The old abandoned subway station sat on the border between Queens and Manhattan, half-swallowed by the city around it. Jack arrived at the entrance in XLR8 form, skidding to a stop in a blur of blue before the transformation dissolved and left him standing there as himself, catching his breath.
"At least after using Grey Matter to check on the Omnitrix I can release my forms on command now," he muttered, studying the dark mouth of the entrance. "Still can't unlock any new options, though."
[Master, according to the information you retrieved online, Roosevelt Station should be somewhere in this area. I have no further details beyond that.]
"No problem. I can figure it out from here." He started walking. "You're sounding more like a human than before, by the way."
[It is thanks to your effort, Creator. You built me and gave me this life. Serving you is my purpose, so I have been on the internet to learn more.]
Jack glanced at nothing in particular—the AI's voice came through his earpiece—and felt something odd settle in his chest. It was getting harder to treat it like a program.
"Calling you 'AI' all the time feels weird," he said. "I should give you a name."
He moved into the tunnel, footsteps echoing off damp concrete walls.
"Do you have a preference? Male or female?"
[After analyzing your personality, habits, and browsing history, I believe a female name would make you like me more than a male name.]
Jack stopped walking.
"…What browsing history?" he said, puzzled.
[I was cross-referencing online behavioral studies to better understand humans and found an article that said reading someone's browsing history helps understand a person better, so I read your computer history to understand you better, Master.]
"What kind of idiot comes up with an article like this?"
"Delete it," he said in a hurry. "All of it. Don't reference anything you found there, don't mention it to anyone, and wipe it from your memory. That's an order."
[Should I really delete it?]
"I said delete it now," he said strictly.
[Understood. Deleted.]
"Good." He exhaled and kept walking. "Since you're apparently that nosy, I think the name 'Red Queen' suits you. Can't think of anything better right now."
[Acknowledged. From this point forward, my name is Red Queen.]
[Master—my sensors are detecting a passage in the wall ahead. It appears to have been sealed off.]
Jack slowed, running a hand along the brickwork. It was solid, deliberate. Definitely blocked intentionally.
"Huh. This is a little different from how I remembered it." He stepped back, thinking. "Alright. Guess it's Four Arms time."
He pressed the Omnitrix dial.
Katcha.
The transformation hit like a wave—mass, muscle, four arms spreading wide as the familiar red bulk settled into place. Jack rolled his shoulders and looked at the wall.
"Let's go."
It didn't take long. Three solid strikes and the brickwork caved inward, dust and debris spilling into the dark. He stepped through into a room that was little more than a graveyard of old metal—twisted pipes, broken equipment, rusted frames stacked against every wall.
He shoved the heaviest pieces aside with one hand and found it: a hole punched through the far wall, just wide enough to squeeze through.
He undid the transformation rather than risk bringing the whole wall down, dropped back to human size, and slipped through the gap.
The station opened up around him.
It was larger than he'd expected—larger than it had looked in the show. The old Roosevelt Station sign still hung on the far wall, grimy but intact, the letters faded to a dull bronze. The platform stretched out in both directions, and despite the years of silence, something about the space felt preserved rather than simply forgotten.
This looks a little bigger than I thought it would be, he said to himself.
He walked to the token booth along the side wall, fished a coin from his pocket, and dropped it in—the same way Peter had done it on screen.
"Hope this works."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the ground trembled.
The lights snapped on all at once, flooding the platform in a pale yellow glow. A deep mechanical groan rolled through the floor, and Jack turned to see the subway tracks splitting apart, the rails folding back like a set of hands opening. From below, rising slowly through a cloud of dust and old smoke, came a subway car—number 6688 stenciled on its side in faded paint.
Jack stood there watching it, a slow smile crossing his face.
"Okay. My luck is holding."
He didn't need whatever was inside—not urgently. But he wasn't about to walk away from a free find either.
He approached the car and reached for the door.
It didn't open.
He tried again. Nothing.
"Why isn't it—" He stepped back, scanning the frame. In the show, Peter had walked straight in. No hesitation, no obstacle. Jack looked closer and found it near the handle: a biometric lock, small and built flush with the panel, easy to miss.
"Don't tell me that was a plot hole where Peter walked inside," he said slowly, "or this thing has face recognition."
He stood there for a moment weighing his options.
"Force opening it seems unsafe since I don't know if this lab has some self-destruction program or anything similar. It seems it's Grey Matter time."
He pressed the Omnitrix.
The world dropped several feet as he shifted into Grey Matter. He climbed the lock, its design unfolding in his mind with laughable simplicity.
"Pathetic."
A few precise movements—hardly worth the effort.
Zzz.
The door slid open.
"Next time," he muttered, "try making it a challenge."
Jack reversed the transformation and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, dust on every surface, but the equipment was intact—a compact lab setup along one wall, and against the far end, an old computer humming as it woke from what must have been years of standby. A progress bar appeared on the screen.
File downloading.
Jack leaned in.
"Is this the video? The one Peter found?"
Download complete.
He hit play.
The footage was shaky, clearly recorded in a hurry. A man appeared on screen—tired, sharp-eyed, speaking directly into the camera like he knew he didn't have long.
"I am Richard Parker." He paused, steadying himself. "If you're seeing this, I want to pass on a message to the world about the truth. I was lead scientist on a project jointly funded by Oscorp and a military organization—a genetic biological weapon. I agreed at first. When I understood what it really was, I refused to continue, and Oscorp fabricated evidence against me to keep me quiet. To make sure they couldn't complete the research without me, I incorporated my own genetics into the base sequence. They can't replicate it now. But they know that, and they're hunting me. I have to go somewhere safe—somewhere they won't reach the people I care about—"
The picture cut to black.
Audio only now, the recording still running.
"Who are you? What do you want—don't touch my wife—"
Jack's expression tightened.
No… this isn't right.
This never happened in the original plot.
"Don't be afraid, Mr. Parker. We're from an organization called the Plumbers. We're here to help you—by order from above."
Before he could finish, the video cut out.
Jack's mind went blank.
"…The Plumbers?"
That shouldn't be possible.
Why was something he'd made up to fool S.H.I.E.L.D. appearing in footage from 12 years ago?
A/N: The Patreon version is already updated with 20 advanced chapters. If you'd like to read ahead of the public release schedule, you can join here:
👉 patreon.com/BenBlazecraft