Afternoon. December 19.
Joe's Diner after school is our local branch of Brownian motion. Waiters rushed around with trays, the hum of voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, and the air was thick with the heavy scent of meat, french fries, and coffee. We—Peter, Gwen, Harry, MJ, and I—had once again occupied our strategic corner booth, which had become almost like a second home.
Today, Gwen was the center of scientific gravity. Her eyes burned with enthusiasm as she lowered her voice, gesturing so actively she nearly knocked over the salt shaker, telling Peter and me the latest news from her internship.
"Can you imagine? Dr. Connors had a breakthrough! A serious one! We tested a new modification of the serum on lab mice with amputated limbs, and... regeneration began! It was almost complete! A paw grew back in three days!" she whispered, beaming with delight. "Of course, there are still stability issues with the cellular structure at the final stage, but the fact itself! It's incredible! Do you realize what this means for medicine?"
Peter caught fire instantly. The gloom caused by watching Harry try to charm MJ at the other end of the booth vanished, replaced by genuine scientific excitement.
"Seriously? A three-day regeneration cycle? That's phenomenal! What's the primary regenerative agent he's using? Is it still reptilian DNA? How did he solve the rejection or uncontrolled growth issues? Did he use a retroviral vector for delivery, or something more advanced like nanotransporters? And what about the telomeres? Did he find a way to bypass the Hayflick limit without the risk of oncogenesis?"
Questions poured out of Peter like a machine gun. Gwen tried to answer, equally caught up in the discussion. They dove into the world of genetics, biochemistry, and cell biology, tossing around terms that—judging by their slightly dazed expressions—were clearly giving Harry and MJ a headache.
I listened to their dialogue, two feelings warring within me. On one hand, admiration. These two were magnificent when talking about science; their minds worked on an entirely different level. On the other hand, anxiety. Dr. Connors. Regeneration. Reptilian DNA. The Lizard. This scenario was all too familiar to me from the comics, and it rarely ended well. Usually, it resulted in a big green problem for Spider-Man and the entire city.
Wait, hold on, I thought. If I'm here and can influence events, maybe I should try to intervene? Keep Connors from turning into a monster?
Scraps of plots from various versions of the comics flashed through my mind—in some, Connors sought a way to control the transformation; in others, he was helped... The key point was always the instability of the mutation.
"Gwen, Peter, sorry to jump in," I said when a pause appeared in their scientific ping-pong. "It sounds truly impressive. But... you mentioned cellular instability. Has Dr. Connors considered using... mutation inhibitors?"
They both looked at me in surprise.
"Inhibitors?" Gwen asked. "In what sense? Do you mean immunosuppressants? We use those, of course, but..."
"No, I mean something else," I shook my head, quickly mobilizing fragments of knowledge from my past life and the logic enhanced by Coulson. "I'm talking about specific molecular agents that could stabilize the genetic expression process itself after the intervention. You see, the problem with regeneration based on foreign DNA isn't just rejection, but the risk that the 'new' genetic program will dominate the 'old' one or trigger a cascade of uncontrolled changes throughout the body. Like... like trying to run a Windows program on macOS—the system might just crash or throw a bunch of errors."
I saw Peter's eyes light up with understanding.
"Exactly! Collateral mutations! Uncontrolled expression of reptilian genes! John, you're right! We need molecular 'fuses'! Inhibitors that act at the level of RNA interference or DNA methylation, blocking the activation of undesirable reptilian genes without interfering with the limb regeneration process itself!" He grabbed a napkin and began rapidly sketching formulas.
"Precisely!" I nodded, pleased that Peter had caught the idea and translated it into scientific terms. "Imagine: the serum triggers regeneration, and the inhibitors ensure the process follows a strict limb-recovery program without affecting the rest of the body. This could solve the stability problem and... well, prevent unwanted side effects. Like... you know. Green skin or tail growth."
Gwen stared at me with wide eyes.
"John... where did you... that's brilliant! Inhibitors at the gene expression level! We hadn't thought of that! Dr. Connors was so focused on the mechanism of regeneration... God, Peter is right, this could be the key to stability! and safety! Thank you! I'll definitely tell him! And about your ideas too, Peter! He'll be thrilled!"
She turned back to Peter, and they dove into discussing potential molecular targets for inhibitors with redoubled enthusiasm. I leaned back against the booth with a sense of accomplishment. A small stone had been laid in the foundation of changing the Lizard's canon. Time would tell if it worked, but at least I had tried.
While the trio of geeks—Gwen, Peter, and I (masquerading as a well-read amateur)—saved the world from potential giant reptiles, a different drama was unfolding at the other end of the booth. Harry Osborn seemed to have decided on a "wealth-blinding" tactic. He was showing Mary Jane photos of his new sports car, then talking about a recent trip to some exotic island, then demonstrating a watch that cost more than my annual scholarship—if I had one. He wasn't malicious about it; he was just sharing his reality, trying to make an impression.
MJ listened, smiled, and asked polite questions, but her eyes lacked the admiration Harry was clearly counting on. Instead, there was a slight awkwardness and... something else. Irritation? Or just a lack of understanding for this world of sky-high spending? Regardless, she didn't interrupt him and kept the conversation going. There was progress—she didn't look as tense as she did during their first few days—but the chemistry between them was still at the level of a laboratory experiment with an unpredictable result.
Finally, the waitress brought our order. A mountain of french fries, several burgers, Gwen's salad, and my three hot dogs. The aroma of fried food and the sight of sausages in buns finally awakened the remnants of Toretto in me (though I hadn't fully realized it yet). I grabbed the first hot dog and bit into it.
"Whoa, John!" MJ exclaimed, looking at me in surprise. "You're acting like you haven't eaten in a week!"
"The guy has a growing body," Gwen chuckled. "And a growing brain that requires calories to generate brilliant ideas about inhibitors."
"Exactly!" I mumbled with my mouth full. "Science requires sacrifice. And hot dogs."
I quickly finished the first and started the second. A familiar thought flashed in my mind—check status. It had become a reflex over the last month: monitoring assimilation progress and OG count. I mentally summoned the interface while continuing to chew.
[Page 1/3]
Name: John Smith
Race: Human
Character Assimilation:
Full Assimilation:
[Phil Coulson (S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Template)] - 100%
[Dominic Toretto (Template)] - 100%
In Progress:
[Empty]
[Empty]
Summoned Characters:
[YoRHa No. 2 Type B (2B)]
Abilities: [Photostatic Veil (Active, Psionic)]
Equipped Items: None
Wait. What? Toretto—100%?! The progress bar, which had been at 93% this morning, was now shining with completion. I hadn't even noticed when it happened. I was just eating a hot dog... and immediately, I felt... relief. A light but distinct feeling, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders. That background craving for the roar of engines, the smell of gasoline, the ridiculous speeches about family, and—thank God—the Corona beer had vanished. It all dissolved. What remained were pure skills: an instinctive understanding of mechanics, confidence behind the wheel, the tactical intuition of a street fighter, and leadership charisma. All of this was now mine, integrated, without rejection or side effects. Just a set of tools in my arsenal.
The relief must have shown on my face because I froze for a second, processing the information.
"John? Are you okay?" Gwen asked concernedly, noticing my pause. "Did you choke?"
I shook my head quickly and swallowed a piece of hot dog.
"Huh? No, no, everything's great, Gwen! Just... thinking about the magnificence of this hot dog. A culinary masterpiece!"
She gave a skeptical hum but got distracted by Harry, who decided to switch the topic from wealth to social events.
"Guys, by the way! Don't forget about the festival! There's only a month left!" He beamed with enthusiasm again. "My father is so hoping you all come! He gave me VIP passes specifically for you, my best friends! He said it's going to be grand, important for the company's image and all that... and he's changed so much, really! He's spending more time at home, taking an interest in me... You just have to come and share this moment with me! Please!"
He looked at us with such sincere hope that refusing would have been cruel, especially given his complicated relationship with his father.
I mentally noted: "One month." That changed things. The threat hadn't vanished; the scenario with the Goblin attacking the festival was likely still in play, but now we had time. A whole month to prepare. No rush.
Plan A remains in effect, I thought more calmly. Peter will have time to finish the suit and hone his skills. 2B will be ready. I'll accumulate OG—tomorrow I'll have 40, enough to spin the Marvel Roulette a couple of times for something useful against the Goblin. There's time. I need to use it wisely. The thought of Norman playing the caring daddy still felt repulsive, but now it was just another variable in the equation to be considered.
"Of course, Harry, we'll come," I smiled at him with my most encouraging expression. "We wouldn't miss an event like that."
Harry beamed. Peter and Gwen also nodded in agreement. The tension at the table eased. We finished eating, chatting about trivial things—upcoming exams, new movies, school gossip. Ordinary conversation between ordinary teenagers. Except that one of us was a genius with superpowers, another was a transmigrator with a Gacha System and a summoned android at home, and the third was the son of a man about to become one of the city's most dangerous villains. Just an ordinary day in the twisted world of Marvel.
When we finally escaped the stuffy diner into the fresh, cool air of the New York evening, a surprise awaited us. At the curb, gleaming in the streetlights, stood not the modest sedan of the Osborns' driver, but a brand-new, deep-black BMW, the latest model. It was predatory, sleek, and clearly a top-tier configuration.
"Whoa!" I couldn't help a whistle of admiration. "Harry, did you decide to change your chariot? Or is this a trophy from the latest hunt for competitors?"
Harry beamed even more, patting the hood with pride. "Father gave it to me. He said since I'm the heir to the empire, I should drive accordingly. What do you think? Just picked it up from the dealership today."
"A beast!" I walked around the car, evaluating the body lines, low-profile tires, and the brake calipers visible through the wheel spokes with a professional eye. "Inline-six with twin turbochargers? Three liters, at least? Adaptive suspension? Dual-clutch robotic gearbox?"
Harry blinked in surprise. "Uh... yeah. I think so. How did you..."
"And the interior, I bet, is Nappa leather, carbon fiber inserts, and a head-up display?" I continued, peering through the tinted glass. "Not a bad choice, Osborn. Although I'd do a chip tune; you could easily add thirty or forty horses without damaging the engine life. And change the exhaust to make the sound more substantial."
The whole group stared at me in mute amazement.
"John, when did you become an auto expert?" Gwen asked curiously.
"Oh, you know..." I waved my hand vaguely, acting modest. "Just interested in mechanics. Read a few things in journals. I like beautiful, fast cars."
And I know how to build them from scratch, steal them in 60 seconds, and drive them through a skyscraper if I have to, I added to myself, feeling a slight phantom itch in my fingers to get behind the wheel of this Bavarian stallion. The full Toretto assimilation was making itself known through a deep understanding and love for machinery.
"So, MJ, want a ride with some wind?" Harry gallantly opened the passenger door for her. Mary Jane smiled, though with a slight hesitation.
"Oh, thanks, Harry. I'd love to." She got into the car, Harry walked around, got behind the wheel, and the black BMW smoothly but powerfully tore off, leaving us on the sidewalk.
Peter watched them go with a look that mixed envy and a new kind of determination.
"Well," he muttered under his breath. "Cool car. Maybe if I had one like that, or even better, she would..." He didn't finish, but I understood. A story as old as time: a guy thinks an expensive car will help win the girl.
"Pete, seriously?" I looked at him skeptically. "Do you think MJ cares about cars? She doesn't seem like the type. And besides, you have things way cooler than any car. For instance, the ability to crawl on ceilings. Not every girl can boast of a boyfriend who's a world-class climber."
Peter smiled faintly. "I guess you're right. But still..."
"Anyway, let's leave the romance aside," I pivoted the conversation. "Gwen, listen, I have a request. Peter and I were discussing ideas regarding Connors' serum... could you find out if we could somehow visit him in the lab? Purely out of scientific interest. To look around, talk... maybe our thoughts could be useful?"
Gwen thought for a moment.
"To Dr. Connors? Hmm. He doesn't really like outsiders. But given your ideas about inhibitors... I think he'd be interested! He's very passionate about his work and values fresh ideas. I'll talk to him! I'm sure he won't refuse two young geniuses like you!" She winked at Peter.
"Great!" I nodded. "We'll wait for the news."
"It's a deal! I have to run now, or I'll be late," Gwen waved to us, caught a passing taxi, and sped off toward her internship.
Peter and I were left alone.
"So, hero," I slapped him on the shoulder. "Did you get the materials for... uh... our science project?"
Peter nodded, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm again, pushing away his romantic longing. "Yeah! I have everything!"
"Everything?" I was surprised. I had a rough idea of the components we discussed—they weren't cheap, especially for prototyping advanced fabric. "Where did the goods come from, if it's not a secret? Did you rob a bank with your webbing?"
Peter smiled sheepishly.
"Almost. Remember after that bite at Oscorp? And when you advised Uncle Ben and Aunt May to accept the compensation from Harry?"
"Yeah, I remember. Harry offered it back then..."
"Right. Well, after Harry talked to his father... Mr. Osborn decided to settle everything quietly and... thoroughly," Peter lowered his voice. "Probably to avoid any scandal or investigation into the incident with the unknown spider in their super-lab... They paid us compensation. You know... for potential long-term health damage, emotional distress, and all that."
"And?.." I raised an eyebrow.
"And... the sum was... substantial," Peter blushed. "A million dollars."
I whistled. "A million?! That's quite the 'compensation'! Osborn was clearly very afraid of something. Or he just decided to pay off like a king."
"Probably both," Peter shrugged. "Uncle Ben and Aunt May were in shock, of course. At first, they even refused, saying it was too much. But then... they remembered your words about corporate responsibility, about future medical check-ups... and decided to accept. They said it's a... safety net for my future. Most of the money is in a special account, but they let me take a little for... well... my science projects. They said if I'm this smart, I should invest in development."
"Wise decision," I nodded. A million dollars... that changed things significantly. Peter was now not just a genius with superpowers, but a genius with seed capital. "Well, since you have the resources and we have a whole month before the festival... time to get to work. Let's head to our 'lab'."
We caught a taxi and headed to the familiar industrial outskirts. The abandoned factory met us with silence, dust, and the hollow echo of our footsteps. This place was truly becoming our lair, our Bat-Cave, just without a butler and with a lot more rust.
Peter pulled containers and bundles from his bulky backpack. The materials looked impressive. No spandex. Instead, there were rolls of dark blue and bright red fabric that felt light as silk but seemed incredibly strong.
"It's a modified polymer with interwoven carbon nanotubes," Peter explained, noticing my interest. "I got some experimental samples through... acquaintances at the university where Gwen interns. Not exactly legal, but..." he smiled apologetically. "The tensile strength is colossal, yet the elasticity is almost like rubber. And it's a poor conductor of electricity."
"Excellent!" I appraised it. "Just what we need against any electrical surprises. What about the lenses?"
"Microchips for polarization and IR sensors from an old night-vision camera, plus a mirror coating. I built a prototype," he showed me two eyepiece-like structures.
The next five hours flew by in a blur. We worked seamlessly, like a well-oiled machine. Peter, with his brilliant understanding of science and materials, handled the cutting, precise fitting, and integration of the technological elements—the lenses, and perhaps some sensors he hadn't mentioned yet. He used his webbing to temporarily hold parts together, his agility to reach difficult spots, and his strength to perfectly align seams where special tension was required.
I, using engineering knowledge from my past life multiplied by Coulson's practical experience and Toretto's almost supernatural mechanical intuition, was responsible for the overall concept, structural strength, and practical assembly. I suggested where to reinforce seams, how best to distribute weight, proposed adding hidden pockets for spare cartridges or a mini-first aid kit, and helped with lens calibration. We barely spoke, exchanging only short phrases, understanding each other without words. it was... cool. The feeling of creation, of making something truly important and unique.
And then, after five hours of intense work, the suit was finished. It lay on the old workbench, and even in the dim light of the abandoned workshop, it looked... stunning.
The classic red-and-blue colors were there, as was the recognizable web pattern. But this wasn't a spandex jumpsuit from the comics. The fabric would fit the figure tightly, but it had a slight matte sheen and seemed denser and more textured. At the joints—shoulders, elbows, knees—there were inserts of slightly darker, reinforced material. The spider on the chest was three-dimensional, made from some light but strong alloy. The mask completely covered the face, and the large white lenses now had a slight mirrored reflection, looking not just like a decorative element, but a high-tech device. The suit gave the impression of professional equipment rather than a carnival costume. Light but reliable. Capable of withstanding serious stress.
"Wow..." Peter exhaled, looking at his creation with reverence. "We... we did it. It's... perfect."
"Almost," I nodded. "A fitting will tell. But it looks impressive. Strong, elastic, protective... exactly what we need."
Peter cautiously touched the fabric on the chest. The admiration in his eyes was replaced by thoughtfulness, and then a slight concern. He looked up at me with a serious expression.
"John, this is... incredible. Better than I could have imagined. But..." he hesitated. "Why? Why this much strength? You talked about anonymity, convenience... but this looks... like armor. Light, but armor. You mentioned electrical protection, reinforced seams... what are we preparing for? Against whom? Do you know something, John? Something you're not telling me?"
Peter's question hit the mark, hanging in the dusty air of the workshop. He was studying me, and I realized a simple denial or vague hints wouldn't work anymore. He had shown me his secret, and now he demanded an explanation for my clearly excessive preparation. His brilliant mind had already put two and two together, sensing the discrepancy between my words about "anonymity and protection" and the near-combat gear we had just created.
I needed to give him a reason. A compelling reason to train not just for control, but for real confrontation. And the best way was to show him he wasn't the only "special" person in the room.
"You're right; this isn't just protection against street thugs," I said steadily, meeting his gaze. My face remained calm—thanks to Coulson for full control over my expressions. "The threats could be much more serious than you think. And so you understand how much more serious, and why we must be prepared... look."
I took a step back, giving him room to see. I focused on the internal sensation, the "button" that activated the Photostatic Veil. A slight ripple distorted my silhouette for a fraction of a second—and before Peter stood his exact duplicate.
The reaction was predictable. He recoiled, his eyes widening behind his glasses in shock, his mouth hanging open. He looked at me—at himself—as if at a ghost.
"H-how? W-what?" he struggled to force the words out.
"My ability, Pete," I replied, and my own voice coming from his duplicate added to the surrealism of the situation. "I can change my appearance. Almost any."
I quickly shifted through several faces—an unfamiliar man, then back to myself. "But it's only a visual illusion," I continued in my normal form. "My voice remains mine. Biometrics—fingerprints, retinas—too. I don't copy abilities or knowledge. It's a tool for disguise, not for combat. Useful for blending into a crowd or leaving unnoticed, but in a fight, it's not much help."
Peter was still staring at me, trying to process what he had seen. "But... where from? You're..."
"It's a genetic mutation," I interrupted, not letting him wander into guesses. "Inborn."
He froze. "Mutation? Like... like in the DC comics?"
"Comics often take ideas from reality, even if they exaggerate," I answered evasively. "My parents... they had some anomalies too. Not as obvious, more like oddities they learned to hide. They found out about my ability when I was a child. And they were very afraid for me."
I paused, letting him digest the information.
"They warned me, Pete. That people like us are not unique. That there could be other people with deviations from the norm. And that most of them hide. Because the world... it isn't ready. People are afraid. And those who aren't afraid... want to control or use us. There are organizations... government, private, unknown... that hunt for such anomalies. They collect information, perform experiments... or just eliminate them."
I decided to mention S.H.I.E.L.D.; it was important for the future world-view.
"My parents stumbled upon information about one such structure. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I know, I know, it's a mouthful, so let's just shorten it—S.H.I.E.L.D. A very secret organization that deals with... unusual incidents. They cover tracks, control information. They know much more than they show the public. And for them, people like us are either a potential threat or a resource."
Peter listened intently, his mind clearly trying to fit the new data into his view of the world. The existence of a secret government organization dealing with the supernatural didn't seem impossible to him—it fit perfectly into the logic of a world where he himself had just gained superpowers from a spider bite.
"But..." he frowned. "If such people... mutants... exist, why hasn't anyone heard of them? At all? I understand S.H.I.E.L.D. is a secret organization. But at least some rumors, incidents?.."
"Because those who 'get caught' usually disappear without a trace, Pete," I replied harshly, casting aside all sentimentality. I had to drive home the reality of the threat. "Or their 'incidents' are very conveniently written off as gas explosions, terrorists, or industrial disasters. Propaganda and information control work perfectly. It's easier for the average person to believe any nonsense than in the existence of people with superpowers."
I saw him weighing my words.
"Most of those who know the truth about themselves prefer not to risk it," I continued in a steady tone. "To hide. To pass themselves off as ordinary. Any mistake, any careless display of power could be the last. My parents were almost paranoid about this. And, as I now understand, for good reason."
I looked him in the eyes.
"I kept quiet about all this because it was the only safe option. Until recently. Но but your abilities... the situation with Oscorp... this upcoming festival Harry is so insistently inviting us to, while his father is acting extremely suspicious... it all adds up to a very disturbing picture. Ignoring it is foolish. And trying to figure it all out alone is a sure way to run into major trouble. Now you know about me, and I know about you. We can watch each other's backs. Work together."
Peter slowly nodded. The shock in his eyes was gone. There was understanding. And the weight of realizing a new reality. He looked again at the suit lying between us on the workbench. Now its advanced, near-combat appearance made sense.
"Now you understand why?" I asked, nodding toward the suit. "This isn't for games. We don't have much time. Try it on. We need to make sure everything works perfectly and fits your figure."
Peter nodded resolutely. "Yeah. Let's do it."
"And yes, Pete, don't forget the gadgets... I think you'll have them ready just in time for the festival."