Even the dullest mercenary in the room finally put the pieces together.
The person remotely controlling dozens of firearms, the one suppressing an entire squad without lifting a finger, wasn't some hidden mutant reinforcement.
It was him. Spider-Man. The guy in the red and blue suit who wouldn't shut up.
Just ten minutes ago, these men—veterans who made a living hunting Mutants for bounties—would have bet their lives that Spider-Man was a Mutant. But they never signed up for this. Controlling metal? Manipulating firearms with his mind?
This completely shattered their understanding of the Web-Slinger. The news hadn't reported it. The Daily Bugle hadn't screamed about it. Even the military's classified files didn't have a whisper of this capability.
The guy had been hiding his true power all along.
And now, this terrifying figure—who had just used forty rifles to turn a Wolverine clone into hamburger meat—was cheerfully pushing a janitorial cart, swaying his hips to an invisible beat.
One moment he was a battlefield god, the next he was back to being the "Friendly Neighborhood" goofball. The cognitive dissonance was enough to give anyone a migraine.
But one thing was certain: the rumor that "Spider-Man doesn't kill" was absolute horseshit.
The mercenaries, whether slumped against the wall or sitting in shock, looked at the rifles now lying on the floor. Nobody wanted to test if the magic floating guns would come back to life if they disobeyed.
So, when Spider-Man enthusiastically shoved mops, rags, and buckets into their hands, no one dared to refuse.
Like a gang of tamed delinquents after a street fight, these hardened killers silently began to wipe away the chaos and blood they had helped create.
Even Donald Pierce was no exception.
After the dramatic "mock execution," his arrogance had evaporated. He glanced at the pile of meat not far away—the thing that used to be X-24—and silently lowered his head. He grabbed a mop and joined the forced labor squad.
"Come on, guys! Teamwork makes the dream work! The harder you scrub, the sooner we can get these lovely children out of this hellhole!"
Peter led by example. He moved with speed that blurred the air, mopping floors, wiping walls, and clearing debris, occasionally breaking into an impromptu jazz square. It wasn't a crime scene cleanup; it was a musical number.
"Oh, wait, hold on." He stopped abruptly, leaning on his mop like a dance partner and tapping his mask. "I almost forgot. I can't leave just yet... I still need to return the clothes that guy lent me. A deal's a deal."
"Right, right. Integrity."
He was dead serious. Other superheroes made profound exits or delivered grim monologues. Spider-Man stayed behind to do chores.
The mercenaries didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Hey! You! Yeah, you with the sour face."
Peter suddenly appeared in front of a mercenary who was staring at the bloody floor with a bitter expression. "Your frown lines are deep enough to hold spare change. Life is hard enough, buddy. Why not try to smile? Come on, show me those pearly whites!"
The mercenary shuddered, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain.
He really just wanted to go home.
Donald Pierce, however, caught a terrifying implication in Spider-Man's casual cheerfulness.
'Escort the children out together...'
It sounded like cooperation. But think about it. Making disarmed mercenaries walk in front of the children?
They were human shields.
If they ran into more resistance, Pierce and his men would be the first row of cannon fodder to get shredded.
Cold sweat instantly drenched Donald's back. He lowered his head and scrubbed the floor with renewed vigor, his mind reeling. This Spider-Man is far more terrifying than Magneto. Magneto just kills you. This guy plays with you.
Not far away, Gabriela watched in stunned silence. Minutes ago, this young man was fighting for his life. Now he was "mingling" with the enemy.
She couldn't read him at all.
"Wow! Spider-Man is so cool!"
"Yeah! He's like... like a trusted adult!"
"Let's help too!"
The children didn't understand the complex psychological warfare at play. They just saw Spider-Man bossing around the bad guys. Their eyes sparkled with excitement as they surged forward to grab sponges.
Gabriela stopped them gently. She realized with a pang of sadness that for these children—raised in a lab full of cruel experiments—the blood on the floor didn't scare them as much as it should have.
"No, no, sit tight. This is easy work for us adults."
Peter waved the kids off, then slapped a mercenary on the shoulder. "Right, buddy?"
The man jumped out of his skin. "Yes... yes, sir! No problem!"
He immediately turned into a cleaning machine, scrubbing twice as fast.
"See? That's the spirit! Efficiency!" Peter gave a thumbs up.
"There's nothing like a little peer pressure to boost productivity," Peter mused, turning to the children. "Ladies and gentlemen, sit tight. We'll have a red carpet ready for you in no time."
He went back to work, humming an off-key tune. Since his past life's memories had merged with his own, his enthusiasm for life—and his perception of the world—seemed to have shifted.
As he scrubbed a section of the wall, he hummed a high note.
Suddenly, under his gaze, the concrete wall flashed. For a split second, it turned transparent.
He clearly saw the cluttered office behind the wall—tables, chairs, instruments.
"What the hell...?"
Peter froze.
The two mercenaries next to him froze too, thinking Spider-Man had finally decided to execute them. They scrubbed harder, desperate to look busy.
The panic was contagious; soon the entire corridor was filled with the frantic swishing of mops as the men tried to outwork each other to avoid drawing attention.
Peter ignored the sudden burst of workplace competitiveness. His focus was locked on the wall.
He reached out, touching the rough concrete with his gloved hand.
That wasn't an illusion.
He concentrated, tapping into that new, strange perception buzzing in the back of his mind.
A few seconds later, the X-ray vision returned.
This time, it was clearer. More stable. The concrete peeled away in layers like an onion. He saw the steel rebar skeleton within the wall. Then, he looked deeper.
The vision zoomed in. He saw the microscopic structure of the concrete—sand, gravel... and then, chain-like lattices.
Molecules. Calcium carbonate.
X-ray vision? Microscopic vision?
This was far beyond the scope of a Spider-Sense. This was the X-Gene. As a transmigrator, Peter knew exactly what this meant. This was the terrifying potential of an Omega-level Mutant. Control wasn't just about bending spoons; it was about manipulating the fundamental building blocks of matter.
Peter Parker, the guy with the worst luck in the universe, felt a surreal wave of euphoria wash over him. It was like getting slapped in the face with a winning lottery ticket.
"Sir..."
A cautious voice pulled him back to reality.
A mercenary, wearing a fawning, terrified smile, stood beside him. He pointed to the gleaming floor. "We've cleaned everything up... uh, except for that." He gestured vaguely to the mess that was X-24. "We didn't know how you wanted to handle the... leftovers."
He stood at attention like a soldier awaiting inspection.
"Well done."
Peter nodded. He looked at the pool of blood and the broken body of X-24. He needed to give it a final resting place.
His magnetic sense was screaming that a heavy concentration of metal—tanks, armored vehicles—was waiting at the exit. He couldn't walk into that yet.
"You guys go ahead. Find a room down the hall and wait." Peter's tone was gentle, but the command was absolute. "I'll catch up as soon as I'm done here."
"Okay."
Gabriela tightened her grip on the shotgun, her knuckles white.
The mercenaries shuffled down the hall, effectively herded by the unarmed Gabriela and the children. Peter didn't bother webbing them. Fear was a stronger chain than silk.
Once they were clear, Peter picked up a grenade from a discarded tactical vest.
He walked over to X-24.
The clone was riddled with holes, but the healing factor was still trying to work. Small granulations of flesh were writhing in the wounds, knitting themselves back together.
To end this emotionless killing machine, Peter had to be thorough.
He pulled the pin.
"I'm sorry," Peter whispered, looking down at the blank, staring eyes. "You shouldn't have been born into this world... Rest in peace."
He jammed the grenade into the Wolverine clone's mouth and sprinted away.
BOOM—!!
A muffled, violent explosion shook the corridor. The tragic creation was no more.
Eight hundred meters away. Research Institute Exit.
The atmosphere was tense. It felt less like a police action and more like a war zone.
Soldiers in full camouflage crouched behind defensive fortifications. Tanks and armored vehicles sat with engines idling, their heavy cannons aimed at the facility's blast doors. The air smelled of diesel and gunpowder.
"Move it! Secure that perimeter! Nothing gets out!"
Captain Lister, the temporary commander, barked orders at the soldiers stringing the last layer of razor wire.
A communications officer ran up, breathless. "Captain! Dr. Rice is on the line."
Lister took the headset. "Dr. Rice. Defenses are set. Not a single Mutant will get past us."
"Good." Rice's voice was devoid of emotion. "Have you heard from Donald?"
"Negative, Doctor. We lost contact with his team the moment they engaged the target. All internal surveillance is down." Lister paused. "I believe they've been neutralized."
Silence on the other end.
Lister knew the scientist wasn't mourning the men. He was mourning his investment. The X-Weapons were likely destroyed.
"If they come out..." Rice's voice turned cold. "I want Spider-Man and the assets taken alive. If that is absolutely impossible... at least preserve the bodies. I need the genetic material."
"Understood, Doctor."
Lister handed the headset back. For men like Rice, life was cheap; samples were priceless.
Before he could give another order, a low, buzzing hum filled the air.
Everyone looked up.
Hundreds of drones descended from the clouds like a swarm of angry bees. They moved in perfect formation, surrounding the exit in layers. Red lights flashed on their undersides, and on their sleek fuselages, one word was clearly visible:
STARK.
Before the ground forces could react, a streak of gold and red tore across the sky. With the roar of repulsor engines, the figure hovered directly above the military blockade.
The faceplate hissed open, revealing the most recognizable face in New York.
"Hey, fellas. Relax. You look so tense."
Iron Man's voice boomed through external speakers, dripping with his signature arrogance.
"I'm here for the... uh, Pajama Boy. I mean, Spider-Man." Tony Stark scanned the facility below. "Don't tell me he's not home. Nothing happens in New York without me knowing about it."
Tony Stark had arrived.