The crisp autumn air carried the promise of change as John walked across the Oscorp campus, his breath forming small clouds in the morning chill. After a week of attending school with Gwen by day and researching future technologies with her by night—their heads bent together over notebooks filled with revolutionary concepts, her fingers occasionally brushing his as she pointed out potential improvements—John's phone had finally buzzed with the call he'd been waiting for.
Harry's voice had crackled through the speaker with barely contained excitement: "They took the bait. The United States Military is coming."
Now, as John's footsteps echoed against the polished floors of the private Oscorp testing facility, he felt the familiar surge of anticipation that preceded every major operation. The sterile corridors hummed with the quiet efficiency of cutting-edge technology, the air heavy with the scent of metal polish and the faint ozone smell that lingered around high-tech equipment.
He had brought Gwen along, just as they'd planned. Her hand was warm in his as they walked, and he could sense her nervous energy radiating through their joined fingers. It was time for her to see the new world they were building firsthand—to witness the moment when their carefully laid plans began to transform from dreams into reality.
"Harry, what's the situation?" John asked as they entered the main testing chamber, a cavernous space with reinforced walls and observation windows that spoke of experiments requiring serious containment measures.
Harry stood near the viewing platform, adjusting his perfectly tailored suit jacket with the practiced confidence of someone born to boardrooms and power plays. When he glanced at Gwen and then back to John, a slick grin spread across his face—the expression of a predator who had successfully lured his prey into the perfect trap.
"They'll be here any minute," he said, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone whose elaborate scheme was about to pay off.
The two young men exchanged a loaded look that spoke volumes about their shared understanding. Today wasn't just about demonstrating Peter's abilities—it was about showing a gruff old general something he'd never forget, something that would reshape his understanding of what was possible in modern warfare.
The rumble of engines outside grew steadily louder until it filled the testing facility with a low, mechanical growl. Through the reinforced windows, they could see a convoy of black government vehicles pulling into the parking area with military precision. The cars were identical, unmarked, and carried the unmistakable aura of official business that made civilians instinctively step aside.
Harry smoothed his suit jacket one final time, his movements deliberate and practiced. This was his moment to shine, to prove that the Osborn name still carried weight in the world of defense contracts and military innovation.
"Showtime," he murmured, then strode toward the entrance to greet their distinguished guests.
The facility's main doors hissed open with pneumatic precision, and Harry stepped into the crisp afternoon air with his most winning smile firmly in place. "Welcome, General Asrock!" he said with enthusiasm, extending a manicured hand in greeting.
General Asrock emerged from the lead vehicle like a force of nature contained in human form. He was a stern man whose crisp military uniform seemed to have been pressed with the same precision used to forge steel. The jacket was heavy with decorations that spoke of decades spent in the world's most dangerous places, each ribbon and medal a testament to battles fought and won. His weathered face bore the kind of deep lines that came not from age but from years of making life-and-death decisions under impossible pressure.
His expression as he surveyed the Oscorp facility was anything but pleasant. The hard set of his jaw and the way his gray eyes swept the area with tactical assessment spoke of a man who had seen too many promises broken and too many wonder weapons fail when lives depended on them. He completely ignored Harry's extended hand, leaving the young man standing there with his arm outstretched like a fool.
"Let's get this over with, Osborn," General Asrock grumbled, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of authority earned through decades of command. "I want to see this 'super-soldier' of yours. If it weren't for Explorer Aerospace's exoskeletons being such expensive trash, I would never have come here."
The dismissal in his tone was cutting, but Harry's smile never wavered. If anything, it grew slightly sharper around the edges—the expression of someone who was about to prove just how wrong his detractors could be.
General Asrock strode into the viewing area with military bearing, his polished boots clicking against the reinforced flooring in a rhythm that spoke of parade grounds and inspection tours. But the moment his eyes landed on John, Gwen, and Peter standing near the demonstration area, his expression shifted from skeptical disinterest to outright disbelief.
"You have got to be kidding me," he scoffed, his voice rising with indignation. "You brought your classmates to a weapons demonstration? Are you treating this like a game, boy?" The last word dripped with condescension, the tone of a man who had spent his career dealing with entitled civilians who had no concept of the serious business of war.
The insult hung in the air like smoke from a fired weapon, but Harry remained completely unfazed. His posture stayed relaxed, his smile intact, his voice carrying the smooth confidence of someone who held all the cards and was about to reveal a winning hand.
"Not at all, General," Harry said with the easy charm that came naturally to those born into power. "That young man there is our successful super-soldier." He gestured toward Peter with a flourish that would have done a carnival barker proud. "The other is a little surprise I think you'll appreciate. And the young lady is a junior researcher assisting the team."
Privately, Harry's thoughts were much simpler and far more mercenary: I'm going to fleece this old man for every penny he's worth. The realization that he had found his calling as a shameless merchant filled him with a satisfaction that was almost artistic in its purity.
General Asrock's weathered face cycled through several expressions—skepticism, irritation, and something that might have been concern. His eyes lingered on Peter, taking in the young man's slightly awkward posture and the way he seemed to be studying his own hands as if they held the secrets of the universe.
The General waved an impatient hand, the gesture sharp and dismissive. "Fine. Let's get on with it." But his tone suggested he was already mentally composing the scathing report he would file about this waste of military time and resources.
"Peter, if you would," Harry said smoothly, beckoning their star performer forward with the confidence of a director calling his lead actor to center stage.
"Oh, uh, okay," Peter replied, his voice carrying that particular quality of distracted confusion that had become his trademark. He stepped forward with the slightly uncertain gait of someone who was still adjusting to his enhanced abilities.
Seeing Peter's dazed and awkward demeanor, General Asrock's frown deepened into something approaching genuine concern. Does the serum have cognitive side effects? Does it make them dull? The questions flickered through his mind with the systematic precision of a man trained to evaluate potential assets and liabilities.
Harry, reading the General's expression with practiced ease, decided it was time to dispel any doubts about the effectiveness of their enhanced soldier. "General, if you would please hand me your sidearm," he requested with the casual tone of someone asking to borrow a pen.
The General's eyebrows rose at the unusual request, but years of military protocol had trained him to comply with demonstration requirements, no matter how strange they seemed. He grunted acknowledgment, and one of his accompanying soldiers stepped forward to hand over a standard-issue military pistol, the magazine carefully removed for safety.
Harry accepted the weapon with reverent care, feeling its weight and the cold solidity of military-grade steel. He passed it to Peter with a significant look that conveyed volumes about what was expected.
Peter took the pistol in his bare hands, the metal feeling impossibly fragile against his enhanced grip. Understanding the unspoken command perfectly, he began to apply pressure with his fingers. The high-grade steel, designed to withstand the stresses of combat and the heat of rapid fire, began to deform like soft clay.
With a sound like grinding metal that made everyone's teeth ache, Peter twisted the weapon into an elaborate metal pretzel, each curve and spiral perfectly formed. The barrel wrapped around itself in impossible spirals, while the trigger guard became an artistic flourish that would have impressed a master metalsmith.
The demonstration area fell into stunned silence, broken only by the soft patter of metal fragments falling to the reinforced floor. The soldiers in the General's retinue exchanged meaningful glances, their trained eyes cataloguing the implications of strength that could reshape military-grade weapons like modeling clay.
"Good," General Asrock said, though his gruff voice couldn't quite hide the flicker of genuine interest that had begun to burn in his eyes. "Very good. That's what I wanted to see." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a man who had just witnessed something that could change the nature of modern warfare.
"This way, please," Harry said with the smooth confidence of a showman who knew his audience was now completely hooked. He led the group across the demonstration area to where a stack of large iron blocks waited, each one clearly marked with industrial precision: 1 TON.
The blocks were arranged with mathematical precision, their dark surfaces reflecting the harsh overhead lighting in ways that emphasized their obvious weight and solidity. Harry gestured toward them with a flourish, then invited one of the General's accompanying officers to inspect them personally.
The junior officer—a captain whose crisp uniform and alert manner spoke of someone accustomed to technical evaluations—approached the blocks with professional skepticism. He ran his hands over their surfaces, checking for hidden mechanisms or signs of deception. He even attempted to shift one slightly, his face reddening with effort as the immovable weight refused to budge even a fraction of an inch.
After several minutes of thorough inspection, the captain straightened and gave his superior a crisp thumbs-up. "Confirmed, sir. They're solid iron, exactly as marked."
Peter stepped forward with the easy confidence of someone about to demonstrate a party trick rather than perform a feat that defied human limitations. With movements that looked almost casual, he began stacking the massive blocks onto a reinforced barbell that had been specially constructed for demonstrations of superhuman strength.
Each block landed with a resonant clang that reverberated through the testing chamber, the sound growing deeper and more ominous as the weight accumulated. The reinforced floor beneath the barbell showed visible stress patterns as sixteen tons of solid iron settled into place, creating a weight that would have challenged industrial lifting equipment.
Peter positioned himself at the barbell, his hands finding their grip on the specially reinforced bar. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, and those watching could almost see him gathering himself for the effort ahead. Then, with what appeared to be minimal exertion, he lifted the massive weight clear of the ground.
His strength had clearly increased over the past week of training and adjustment to his enhanced abilities. The sixteen-ton barbell rose smoothly, Peter's enhanced musculature showing barely any strain as he held the impossible weight steady above his head. The metal groaned softly under the stress, but Peter's grip remained rock-steady.
He held the position for a long moment, allowing everyone in the viewing area to fully process what they were witnessing. Then, with deliberate control, he released his hold. The barbell crashed to the reinforced floor with a deafening impact that sent vibrations through the entire building and raised a cloud of concrete dust that briefly obscured the demonstration area.
A round of enthusiastic applause erupted from the assembled researchers, their excitement palpable in the way they leaned forward against the observation windows. But it was General Asrock's reaction that truly mattered. The career military man was visibly pleased, his weathered features showing the first genuine smile anyone had seen from him since his arrival.
Captain America's peak strength was around five tons, he thought with growing amazement. This is more than three times that level. The implications were staggering—not just for individual combat effectiveness, but for the entire strategic balance of modern warfare.
Harry held up a hand with the practiced timing of someone who had orchestrated this entire performance down to the second, indicating that the show was far from over. He led the group through another section of the facility to a high observation platform that overlooked an impressive kilometer-long track.
The track stretched out below them like a military obstacle course designed by someone with a truly sadistic imagination. Complex barriers, walls, trenches, and climbing structures created a maze of challenges that would have tested even elite special forces soldiers. The entire course was built to military specifications, with timing equipment and measurement devices positioned at regular intervals.
Without any need for instruction or encouragement, Peter approached the edge of the platform. The drop was a full three stories—enough to seriously injure or kill an ordinary person. But Peter simply stepped off the edge with the casual confidence of someone stepping down from a curb.
He landed in a perfect crouch, his enhanced reflexes and spider-derived agility absorbing the impact with fluid grace that made the dangerous drop look effortless. The watching soldiers nodded appreciatively—they had all witnessed paratrooper landings, but nothing quite as controlled and precise as what they had just seen.
The starting pistol fired with a sharp crack that echoed across the testing facility, and Peter shot forward like a missile launched from a rail gun. His entire form became a blur of fluid motion as he navigated the obstacle course with inhuman grace and precision.
He weaved through the complex barriers as if they were standing still, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to process and react to obstacles faster than the human eye could follow. When walls blocked his path, he leaped over them with bounds that carried him impossible distances. When low barriers required navigation underneath, he slid beneath them with the liquid grace of water flowing around stones.
On the viewing platform, the military personnel stood transfixed, their trained eyes struggling to track movements that pushed the boundaries of human possibility. General Asrock's mouth had fallen slightly open, a trail of saliva threatening to escape the corner of his lip as he witnessed capabilities that redefined his understanding of individual combat potential.
He had come to this demonstration expecting to see a human tank—a soldier with enhanced durability and strength who could absorb more damage and hit harder than ordinary troops. Instead, he was witnessing something far more valuable and dangerous: a super-powered assassin with the agility of an Olympic gymnast and the raw power of military hardware.
There was no comparison. The thought struck him with crystalline clarity. A hundred of these soldiers, and I could take down entire enemy divisions. Hell, with enough of them, I could challenge the entire Department of Defense if I had to.
The electronic timing system's voice cut through his strategic fantasies with mechanical precision: "Course completed. Time: 23.1 seconds."
The number hung in the air like a physical presence. Elite military units might complete such a course in several minutes. Olympic athletes in peak condition might manage it in half that time. Peter had done it in under twenty-five seconds, moving with speed and precision that bordered on the supernatural.
General Asrock quickly wiped his mouth, attempting to regain the composed demeanor expected of a senior military officer. "Very good," he said with studied gruffness, though his voice carried undertones of genuine awe. "I didn't expect Norman to get himself into such a mess, but his son certainly produces results."
His tactical mind was already working through the implications, but questions remained. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the one concern that could undermine everything he had just witnessed. "By the way, are there any side effects? Why does the subject look so... dull?"
The question was asked with the blunt practicality of a career military man. Even if there were cognitive issues, they might be acceptable trade-offs. With this level of combat power, he would be satisfied if the enhanced soldier could understand basic commands and follow simple tactical instructions.
Though Peter was some distance away on the obstacle course, his enhanced hearing picked up the General's words with perfect clarity. He froze mid-stretch, his enhanced senses delivering the conversation to him as clearly as if he were standing next to the speakers.
Do I look dull? The question hit him with unexpected force, and for a moment his usual good-natured acceptance of such comments faltered. He had always known people thought him slow, but hearing it discussed so clinically in the context of his enhanced abilities stung in ways he hadn't expected.
Harry, observing Peter's reaction through the facility's monitoring systems, suppressed a laugh. The timing was perfect for the next phase of their carefully orchestrated performance. "No misunderstanding, General," he said with the smooth delivery of someone revealing a particularly amusing punchline. "He was like this before the enhancement."
But General Asrock hadn't survived decades in military intelligence by taking civilian contractors at face value. He had seen too many attempts to inflate capabilities and hide critical flaws to accept simple assurances. His weathered gaze swept the assembled group before settling on a familiar figure.
He pointed directly at Dr. Stromm, a man whose reputation for scientific integrity had preceded him into this demonstration. "Doctor, you. Explain the situation to me. In detail." The command carried the weight of absolute authority—this was not a request.
"Yes, General," Dr. Stromm replied, stepping forward with the measured confidence of someone who had learned valuable lessons about managing truth in service of larger goals. John's coaching had taught him that the most effective deceptions were built on foundations of verifiable fact.
"Mr. Osborn, as you know, suffered severe mental side effects from the incomplete enhancer formula," he began, his voice carrying the clinical precision expected from a leading researcher. "Peter, however, represents an entirely different circumstance. He was bitten by a genetically altered spider during an accidental laboratory exposure."
The words were carefully chosen to emphasize the unplanned nature of Peter's transformation while highlighting its superior results. "He not only gained the physical enhancements we had hoped to achieve with the original serum, but also acquired certain beneficial genetic traits directly from the modified spider DNA. The effect was magnified beyond our initial projections, there were no negative side effects, and he even gained additional abilities that weren't part of our original enhancement parameters."
General Asrock's expression had grown increasingly intent as he processed this information. The implications were staggering—not just a successful super-soldier formula, but one that had exceeded its design parameters through a fortunate accident.
"Can it be replicated?" he asked, his tone flat and businesslike. This was the crucial question that would determine whether he was looking at a useful prototype or a game-changing military asset. If they could only produce one enhanced soldier, its strategic value would be severely limited.
"We are currently analyzing his unique physiological situation, which is incredibly complex from a biochemical standpoint," Dr. Stromm replied, delivering the carefully rehearsed lines with convincing scientific authority. "His superhuman agility, for example, derives directly from integrated spider DNA that has merged with his human genetics in ways we're still working to fully understand. However, we are confident that we can reverse-engineer a stable, somewhat diminished version of the enhancement based on detailed analysis of his transformed biology."
The explanation was technically accurate while being strategically vague—exactly the kind of response that would satisfy military curiosity while buying time for their real plans to unfold.
"How long?" General Asrock's question cut straight to the heart of military planning concerns.
"Three months, at most," Dr. Stromm replied with the confidence of someone stating established scientific fact.
In truth, their analysis suggested they could produce a heavily diluted version of the enhancement within a week if they chose to. But John's strategic advice had been clear: bleeding the military for research funding bit by bit would be far more profitable in the long run than providing quick solutions.
General Asrock considered this timeline with the calculating mind of someone accustomed to balancing capability requirements against development schedules. Even if the replicated serum only provided one-third of this subject's demonstrated power levels, it would still produce soldiers comparable to the legendary Captain America. Given Explorer Aerospace's recent string of expensive failures with their exoskeleton program, this represented a far better investment of military resources.
"What are his other special abilities?" the General asked, his tone suggesting he was already mentally drafting procurement recommendations.
John stepped forward with the smooth confidence of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment. He took Peter's hand and pressed a specific spot on his wrist, activating the biological web-shooters that were among the most fascinating aspects of his spider-derived abilities.
A thick strand of white webbing shot out across the testing area, adhering to a distant wall with an audible impact that spoke of significant tensile strength. The web-line stretched taut between Peter's wrist and the attachment point, demonstrating both its adhesive properties and its structural integrity.
"High-tensile-strength webbing, comparable to steel cable," John announced with the polished delivery of a seasoned salesman who had found his calling. "He can produce hundreds of strands continuously without apparent fatigue. Combined with his enhanced agility, this allows him to navigate any environment with unprecedented mobility."
He gestured toward the demonstration area where Peter began a flowing display of web-swinging that showcased the tactical applications of his abilities. "He can also adhere to any surface regardless of angle or material composition, making him perfectly suited for urban warfare scenarios, operations in dense forest environments, and tactical maneuvering against large-scale conventional forces."
The display was mesmerizing—Peter moved through three-dimensional space with the fluid grace of someone to whom gravity was merely a suggestion. His web-lines allowed him to change direction instantly, to swing around obstacles, and to approach targets from angles that conventional soldiers could never manage.
General Asrock nodded slowly, his weathered features showing the satisfaction of someone whose expectations had not just been met but thoroughly exceeded. Peter's demonstrated abilities had far surpassed anything he had hoped to see when he had reluctantly agreed to this demonstration.
But something in Harry's expression—a hint of anticipation, a suggestion that even greater revelations were yet to come—caught the General's tactical instincts. He turned toward the young Osborn heir with the predatory gleam of someone who sensed additional opportunities.
"And the small surprise you mentioned, Mr. Osborn?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of military authority combined with barely contained anticipation. "What else do you have for me?"
The question hung in the air like the pause before thunder, and everyone in the facility seemed to hold their breath. The demonstration had already exceeded all expectations, but Harry's confident smile suggested that they had only seen the opening act of a much larger performance.
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