PETER II
After what felt like an eternity for Peter he, following the helpful guidance of StarMaps, and he finally arrived at the grocery store. Robert Robertson's Deelectables, ignoring the admittedly weird name, in reality it was most likely about a thirteen minute walk, but for Peter his anxiety made it feel like much longer. He walks to the automatic sliding doors, and glances around at the small grocery store. More or less it's essentially a glorified convenience store, but according to May it was the best place for deals and what not. Peter doesn't really care about all that though, but still it's whatever.
Before he enters he sets his skateboard on the ground outside and prays it's not stolen. As he realizes this, it's relatively empty, as while he doesn't know the exact time it is late in the evening, if he were to guess he would say sixish pm. Why would anyone be at the grocery store at this time anywho? He picks up a small basket at the front. Peter walks around the store for about a minute before he lays his eyes on the two things May had asked him for. Eggs and Milk, the Milk was right in front of him while the eggs were slightly further to the left past the yogurt.
Since May never specified which type of milk he should get, he decides on the standard whole milk and hopes for the best. That should be fine, hopefully Peter thinks jokingly to himself. He puts them in the basket setting the milk in the corner of it, and the eggs on the other half. He turns and begins walking towards the cash register.
Peter eyes the man. The man looks to be in his late thirties, and has a bit of a stubble on his face. He has brown hair, caucasian skin, and brown eyes. He assumes this is the elusive "Robert Robertson," would that be a fair assumption? The man is glancing at him from the corner of his eyes as Peter walks up to the register. Oh jeez here we go Peter thinks to himself in worry.Peter moves his right hand in a greeting form, he does the same back.
"H-hello sir." he says placing the basket on the counter takes a second or so to take the items out and place them on the table. The man, Robert? Raises his eyebrow at the items laid before him.
"Huh. Living life on the edge lately? Peter scoffs back a reply, "Bold words from a name like Robert Robertson." The man sighs, and holds up the number three with his fingers and speaks in a tired annoyed tone "the third actually, Robert Robertson III at your service." He finishes scanning the items. He turns to Peter after looking at the register for a brief moment, and comments "Don't give me that look kid, I know how stupid that name sounds. Anyways that'll be roughly twenty four dollars. Tax included." Peter's eyes widen visibly at the price "T-twenty four?" he comments.
Robert sighs and nods and waves his right hand around "yeah, you should know this kid with the recent embargo by other nations on the United States after recent skirmishes with the European Union over the Atlantic Ocean, prices have risen for all sorts of crap." Peter groans, and turns his backpack around to his chest, and opens the front pocket of it, and fishes for his wallet. Once he finds it, he opens it and hands Robert a ten dollar, and a twenty dollar bill. "Keep the change." Peter says and grabs the items Robert had put into a paper bag when he was looking away.
Robert nods, "Have a good one kid. Stay safe out there, never know when those powered quirk users will go on a rampage again." Peter waves his hand, and exits the store. It's even colder than before now, he turns his head in the direction he left his skateboard. Peter feels a grin envelope in his face, holy moly it's still there. He grabs the edge, and drags it along with him as he holds the bag of groceries, he walks through the blistering cold the wind DOES NOT help at all. After,about he would say a fifteen minute walk Peter arrives home.
It's a modest house, only about two stories and is relatively old all things considered it was built in 1904 after all. He walks on the crosswalk going up to the wooden stairs, and begins to walk up. He hears it creek beneath him as he walks up and the noise of the skateboard wheels hitting each stairs and walks across the wooden porch and slowly twists open the knob. And enters the house immediately feeling the heat hit him straight in the face.
He shouts out loud as he enters, locking off his shoes, and he sets the grocery bag on the floor. "Hey guys I'm home! I'm going to head upstairs May by the way I left the groceries by the door!" He hears greetings from both May and Ben, and as he nears the top of the stairs he yawns in exhaustion.
'Man, exploring the city has gotten me exhausted.' Peter muses to himself as he reaches the top of the stairs. The wood creaks beneath him as he turns left he glances at the laundry basket in the corner of the hallway right next to the bathroom.
'I guess it is Friday.' Peter shrugs as he finally reaches his door to his room. He smiles, and grabs ahold of the door knob, and twists it gently and walks in shrugging off his backpack hearing it thud against the floor. He cracks his knuckles, and looks around his room.
He had recently done a remodeling of his room, though not as organized and clean as before Peter still loves his room it just screams him. He brushes a strand of hair that was annoying him, walking past his workbench he jumps onto his chair and leans back in it causing the chair to spin hitting his bed gently.
'I should be more careful.' Peter thinks to himself as he pushes the chair with his feet to his desk. He opens up his computer and cracks his knuckles typing in his password, which is the same as his phone's. Peter reminds himself he should change it but he's just too much work.
Peter quickly connects his headphones to his computer, and loads up some music. He decides to play one song he hasn't listened to in quite a bit, ワイヤージョー, hopefully Peter got the pronunciation right, he still remembers when he had miss pronounced "Nujabees" at school and got into a ten minute argument. Back to before, he doesn't listen to their music often but he does appreciate some of their stuff. From what Peter can see refreshing his memory, they started out as an instrumentalists band in the early twenty second century around 2103. After debating and scrolling through various albums and EPs Peter lands on a song titled "Last Dance." He exhales and clicks play.
As the song begins he feels a sense of calm he cant explain, the song begins with a young male signing in a whispering tone almost as if their too afraid to ask over and over again as a soft hum of a guitar plays in the background with the occasional drum tap. Peter's foot taps against the wooden floor, as he creates another tab and loads up some school work.
About an hour and a half later Peter is tapped on his right shoulder and he yells out loud in surprise clutching his chest. He turns around in his chair with a still shocked expression on his face to be met with Ben who is currently dying of laughter and actually has literally tears of joy falling from his eyes.
Peter moves his hands upward in an exaggerated motion dramatizing the situation, "dude!" he begins annoyed, "I could've gotten a heart attack or something!" Ben wipes a tear away a big grin on his face, and becomes serious in a moment's notice placing his right hand on Peter's shoulder. "Pete, if you worry about getting a heart attack while you're fifteen then I have some serious thoughts to worry about considering I'm forty three." He smiles again, motioning him forwards, turning and he begins walking away. "Now come on Pete, dinners ready."
'Wait really? Peter thinks in astonishment to himself, but it's still five in the evening-' His thoughts are quickly stopped as he turns on his phone to see a text from May informing him dinner is ready, and that it's six thirty. 'Jesus. Time really does fly by, when you're forced to do school work. Well I guess that's what I get for putting off this essay for a week!' He thinks to himself as a grin settles on his face, he pockets his phone and heads out of his room.
He arrives downstairs a minute later and walks in on May and Ben about to kiss holding each other closely as he can see the table has been set. Peter blushes, and coughs into his fist announcing his presence. Awkwardly, he waves at the two who had by now broken apart and May is flustered while Ben has a clear shit eating grin on his face. The room itself is old by his standards so like thirty or forty years give or take, classic red and yellow wallpaper, a wooden table, with those uncomfortable wooden chairs which he fell off and got a black eye from when he was nine. Peter grimaces, but is eventually distracted by a clearing of May's throat. He looks at his aunt and it is clear she is nervous by that encounter.
May greets him with an obviously awkward smile, "Hey dear, how was your day today?" Peter hears a chuckle from Ben to May's right as he realizes he and Peter both did immediately May wanted to change conversation topics NOW.
Peter pulls back a chair and sits in the chair, grabs a napkin which was placed on his plate and lays it across his lap. Finally, in what must have been agonizing silence for May he answers, remembering his cover story, "Uh, it was good! I went to the skatepark earlier and got some sick tricks in!" He cringes internally realizing how cornball he sounds.
'Who says tricks? What am I a magician?' He puts his face in his hands, disappointment in himself. Ben chuckles, and responds in kind "Well Pete since you were so kind to ask my day was great as well. Thanks for asking by the way, ha." Sarcasm was always something Ben was the best at.
Norman I
Norman Osborn had always despised formal meetings. He loathed everything about them, the tedious discussions, the hollow business jargon, and worst of all, the way time seemed to crawl whenever he sat through one. He often tried to push those thoughts aside, remembering something his father, Harrington, used to tell him: "Hatred is what kills a man. It consumes him and eats him whole."
Back then, the words had meant little. But now, sitting in his penthouse at ten o'clock at night, trapped in yet another corporate meeting, Norman finally understood them.
To the public, and even to his son Harry, Norman appeared to thrive on these gatherings. They saw him as the model businessman, sharp, stubborn, and tireless. That was only half true. Norman couldn't even pretend to enjoy these sessions. Lying to himself only made the urge to strangle something stronger.
Four men sat around him.
To his right was Dr. Mendel Stromm, his most visible feature a receding hairline. Pale as porcelain, dressed in a standard lab coat with glasses tucked neatly into his pocket, Stromm sat upright with his hands tented in thought. He had served as Norman's lead scientist for the last five years, ever since a falling-out with Stark Industries that Norman never cared to ask about. Stromm was useful and competent. Trustworthy? Not remotely.
To his left sat Dr. Curtis Connors, head of Oscorp's biology division. Curt, one of Norman's longest friends, had graying blond hair and the weary look of a man buried in research. They had met back at ESU in the 2080s, in simpler days Norman often missed, especially because of Emily.
Sweet Emily. The love of his life. She had died in the Ultimatum a decade ago, and Norman still carried the bitterness like a disease. He blamed the quirked, those self-proclaimed heroes, for her death. And he was not alone. Half of New York bore similar scars.
He sighed. Too many lives lost to masks and glory-seekers. Japan's strict system of hero accountability made far more sense, he thought. Why had the United States not adopted something similar? Likely because quirked individuals remained rarer here. Japan had always held the monopoly on them.
He ground his teeth. He despised them, and yet, even hate could not hide their usefulness. Curt's intellect was invaluable, especially in biology. And despite his brilliance, the man was surprisingly easy to manipulate.
Beside Stromm sat another college friend, Dr. Otto Octavius. Brilliant, prideful, and always dressed in darker tones than the rest, Otto liked to remind the room that he was different. Smarter. Norman smirked to himself. Otto wore arrogance like a badge of honor. His brown hair was pulled back neatly, and a single pen rested in his coat pocket. He headed Oscorp's Nuclear Fusion department, and despite his ego, Norman respected him.
Next to Curt was Alistair Smythe, a ginger-haired, sharp-eyed roboticist who had recently turned his focus toward civilian technologies. Stern but sharp-minded, Alistair earned more of Norman's respect than Stromm ever did.
A sudden cough drew Norman out of his thoughts. Stromm was trying to catch everyone's attention.
"Greetings, Dr. Osborn," Stromm began, gesturing politely. "Dr. Curtis, always a pleasure." Curt smiled faintly, always susceptible to flattery. Stromm nodded to Otto, who retaliated with a tight-lipped scoff. "Dr. Octavius." Finally, he turned toward Smythe. "Alistair, good to see you." Smythe gave a curt nod.
Then Stromm opened a hidden panel on the conference table, entered a code, and brought up a series of holograms.
Spiders appeared, detailed, rotating 3D models shimmering in the air. Alistair flinched at the sight, trying and failing to hide his disgust. Stromm zoomed in on one model, revealing its twisted helix of DNA.
"Me and Dr. Connors," Stromm began, his voice brimming with pride, "have spent three years continuing Dr. Parker's research into genomic amplification. What you see is not natural, it's edited."
Norman's gaze hardened slightly at the name. Dr. Richard Parker had not been as close as Curt or Otto, but he was still a friend. Back when Norman first took over Oscorp, the three of them, Parker, Curt, and Otto, had helped him shoulder the weight. Real friends.
But Parker had grown distant over the years, obsessed with his theory of genomic amplification. He had even cited U.A.'s principal, Nezu, as proof that animals could manifest quirks. Norman had laughed at the time, but now it seemed others had not.
Parker and his wife, Mary, had died years ago, their plane shot down during a trip to France. The tragedy fractured the group, and the friendships never recovered.
Norman pushed the memory aside as Stromm continued.
On the hologram, two sets of DNA sequences split apart.
"We isolated what we call QRK-1," Stromm explained. "It's a regulatory cluster, not tied to any single ability, but to scalability. In quirked individuals, it controls protein overexpression, tissue reinforcement, and adaptive stress response. In short, it's the engine, not the power itself."
He waved a hand lazily, shifting the projection again. "Using CRISPR-guided insertion, we have integrated a minimal expression cassette into the spider's silk and venom pathways. The organism now produces a stabilized viral vector inside its venom, harmless to itself, but capable of delivering the regulatory sequence into compatible human stem cells."
Curt nodded proudly beside him.
"In short," Stromm finished, his voice tightening with satisfaction, "we have turned an arachnid into a living quirk-delivery system. Elegant. Efficient. And far more controllable than waiting for nature to make heroes at random."
Norman leaned back, quietly marveling.
Then came Otto's low exhale.
"Fascinating," Otto said flatly. "You have turned a spider into a glorified syringe." His eyes flicked between the hologram and Stromm. "Three years of work to rediscover what our competitors have been chasing since the 2020s. Viral delivery vectors are not innovation, Mendel, they are refinement."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "The real question is whether you can stabilize it. Rapid musculoskeletal densification without catastrophic metabolic collapse?" He began to clap slowly, the smirk spreading. "Or do your heroes burn out in spectacular fashion? Bravo, then."
He glanced knowingly at Norman, that smug look Norman knew far too well.