Gargan required a heavier hand. Otto synthesized a volatile cocktail of animal-derived peptides mixed with a bootleg Erskine super-soldier strain. The procedure would be excruciating. The cardiac strain alone would kill a normal man. But Gargan's hatred for Spider-Man keep his heart beating. Otto upgraded the Scorpion's exoskeleton tail with a faster pneumatic whip-strike to match the new muscle density.
Flint Marko remained the outlier.
Sandman's molecular cohesion suffered from mystical instability. Otto despised magic. It defied logic. He had contacted his Hydra liaisons, who forwarded him to a former A.I.M. contractor named Griffin. Griffin claimed a demonic patron could stabilize Marko's soul-binding issues. The name whispered in the encrypted files was Belasco. Otto found the entire concept utterly distasteful, but he shipped Marko off to the sorcerer anyway. He needed results, not academic purity.
Otto rolled his wheelchair toward a sealed glass containment unit. Inside rested a pressurized pneumatic injector hooked to a row of chemical spray nozzles.
If Spider-Man or Curt Connors saw it, they would recognize the architecture instantly. It was a highly refined variant of the retro-mutagen device Connors used to cure his Lizard transformations. Otto didn't have Peter Parker's baseline DNA, but he had engineered a brute-force genetic stripper from a different angle.
If the Six could pin Spider-Man down for just three seconds, Otto would inject the serum directly into his bloodstream. It would violently eradicate the spider-mutation. The Sinister Six would be left beating a powerless teenager to death.
That just left the alien parasite. Venom. Otto scoffed. No scientist on Earth understood symbiote biology better than the man who had overseen Project V. He already had a dedicated countermeasure primed for the alien.
Otto reviewed the deployment schematics. He took a breath and reached for his stylus to finalize the timeline.
His fingers twitched. They seized, freezing an inch from the desk.
Even with the mindless symbiote suit puppeting his motor functions, the underlying clone body was shutting down. The engineered ALS was accelerating.
"Damn it!" Otto roared.
He slammed his paralyzed right hand against the steel desk, ignoring the sharp, wet crack of his own knuckles. "Damn it all!"
He slumped back in his chair. A ragged breath rattled in his failing lungs. He forced the symbiote to drag his dying body across the lab toward a towering wall of incubation chambers. He locked himself into the central surgical cradle.
The heavy titanium tentacles bolted to his spine hissed as they disconnected. The mindless black symbiote peeled back from his skin, pooling safely on the floor. With a surge of medical electricity, his current brain activity flatlined.
In the adjacent vat, the nutrient fluid rapidly drained. A muscular, pristine twenty-something clone opened its eyes and stepped onto the grating. The mechanical tentacles instantly bolted themselves seamlessly into the new spine. Otto extended his consciousness, commanding the mindless symbiote to slither up his fresh legs and bond to the new host.
Otto flexed his new, perfectly healthy hands. He would not be restricted by dying meat. Norman Osborn was going to pay.