Chapter Text
The gates of the Ravencroft Institute didn’t groan when they opened; they hummed and then rattled with a precision that felt almost cold.
Curt Connors stepped through the gates, squinting against a sun he had rarely glimpsed without bars in the last three years. He was older, a bit thinner, and the sleeve of his right arm was pinned against his suit.
…perhaps not so much of him had changed.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the Manhattan air as a free man. The solitude hung for a second longer before-
“DAD!”
Billy Connors, three years older than the last time he had seen his father without a glass divide between them, practically rocketed through the air and embraced his father. Curt couldn’t help but smile, even laughing a bit as his left arm wrapped around his son with a strength that made him close his eyes in relief.
“Hello, son!” He beamed, his voice raspy from the three years of quiet therapy sessions.
Martha Connors was right behind their son, her eyes shining with a mixture of terror and triumph. She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to; she just leaned her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around both her husband and her son. The Connors family stood there as an island against the backdrop of the Institute.
Standing a few yards back, Peter Parker was watching them.
His former lab assistant was leaning up against the side of the Connors family’s worn-out sedan, his hands shoved into the pockets of the navy windbreaker he was wearing. On the outside, he looked like any average college student. Thanks to his reptilian misadventures, however, Connors was well aware that there was something quite Amazing about the otherwise average, unremarkable young man that was Peter Parker.
“Hello, Peter.” Curt said, walking back over to him with Martha and Billy in tow. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Oh, when Mrs. Connors called me, I promised her I wouldn’t miss this for all the beakers in the science lab.” Peter said, offering him a hand and the two shook. “Welcome back, Dr. Connors.”
“I think, Peter, that we’ve been through enough that you can call me Curt.” Curt said. “At least in non-professional settings.”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Peter said, chuckling a little, “but enough about all that, today is for you. Mrs. Connors and Billy have quite a lunch planned for us today, I’m told.” He opened up the passenger side door for the good doctor. “Shall we?”
******
The office of the Police Commissioner was a different place than it had been the last time she had been in it. The smell of old pipe tobacco and peppermint that had seemed to be the load-bearing parts of the office under George Stacy’s occupation had been replaced by the sterile, expensive scent of high-end air purifiers and floor-to-ceiling glass.
Yuri Watanabe absolutely hated it.
On the wall behind the acting Commissioner was a digital screen that displayed a sleek, gunmetal-grey drone - the Oscorp ‘Liberator’ Mark I.
“The contract is finalized, Detective,” Acting Commissioner Henderson said, not looking up from his tablet. Yuri knew he was only a few years older than she was, polished and with a degree in public administration that showed in every carefully measured syllable he spoke. “The Mayor is announcing the partnership with Oscorp at the Unity Fair Tomorrow. Oscorp is providing 500 units for the first phase. We’re projecting total integration with the NYPD by the end of the month.”
“500 units?” Yuri’s voice was flat, vibrating with a low-frequency anger. “Commissioner, I’ve seen the reports from the field tests. Those things are way too aggressive to deploy against civilian targets. Those kinetic dampeners get turned off and the line between suspect and bystander is razor-thing.”
“I understand-” Henderson began.
“Plus, the software’s proprietary. If something goes wrong, we can’t get into it.” Yuri said.
“We don’t need them, Oscorp is providing the maintenance. It’s part of our deal with them.” Henderson cut her off, his eyes cold as he met hers. “The public is terrified, Detective. First the bridge, then that complete insanity at that Learning Annex in Harlem. The Bugle has been running wild, setting more fires for us to put out and even we don’t have the PR teams necessary to deal with this.”
“So we militarize the police?” Yuri asked skeptically.
“The people don’t want ‘nuanced’ policing at this point,” Henderson said, “they want a wall between and whatever next nutjob tries to tear the city apart.”
“Commissioner Stacy wouldn’t have signed off on this,” Yuri said quietly, “He put his trust in people, not some corporation known for weapons manufacturing.”
Henderson’s jaw tightened. “Commissioner Stacy was and still is a hero, Detective. No one is trying to take that away from him or say otherwise, but his methods died a hard death on that bridge. You were there. You saw what his trust in people resulted in.”
Yuri flinched as if she’d been struck, anger welling up stronger in her.
“Now, I know you had his ear. He took a shine to you in a way not a lot of people in the Department really understood.” Henderson said. “But he isn’t the Commissioner anymore. I am, and I don’t care for how familiar you are, telling me how I should be doing my job.”
“Osborn is a full-blown opportunist,” Yuri countered, “I’ve been investigating those six armed psychopaths who almost tore Manhattan apart. Someone was funding them and I have strong reason to believe Oscorp had a hand in it. The equipment-”
“That investigation was shut down as a waste of resources, and you know it,” Henderson snapped, standing up and bringing his hands down hard against his desk, “Oscorp has proof that that equipment was stolen months before the incident occurred. They aren’t the suppliers, they were victims of the same terrible incident. So unless a smoking gun falls out of the sky and into your lap - which it won’t - you’re gonna drop this crap, you’re going to be at the Unity Festival tomorrow in your dress blues, and you’re gonna stand with me beside Norman Osborn as we tell this city that they don’t have to live in fear from superpowered freaks. Am I clear?”
“You want me to come up and smile for the cameras while you potentially let the fox into the hen house because he said he’d fix the latch?” Yuri scowled at him, standing up as well. “I’m not buying it, Commissioner!”
“I don’t give a damn if you buy it, Watanabe! I gave you an order!” Henderson retorted. Like her, clearly trying to hold back his anger. “You’re gonna show up, dress blues, and we’re gonna tell New York a new era is here. If not, then I’ll be happy to give you a nice assignment with our traffic enforcement division.”
Yuri’s scowl turned into a full on glare. “Yes, sir. May I go now?”
“Yes, get the hell out of my office.” Yuri was out through the door before he’d finished saying ‘yes’. Stepping through the office and outside, she made her way to the street side outside the building and leaned against the brickwork, breathing deeply. Glancing up, she saw one of the towering buildings had been graffitied with a very specific figure.
It was a man in red and blue, one hand up in the air holding what looked like a cable while the other held a man about the waist as he carried him to safety.
Yuri Watanabe knew that image, everyone did. It was a perfect rendering of one of the first pictures of Spider-Man that had ever appeared in the Bugle four years ago. Beneath the beautifully-crafted graffiti had been sprayed the words “Thank you, Spider-Man!”.
‘If only he were still here…’ Yuri thought, looking at the mural with a bittersweet twinge in her heart. ‘We wouldn’t need all this…’
******
The air smelled of damp concrete and old copper in the abandoned MTA sub-station. Hobie Brown’s fingers tapped at the keys on his laptop, looking over the blueprints of the ‘Liberator’ drone that was due to join the NYPD tomorrow, several hundred drones being brought in. The entire thing disgusted him, but he could actually do something about it this time and see that the community was protected from it.
“They’ll have facial recognition active.” He said, looking over the juicy details of the production. “If we step out without a scrambler, they’ll have us in three seconds, maybe sooner.”
“I hope they do tag me!”
Jalome Beacher stepped into the dim light, zipping up his silver “Slyde” suit. He hadn’t pulled the mask on yet, his eyes wide and frantic. The frictionless coat on his outfit shimmered like oil on water. “Let Osborn see me. Let him see what he’s made of me before I destroy him and cast him away just like he destroyed me and cast me away.”
“Revenge is just a pedestrian motive, Jalome.” A third voice spoke.
The man called Ghost didn’t walk into the light, he simply seemed to appear. His suit was a patchwork of snow-white plates, broken only at the helmet where a pair of red lenses served to cover his eyes as the helmet did the rest of his head. He hummed with a low-frequency vibration that made the air around him look like a heat haze. After moving through one of the sub-station’s support beams as though it simply were not there, the haze disappeared as the man was once more solid.
“Osborn isn’t the enemy, he’s the poster boy,” Ghost said, his voice sounding like two radio stations overlapping their play. “Architecture is the enemy. It is order built upon fear and lies. It is a wall that must be torn down. We aren’t looking to kill a man. We’re killing the illusion of safety that Osborn and the Police are so desperate to create.”
“You call it whatever you like,” Jalome said, “I just can’t wait to see it all crumble around that bastard’s head.”
“Yeah, whatever man,” Hobie said, looking from the man in the silver suit to the literal wraith, “let’s be clear, though, I’m in this for Brooklyn. Big Brother swaggering around like he owns the place with all his fancy toys doesn’t sit right with me. Do whatever you want with Osborn, I don’t care. You start blowing power lines while people are on the Fair rides, I’m out. You got it?”
Ghost titled his head in a way that almost reminded Hobie more of a snake than a man, those red lenses flaring without giving any sign of what the wraith might be thinking. “The system requires a catalyst, Mr. Brown. A shock to the heart to wake the body up, if you will. But your tactical precision is what I brought you into this endeavor for. We will only be attacking the control hub for the drones the Police will be displaying at the Unity Festival. The drones will drop and the people will see the failure of the system.”
“And I’ll be right there on stage to see how Osborn’s world will crumble around him!” Jalome gave a high-pitched laugh. “I won’t be the only thing slipping through his fingers! Everything will!”
Hobie looked back to the diagram, frowning. Half of New York would be at the Unity Festival, if not more.
“I hope you aren’t having second thoughts, Mr. Brown.” Ghost said.
“No, of course not.” Hobie said, picking up the gauntlets of his Prowler suit and adjusting them. “Just remember - the Spider is dead. If civilians start dropping, there’s nobody to catch them. It’ll be on us.”
“Precisely,” Ghost said, flickering in and out of view for a moment before solidifying, “The era of the hero is over. The time of our Haunting has come…”
******
The bullpen of the Daily Bugle didn’t hum with the same manic energy it used to. The newsroom felt heavier, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and the rhythmic, almost funerary thrum of the printing presses downstairs.
On the walls were a history of the Bugle’s biggest issues (real and imagined). Many had such classic headlights as “SPIDER-MAN: THREAT OR MENACE?” or “SPIDER-MAN AND LIZARD APOCALYPSE DAMAGE FREEDOM TOWER!”. However, lately, something else had taken a place on the wall. A photograph of George Stacy and one of Spider-Man side by side with a caption reading: “NEW YORK REMEMBERS HER HEROES”.
‘If I had known I’d turn Jonah into a softie, I would have dropped the webs ages ago.’ Peter joked as he walked the distance across the bullpen toward the desk of one Betty Brant.
“Hey, Peter.” She said, smiling at him and giving a tired wave.
“Hey, Miss Brant.” Peter said, offering his own smile.
“Please, Peter. You can call me Betty.” Betty laughed a little.
“Let me get back to you on that,” Peter said, “is Mr. Jameson in?”
“Oh, yeah, he-” Betty began, stopping as the frosted glass door of the Editor-in-Chief suddenly swung open and Ol’ Flat Top himself poked his head out.
“Parker! I knew I heard you babbling out here! Get in here before I have to go get my hip replaced!” Jameson barked, ducking back into the office.
“Nice to see you too, Mr. Jameson.” Peter said as he entered the office and closed the door behind him, fully expecting to be berated for…something or other. He’d honestly stopped keeping up with the whims of J. Jonah Jameson.
Across his desk was rolled out a set of blueprints.
“Parker, come and take a look at this! You’re an egghead, you know all this science stuff.” Jameson said, gesturing for him to come over. Peter waved his hand to shoo away the smell of heavy cigar smoke as he approached, looking over Jameson’s shoulder at the offered blueprints.
“It’s…a drone?” Peter asked. “A combat drone? From Oscorp.”
“Well, look at you, maybe you have something of a newsman in you after all.” Jameson said sharply. “Yes, genius. Stormin’ Norman Osborn is rolling out the top of the top of the bargain bin for the NYPD. They’re calling it the ‘Liberator’, can you believe this?”
“I mean, people have been wanting greater protection for the city, Mr. Jameson.” Peter said.
“Protection? Ha! Faceless! Heartless! They’re calling this the future, Parker! Silent, efficient, made of steel and algorithms. Algorithms, Parker! You know I had to learn that word this week just because of this?”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century.” Peter muttered under his breath.
“I mean, how is this supposed to do anything but leave missile craters on Broadway?” Jameson went on, either not having heard Peter or not caring. “It doesn’t even talk back or crack jokes or…anything. Just hovers there and blows things up. What are we in? Texas?”
“Well, Mr. Jameson, it almost sounds like you’re missing a certain someone.” Peter said, trying to fight the smirk from forming on his face.
“You kidding?” Jameson snorted, gesturing to the joint headline that proclaimed both George Stacy and Spider-Man as heroes. “Haven’t hurt so hard to do something since I had my second bypass. I hated that wall-crawler, but at least he had a damn heart! A soul! These things? They’re just…Osborn’s ego going wild. Have you ever met someone that conceded?!”
Peter bit his lip to avoid the sheer force of the laughter within him.
“Heave on your own time and not on my carpet, Parker!” Jameson snapped, clearly not realizing what Peter was actually doing…or, rather, what he was trying to avoid doing. “Unity Festival is tomorrow, and they’re gonna try to sell this crap like it’s the Second Coming. I want you in the thick of it tomorrow, getting shots of those flying tin-cans in action. And if you see something not on the up and up, you get that, too.”
“I won’t let you down, Mr. Jameson.” Peter nodded, turning to leave.
“Oh, and Parker!” Jonah called out just as Peter put his hand on the handle. “Wear a tie. It’s a funeral for old New York. Have a little class.”
“...yes, sir.” Peter said, turning the knob and opening the door, stepping out of the man’s office.
******
The office was a cathedral of brushed steel and tinted glass, overlooking a Manhattan that was already dotted with banners advertising the upcoming Unity Festival. Soon, as he looked out over it, Norman knew he would be seeing it filled with the hovering lights of the Liberator drones.
He stood by the window, his reflection a ghostly afterimage against the night sky. He had left his suit jacket draped over his chair; in his shirt-sleeves now with his tie loosened, looking more like a politician or a general on the eve of a campaign than a CEO. On his desk sat a single, unlabeled vial of translucent green fluid - the latest redeveloped batch of Serum 91963.
A soft chime signaled the door. Harry stepped in, looking uncharacteristically sharp in a tailored gray suit. He moved with a new kind of confidence, or perhaps just the armor of someone who finally had a secret of his own.
“You’re late, son,” Norman said, not turning around. “The Unity Fair is only sixteen hours away. I expected you to be here for the final systems check on the sensor arrays.”
“I was…occupied, Dad,” Harry said, his voice steady. He poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table. “I didn’t realize my presence was required for a software upload.”
Norman finally turned, his eyes sharp and analytical as if he were stripping Harry down to his base components like a machine he’d been working on. A thin, predatory smile touched his lips. “I believe you mean occupying, yes? I know you’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the Heights…with the other Hardy woman.”
Harry stiffened, the glass pausing halfway to his lips. “...you’re tracking my car now?!”
“I’m tracking my legacy, boy,” Norman corrected, walking over toward him. The man didn’t look at his son with anger, but almost as though he were…impressed. Harry didn’t know which he found more unsettling. “Anastasia Hardy. A woman of…significant experience. And a very particular set of connections. It’s a bold move to get into her bed. A bit Oedipal in your case, perhaps, but bold.”
“It’s…not a ‘move’, Dad.” Harry snapped, though his hand shook slightly.
“Everything is a move, Harry.” Norman countered, placing a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “I used to worry that you were too soft, too much like your mother. But you take a mistress who could practically be your mother? Subvert not only a Hardy, but an older Hardy while her daughter plays pretend with some superpowered freaks in Harlem? That shows…hunger. A willingness to take instead of ask. That’s good.”
He squeezed Harry’s shoulder - hard enough that it would leave a bruise.
“Just make sure you’re the one holding the leash, Harry. The Hardys aren’t to be trusted, however delectable a honey pot they put out for you. Don’t let Anastasia give you so much bliss that she steals everything out from under you. But, it’s good to know…when I take that stage tomorrow and you’re beside me, there will be two Osborn men there.”
Harry felt a myriad of emotions swirling in him, not even sure what to say.
“Tomorrow, we’ll show this city what power looks like when it’s backed up by a billion dollars of development and some clean and efficient Osborn ingenuity.” Norman said. “Go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
“I’m…going to see my friend Peter tonight.” Harry said. “Then I will. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.” As Harry left, Norman returned to sit at his desk.
He gazed down at the green.
And the future.