Peter's jaw dropped as the limousine pulled through the factory gates.
The Osborn Exoskeleton Manufacturing Facility sprawled across nearly twenty acres of suburban Queens—a gleaming complex of white buildings, solar panels, and manicured green spaces. It looked nothing like the smoke-belching industrial nightmares Peter had seen in documentaries about factory pollution.
"This is... not what I expected," Peter admitted.
Harry smiled. "We get that a lot. Actually, the clean air is thanks to a side project from our biological research division. We've cultivated a specialized bacteria strain that breaks down combustion exhaust. The project launched around the same time as—" He paused, glancing at Peter. "—that spider you mentioned."
"That's incredible!" Peter's eyes lit up with the particular enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved science. "Why isn't this everywhere? If you can neutralize factory emissions at the source, that could solve half the pollution problems in the country."
"In theory, yes. In practice..." Harry shrugged. "The bacteria works, but not efficiently enough to be cost-effective at scale. Most factories would rather pay the EPA fines than install our system. It's cheaper to pollute."
"But isn't clean air more important than profit margins?"
Harry looked at the younger boy—really looked at him. That earnest idealism, that unshakeable belief that doing the right thing should be obvious to everyone. It was refreshing, in a way. Also hopelessly naive.
"Of course it is," Harry said carefully. "But companies need to survive before they can do good. We use the bacteria here because opening a factory this close to New York requires meeting strict environmental standards. It was either install the system or build somewhere cheaper and further from my oversight."
Peter nodded slowly, processing. Harry could almost see the gears turning—the kid wrestling with the uncomfortable reality that good intentions weren't always enough.
Give him time, Harry thought. He'll learn. Or he'll become Spider-Man and punch his problems until they go away. Either works.
The limousine dropped them at the main testing yard, where a row of Miner's Friend exoskeletons stood ready for inspection. Technicians in white coats moved between the units, running diagnostics and making adjustments.
Peter gravitated toward the nearest suit like a moth to flame.
"Miner's Friend Mark III," he said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Maximum load capacity four hundred fifty kilograms. Integrated air purification system with fifty-liter supplemental oxygen supply for extreme environments. Head and shoulder regions feature reinforced anti-collision armor with a hydraulic buffer system to prevent crush injuries."
Harry blinked. "You memorized our spec sheets?"
"I read the technical documentation on your website. Like, all of it." Peter ran his hand along the exoskeleton's arm, tracing the servo joints. "The torque distribution system is genius. Most exoskeletons put all the load-bearing stress on the lower spine, but you've distributed it across the entire frame using these—" He pointed at a series of connection points. "—auxiliary load channels. It's like the suit is carrying itself."
"That was actually one of my personal contributions to the design." Harry felt a warm glow of pride. Having someone genuinely appreciate his work—not just the money it made, but the engineering itself—was unexpectedly satisfying.
"With protection like this, mining accidents would drop to almost nothing," Peter continued. Then his expression fell. "But I'm guessing these aren't cheap."
"About sixty thousand dollars per unit, fully equipped. Which means most mining operations can't afford to outfit their entire workforce." Harry sighed. "We're working on a cost-reduced version, but it requires cutting the body armor to bare minimum. Just the head shield and basic joint protection."
"That's still better than nothing, right?"
"Better than nothing," Harry agreed. "But not as good as it should be."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, moving toward another section of the testing facility. Around them, technicians continued their work, the hum of machinery creating a steady industrial backdrop.
Peter was looking around curiously, taking in everything with wide eyes—when suddenly he stopped dead.
His head snapped to the side. His body tensed.
"Mr. Osborn—"
BOOM.
The world exploded.
The blast ripped through the workshop roof like it was made of paper. Harry had a split-second impression of fire, debris, twisted metal—and then something slammed into him from the side, driving him to the ground just as a massive chunk of concrete smashed into the space where he'd been standing.
"What the—"
He looked up. Peter was crouched over him, one hand pressed against Harry's chest, his expression tight with fear and adrenaline. The kid had tackled him out of the way. Moved faster than should have been humanly possible.
Spider reflexes, Harry realized. He sensed the explosion before it happened.
"Mr. Osborn, are you alright?" Technicians were running toward them, faces pale with shock.
Harry pushed himself up, mind racing. "I'm fine. What the hell just—"
The answer came in the form of three heavy trucks smashing through the facility's main gates.
They weren't delivery vehicles. They were assault transports—reinforced frames, blacked-out windows, men with guns hanging off the running boards. The lead truck's grille was painted with a stylized crown.
Kingpin.
Harry's blood ran cold. Wilson Fisk. The crime lord who controlled half of New York's underworld from the shadows. He'd heard rumors, of course—everyone in the business world had—but he'd never expected the man to target Osborn Industries directly.
"Where's security?" Harry shouted.
A technician stumbled toward him, face ashen. "They—they're gone, sir. The whole team. They just... disappeared."
Bought off, Harry thought grimly. Or killed. Either way, we're on our own.
The trucks were disgorging men now—dozens of them, armed with automatic weapons, moving with the practiced efficiency of professionals. Some headed for the warehouse. Others fanned out to secure the perimeter. They weren't here to negotiate.
They were here to steal.
"Contact NYPD!" Harry grabbed the technician's shoulder. "Call everyone—police, FBI, I don't care. Tell them we're under armed assault." He turned to Peter. "And you—hide. Now."
"Mr. Osborn, what about you?"
"Me?" Harry was already moving toward a row of Miner's Friend suits. "I'm protecting my property."
The exoskeleton powered up around him with a familiar hum. Harry felt the servos engage, the armor plates lock into place, the HUD flickering to life inside his helmet. The Miner's Friend wasn't designed for combat—it was an industrial tool, meant for lifting heavy loads and surviving cave-ins.
But it was built like a tank. And right now, that would have to be enough.
"Hey!" One of the gunmen spotted him emerging from the testing bay. "We got a live one!"
Bullets sparked off Harry's chest plate. The impacts felt like punches, hard enough to stagger but not enough to penetrate. Thank God I haven't started production on the cost-reduced version yet, he thought. That thing would have folded like paper.
He grabbed the oxygen tank from his back mount—fifty liters of compressed gas in a steel cylinder—and hurled it at the nearest cluster of attackers.
Someone's bullet caught the tank mid-flight.
The explosion was spectacular. A ball of flame engulfed three gunmen, sending them sprawling. The others scrambled for cover, their confident advance suddenly faltering.
Harry didn't give them time to regroup. He charged.
The first truck went over with a single shove, the exoskeleton's hydraulics screaming as they amplified his strength a hundredfold. Men scattered like bowling pins. Harry grabbed one by the jacket and threw him into another, then spun and kicked a third so hard he flew ten feet before hitting the ground.
"What the hell is that thing?"
"Shoot it! Shoot it!"
More bullets. Harry ducked behind an overturned truck, using it as cover while he assessed the situation. The attackers had numbers, but they were panicking now—they'd expected a soft target, not a walking tank.
Then he heard something else. Screaming. But not from his direction.
"Ah! It's that guy!"
"My arm! He broke my—"
Harry peered around his cover and felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
A figure in a dark red bodysuit was moving through the attackers like a ghost. No—not a ghost. A devil. He flowed between gunmen with impossible grace, ducking bullets, redirecting strikes, taking men apart with surgical precision. Every movement was economical, brutal, perfect.
Daredevil.
Harry had heard rumors about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen—a vigilante who'd been cleaning up the neighborhood with his fists and an apparent death wish. Seeing him in person was something else entirely. The man fought like he could see the future, anticipating attacks before they happened, always in exactly the right position.
Or maybe he's just that good, Harry thought. Either way, I'll take the help.
Between Harry in the exoskeleton and Daredevil in the chaos, the attackers were falling apart. Men ran for the trucks. Others tried to surrender. The robbery was collapsing into a rout.
"Damn it!" One of the gunmen—younger than the others, barely more than a kid—scrambled toward an unpowered Miner's Friend suit. "Forget the rules, I'm putting this thing on!"
"Don't!" Another man grabbed his arm. "The boss said we can't—"
Too late. The kid was already climbing inside, jamming his arms into the control sleeves.
Harry watched with grim satisfaction. Every Osborn exoskeleton required a six-digit activation code. Without it, the suit wouldn't move. And if someone tried to force their way in anyway...
The kid's triumphant expression shifted to confusion. Then panic.
"Why can't I—what the hell? I'm stuck! I can't—mmph!"
The suit's emergency restraint system engaged, locking every joint in place and clamping a sound-dampening plate over the helmet's mouth opening. The kid wasn't going anywhere.
"Amateur," Harry muttered.
CRACK.
The sound of the rifle shot echoed across the facility. Daredevil dove behind cover, his fluid movements suddenly sharp and desperate. Harry froze.
"Mr. Harry Osborn."
The voice came from a phone that one of the fallen attackers had dropped. It was distorted, digitally altered, but somehow still conveyed absolute confidence.
"I didn't expect you to have such skills. However, I suggest you stay still. The sniper rifle currently trained on your position won't penetrate the military-grade armor you sell to the Pentagon—but it will go through civilian plating like tissue paper."
Everyone stopped moving. Harry looked around, trying to spot the sniper, but saw nothing. The shooter could be anywhere—rooftops, windows, a thousand yards away with a scope.
Bullseye, he realized. Kingpin's personal assassin. The man who never missed.
"What do you want?" Harry growled.
"Simply to conclude our business. We didn't know you'd be visiting the facility tonight—that was an unfortunate coincidence. As compensation, you may keep the trucks you've already disabled. But the remaining three vehicles will be leaving with my men. And their cargo."
Harry's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Three trucks. Dozens of exoskeletons. Millions of dollars in equipment that would end up on the black market, sold to criminals and terrorists.
But what could he do? Bullseye was out there somewhere, invisible, his crosshairs probably centered on Harry's head right now. One wrong move and the man would prove exactly why he'd earned his name.
"And you." The voice shifted, addressing someone else. "The man in the devil costume. My goal tonight was simple theft. Why did you interfere?"
Silence from Daredevil. The vigilante remained crouched behind cover, still as a statue.
"No answer? Very well. Remember this: cross my path again, and I won't be so merciful."
The line went dead.
For a long, terrible moment, no one moved. Then the remaining attackers loaded into their trucks, gunning the engines, and roared out through the shattered gates.
Harry watched them go, fury burning in his chest. Three trucks. Three goddamn trucks.
After what felt like an eternity, Daredevil rose from his position. Even with his face hidden behind that red mask, his body language radiated frustration.
"He's gone," the vigilante said. His voice was rough, tired. "The sniper. He pulled out when the trucks left." He turned toward Harry. "Be careful of the first person who calls you."
"What?"
But Daredevil was already moving, slipping into the shadows between buildings. In seconds, he'd vanished completely.
Classic, Harry thought bitterly. Superhero shows up, makes cryptic comments, disappears. Leaves everyone else to clean up the mess.
He climbed out of the exoskeleton, his body aching from the impacts he'd absorbed. The facility was a disaster—overturned trucks, scattered debris, groaning criminals being zip-tied by the technicians who'd finally emerged from hiding.
And somewhere out there, Wilson Fisk was counting his stolen goods and laughing.
Kingpin. Just you wait. This isn't over.
"Um... Mr. Osborn?"
Harry turned. Peter was approaching cautiously, looking remarkably unscathed for someone who'd just survived a small war.
"Peter! Are you okay? Did any of those bastards—"
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Peter held up his hands. "I hid in the maintenance bay like you said. But, uh..." He hesitated, chewing his lip. "There's something I should probably show you."
"What?"
Peter pulled out his phone. On the screen, a map application displayed a blinking red dot, slowly moving through the streets of Queens.
"So, the school taught us some circuit basics recently," Peter said, his voice carefully casual. "And I've been, you know, tinkering in my spare time. Building little projects. One of them was this tracker I put together from spare parts."
Harry stared at the screen. At the dot. At the implications.
"Peter. Did you put a tracker on one of their trucks?"
"I, uh..." Peter's face reddened. "I might have accidentally thrown it into one of the crates they were loading? When I was running to the maintenance bay? It just... sort of... happened?"
Harry looked at the kid—this awkward, brilliant, impossibly brave teenager who'd tackled a billionaire out of the path of falling debris, then improvised a tracking solution while hiding from armed criminals.
This, Harry thought, is why Spider-Man becomes one of the greatest heroes in the world.
"Peter Parker," he said slowly, "you might just be my new favorite person."
The red dot blinked steadily on the screen, leading straight toward Kingpin's stolen goods.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
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