December 20th. Noon. Midtown High School.
History. Mr. Harrington, our perennial lecturer on the affairs of days long past, was enthusiastically talking about yet another Vietnam War or something of the sort. Important events, no doubt, but my brain, overloaded with knowledge of future apocalypses, perceived it as… well, a light warm-up before the real chaos.
I sat next to Peter, who, to his credit, was trying to pretend he was listening. The pencil in his hand wasn't writing lesson notes in his notebook, but rather some complex diagrams suspiciously resembling miniature turbines or capacitors. Yeah, "listening." Work was in full swing, even to the accompaniment of stories about guerrilla warfare.
We needed to check in. The preparation plan for the "Unity Festival"—more precisely, for the very likely visit of a certain unstable gentleman in green on a glider—required coordination. I leaned slightly toward Peter, covering my mouth with my hand as if yawning.
"Psst, Pete," I whispered so quietly that only he could hear. "How's our... science project? Regarding the... portable delivery systems for sticky polymer? Any progress with those modifications we discussed? Will you make it by... well, you know, the 'holiday'?"
Peter flinched, quickly slammed his notebook of diagrams shut, and looked around nervously. Making sure Mr. Harrington was preoccupied with his map on the board, and that Flash Thompson and his loyal squire Kong McFarlane were traditionally in a state of suspended animation at the back desk, he replied just as quietly:
"Y-yes, John. I'm working on it. The suit is almost ready; just need to adjust a few seams and calibrate the lenses. With the impact webbing... the prototype is almost assembled; I need to test the pressure. The web bomb is still just blueprints; there's a complex detonation mechanism. The stun gun... that's a snag; I need a more powerful, compact power source, I'm still thinking about it. And the sensor... almost ready, just need to tune the transmitter. In short... I'm trying. A month... I think I'll finish the main part."
"Excellent," I nodded. "Main thing—don't rush at the expense of quality. And safety."
Our quiet exchange didn't escape the attention of Gwen, who was sitting across the aisle. She cast a frowning look at us, clearly wondering what we could be whispering so animatedly about during history class, when we usually either listened (like her), slept (like Flash), or drifted in the clouds (like Peter until recently). I caught her eye and made an innocent face, shrugging my shoulders—as if to say, nothing special, just discussing the impact of agrarian reform on something or other. She gave a skeptical snort and turned back to the teacher.
On the other side of the class, Harry Osborn, taking advantage of the moment while Mr. Harrington's back was turned to the board, leaned toward Mary Jane.
"MJ, listen," his voice was quiet but full of enthusiasm. "About the festival... I was thinking... maybe we could stop by a shop after school? I saw a dress there... it would suit you perfectly! Just to try it on! Please! Father said we should look... flawless."
MJ smiled politely, but I noticed her fingers grip her pen a bit tighter.
"Oh, Harry, that's so sweet, but... I haven't decided what I'm wearing yet. Thanks for the offer, I'll think about it."
Harry slumped slightly but didn't give up, continuing to whisper something to her about styles and colors. Liz Allan and Sally Avril, sitting nearby, giggled stealthily, watching his attempts. "Operation 'Dazzle with Wealth and Charm,' phase two. Result still unclear," I noted ironically to myself. "Poor Harry. If he only knew what kind of 'surprise' his old man is preparing for this festival..."
The lesson dragged on unbearably long. But finally, the saving bell. Mr. Harrington assigned homework that no one but Gwen probably even wrote down, and the class poured into the corridor with a hum. Recess. Which meant—the cafeteria and time for Gwen's interrogation.
The three of us—me, Peter, and Gwen—took our usual table. Harry with MJ and her entourage settled nearby. Before Gwen could even take out her container of healthy salad, Peter and I descended on her with questions.
"Well?!" I began without preamble. "Tell us! How did it go yesterday? Did you talk to Connors? What did he say? Did he agree?"
"Yes, Gwen, please!" Peter chimed in, his eyes burning with impatience. "Was he interested? Did he believe it? He didn't think we were crazy?"
Gwen laughed, raising her hands in a defensive gesture.
"Take it easy, guys, take it easy! At least let me open the salad! Yes, I talked to him. And yes, everything went... even better than I expected!"
She paused, clearly enjoying our impatience, then began to tell the story.
Evening. December 19th. Empire State University.
Gwen, having changed into a white lab coat over her school uniform, knocked on the door of Dr. Curt Connors' office. The door was ajar; the quiet hum of some equipment and the scientist's own muttering could be heard from inside.
"Dr. Connors? It's Gwen. May I?"
"Ah, Gwendolyn! Come in, come in!" his voice rang out, slightly distracted but friendly. "Just in time! We have... interesting results here!"
She entered. Connors' lab wasn't as huge and sterile as the ones at Oscorp. Rather, it resembled the abode of a slightly mad but brilliant scientist. Tables were cluttered with test tubes, flasks, printouts with graphs; terrariums with lizards and salamanders stood everywhere; complex molecular models rotated on monitors. Dr. Connors himself—a tall, thin man with intelligent, burning eyes and only one arm (the other sleeve of his lab coat was neatly tucked in)—stood at a centrifuge, carefully studying a sample.
"Hello, Doctor," Gwen smiled. "What results? Could it be?.."
"Almost, Gwendolyn, almost!" he turned to her, and a boyish smile lit up his face. "Mouse number seven! Full limb regeneration! In just seventy-two hours! The structure is stable! Analysis shows... perfect recovery! This is a breakthrough!"
"Incredible!" Gwen gasped, sincerely happy for him. "Congratulations, Doctor! This... this changes everything!"
"Yes! Yes!" he rubbed his only hand. "But... there's a nuance. Stability... it's still on the edge. At the slightest stress factor, the cells start... behaving strangely. There's a risk... well, you understand. Uncontrolled growth. Mutations. Lizards are amazing creatures, but their genetics... they are aggressive. How to make them work only where needed and not interfere with the rest of the organism? That is the question..."
Gwen saw her chance.
"Dr. Connors," she began cautiously. "Remember I told you about my friends, Peter and John? The ones who are also into science?"
"Ah, yes, yes, I remember. Smart kids, you said?"
"Very! Well... we were discussing your research yesterday, and they... they had an idea. About stability. About control over... aggressive genetics."
Connors raised an eyebrow with interest. "An idea? From high schoolers? Well, well, let's hear it! I'm always open to fresh thoughts, you know that! Sometimes the most unexpected outside perspective can lead to a solution."
Gwen, nervous but trying to speak clearly and consistently, relayed our theory about mutation inhibitors to him. About molecular "fuses" that would block undesirable expression of reptile genes, allowing only the limb regeneration program to work. She mentioned RNA interference and DNA methylation—terms she had picked up from yesterday's conversation with Peter—and, of course, emphasized that the original concept belonged to John, who "reads a lot and thinks outside the box."
As she spoke, Connors' facial expression changed. Surprise. Skepticism. Deep thoughtfulness. He walked over to a board covered in formulas, took a marker, and began to quickly sketch something, muttering under his breath: "Inhibitors... specific... without affecting the main process... RNA targets... Methyl groups... God... This is..."
He turned sharply to Gwen, his eyes burning with such excitement that she even took a step back.
"Gwendolyn! This... this is brilliant! Why didn't I think of this myself?! I was so focused on the regenerative mechanism itself, on starting the process, that I completely overlooked control! Control at the genetic level! Blocking expression! This is the key! The key to stability! To safety! Your friends... John, was it? Is he... is he really just a high schooler?!"
"Well... yes," Gwen was slightly embarrassed. "Just very smart. And Peter too; he immediately understood how this could be implemented..."
"Incredible!" Connors paced the lab excitedly. "I need... I need to talk to them! To hear their thoughts firsthand! To learn more about this concept! Gwendolyn, can you... can you bring them? Here? To the lab? I want to meet them! As soon as possible!"
Gwen's heart leaped with joy.
"Of course, Doctor! I was just about to ask! They'll be happy! When can they come?"
"Tomorrow! Right after school! I'll cancel all other meetings! I'll be waiting for you here! Oh, inhibitors... what an elegant idea... I need to urgently revise the protocols..."
He turned back to the board, completely immersed in new calculations, seemingly already forgetting Gwen's presence. She smiled. Mission accomplished.
"...and so, he said we should come today after school! Said he's very intrigued and wants to discuss everything personally!" Gwen finished her story, beaming with pride for us and for Dr. Connors.
"Wow! Great!" Peter exhaled. "So, he liked the idea! He didn't think it was nonsense!"
"Liked it? He was thrilled!" Gwen confirmed. "Said it could be the key to solving the whole problem!"
"Well done, Gwen," I nodded, feeling satisfied. The plan worked. The door to Connors' lab was open. "So, today after school—a forced march to the university."
"Yeah! I'm already looking forward to it!" Peter rubbed his hands. "To talk to Dr. Connors himself! Discuss molecular biology! Maybe he'll even show us his equipment?"
"I'm sure he will," Gwen smiled. "He was very inspired."
The rest of the lunch break passed in anticipation of the meeting. Peter was feverishly re-reading his notes, muttering something about RNA sequences; Gwen was telling us about Connors' latest experiments (the ones that weren't secret); and I... I was thinking. Thinking about how to behave in the lab. Observe. Analyze. Not give away my knowledge beyond what a "well-read high schooler" might know. Support Peter, let him shine with his intellect. And, most importantly, evaluate Connors himself. Understand how close he is to the line where the Lizard begins. And if there's a chance to keep him on this side.
The final bell rang like a starting pistol. Peter, Gwen, and I flew out of school like bullets, ignoring the surprised looks of classmates and even Flash's shout: "Hey, Parker, where are you rushing off to? Is a spider chasing you again?".
"Don't mind him," I tossed to Peter, who had started to frown. "We have more important things to do."
We jumped out onto the street and immediately started catching a taxi. Catching a car at this time wasn't easy, but we were lucky—a yellow cab stopped almost immediately.
"Empire State University, please! Bioengineering building!" Gwen commanded the driver, flopping onto the back seat. Peter and I settled next to her.
The trip through evening, traffic-jammed New York gave us time to catch our breath and gather our thoughts. Peter nervously toyed with the strap of his backpack, which surely contained his notebook with diagrams of inhibitors. Gwen looked out the window, but I could see she was nervous too. I, however, tried to maintain outward calm, running through possible conversation scenarios with Connors in my head. Coulson's skills helped filter out unnecessary emotions and concentrate on the task. Although a light jitters was still present—meeting a genius who could potentially become a giant reptile is no joke.
"Are you sure you're ready, Pete?" I asked my friend quietly. "Can you explain all your ideas to him?"
"I-I think so," he nodded, swallowing. "I... I've been reading articles on RNA interference all night. I think I understand how this can be applied to his serum. Well... theoretically."
"Main thing—be more confident," Gwen encouraged him. "Dr. Connors—even though he's a genius, he's a very open person. He'll appreciate your thoughts, even if they're a bit... raw."
"Thanks, Gwen," Peter smiled at her gratefully.
Finally, the taxi pulled up to the impressive gates of Empire State University. Old red-brick buildings covered in ivy stood alongside modern glass laboratory buildings. The spirit of science and student hustle and bustle hung in the air.
"This way," Gwen confidently led us along the campus paths, maneuvering between hurrying students. "The bioengineering building is that new one over there. Dr. Connors' lab is on the third floor."
We took the elevator up. The corridors here were quiet, smelling of some chemicals and sterility. At the door with the sign "Dr. Curt Connors. Laboratory of Regenerative Bionics," Gwen stopped, took a breath, and knocked.
The door opened almost immediately. He stood on the threshold. Dr. Connors. In real life, he looked even more impressive than in my imagination. Tall, fit, despite the missing arm. Intelligent, piercing eyes behind glasses carefully studied us. A slight, slightly tired but sincere smile played on his face.
"Ah, Gwendolyn! And her famous friends! Please!" he invited us in with a wide gesture. "Glad to finally meet you in person, young people! Peter Parker and John Smith, right? Gwen has been buzzing in my ears about your... non-standard ideas."
We stepped inside. The lab turned out to be exactly as I imagined it—the organized chaos of a genius. Equipment, terrariums, boards covered in formulas... But now all this faded into the background before the figure of the scientist himself.
"Hello, Dr. Connors," Peter muttered, nervously shaking his only hand.
"Hello, sir," I nodded, trying to look calm and respectful.
"Well then, make yourselves comfortable," Connors pointed us to a couple of lab stools at a large table. "Tea? Coffee? Or shall we get straight to business? I must admit, I stayed up all night thinking about your hypothesis about inhibitors. It's... it's bold. And possibly exactly what I need. Tell me! I'm all ears!"
Peter immediately perked up, as if shaking off the remnants of school drowsiness and awkwardness before his idol. His eyes behind his glasses lit up with the familiar fire of scientific excitement.
"Yes, Dr. Connors! The idea is not just to suppress the immune response, but to influence the gene expression itself!" he began quickly, gesturing so actively he nearly swept a rack of test tubes off the table.
"You see, if lizard DNA is integrated or even just actively transcribed alongside human DNA, there's a risk that its program will start... well, let's say, 'pulling the blanket over itself.' Especially considering that regeneration is, essentially, an accelerated and modified process of cell division and differentiation, very energy-consuming and potentially unstable. The genes responsible for tail regeneration in a lizard may be linked to other genes controlling, for example, metabolism, skin structure, or even... aggressive behavior!"
Connors listened, head slightly tilted, his only hand mechanically rubbing his chin. The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of deep concentration.
"And you propose?.." he prompted Peter.
"Use targeted RNA interference!" Peter blurted out.
"Create short interfering RNAs (siRNAs) complementary to the mRNAs of those lizard genes that are not needed for limb regeneration but can cause side effects. These siRNAs will bind to the 'enemy' mRNAs and initiate their degradation before translation! Thus, we allow only the necessary regeneration genes to work, and everything else is nipped in the bud!" He grabbed a marker and began quickly drawing a diagram of the RNA interference mechanism on the nearest board, accompanying it with rapid comments about RISC complexes and target specificity.
Connors walked to the board, his gaze fixed on Peter's scribbles.
"RNA interference... Yes, it's elegant. Very elegant," he muttered. "A pinpoint effect. But how to ensure the delivery of siRNA exactly to the right cells and at the right moment? And how to avoid off-target effects, the suppression of necessary human genes?"
"Here, a combination can be used!" I interjected, deciding to help Peter a bit and guide the thought in the "right" direction.
"For example, vector delivery of siRNA, possibly based on modified adeno-associated viruses that would be activated only under certain conditions—say, with an increase in the concentration of growth factors characteristic of regeneration. And for additional insurance—epigenetic control."
Connors turned sharply to me, his eyes narrowing. "Epigenetic control? You mean..."
"DNA methylation," I nodded, trying to look as if I were simply voicing a logical idea I'd read in a popular science magazine. "If certain sections of lizard DNA responsible for undesirable traits are 'marked' in advance with special methyl groups, this could reduce their expression, making them less 'readable' for the cellular machinery. It's like putting a 'lock' on unnecessary genes. The combination of RNA interference and methylation can provide a double guarantee of stability."
Connors froze, looking from me to Peter, then to his notes.
"Double guarantee... Vector delivery... Methylation..." he turned back to the board and began sketching new diagrams next to Peter's drawings.
"God... This is a completely new approach! We can do more than just 'patch holes'; we can build a whole system of molecular 'fuses'! This... this could work!" He turned back to us, and there was such excitement on his face that it seemed he might jump in place.
"Guys, do you... do you realize WHAT you've just proposed? This isn't just a solution to the stability problem! This could open the way to safe regenerative medicine as a whole! Not just limbs... Theoretically, damaged organs, nerve tissues could be regenerated... Diseases currently considered incurable could be treated! Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, multiple sclerosis, the consequences of strokes, spinal cord injuries... Heck, even some forms of cancer caused by genetic failures could be..."
He spoke quickly, breathlessly, his mind clearly having soared into the heights of medical breakthroughs. Peter listened to him with awe, Gwen with admiration. I, however... I listened and thought of something else. About how easily a brilliant mind can be carried away by a great goal, forgetting the risks. Especially when you have only one arm, and the dream of getting it back becomes almost an obsession.
"It all sounds amazing, Doctor," I cautiously inserted when he paused to catch his breath.
"But... such research requires huge resources. Funding, equipment... Oscorp, as far as I know, shut down many risky projects after... the incident. Are you working on a university grant?"
At this point, Gwen intervened, having just returned with a tray holding four cups of aromatic coffee. She placed them on the table, and I gratefully took mine. Caffeine was definitely needed after the nightly Gacha sessions and the morning emotional surge with 2B.
"Oh no, John," Gwen said, handing cups to Peter and Connors. "The university provides the lab and basic equipment, but the main funding for Dr. Connors' project doesn't come from here. A private investor is helping him. A very influential person who believes in his work."
"A private investor?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice sounding only slightly curious, though inside, everything tensed.
"Interesting. In our time, not many people are ready to invest in fundamental science with unclear commercial prospects. Is it one of the large foundations? Or..."
"No, not a foundation," Connors smiled, taking a sip of coffee. He looked perfectly calm talking about it.
"It's a personal initiative. A person sincerely interested in breakthroughs that can help people. Especially those who suffered defending our country. Veterans. My project is funded by Senator Stern."
Boom. My internal world collapsed. Senator Stern. A key Hydra figure in the US government, as I remembered from the movies. Hydra. Funding. Curt Connors. The Lizard. Why?!
I felt my hands turn cold, but my face remained impenetrable. Thanks to the agent's self-control. I took another sip of coffee to hide a second's confusion.
"Okay, no panic. Analysis," flashed through my mind. "Hydra and a regeneration serum... Why? Creating super-soldiers with regeneration? Unlikely, too unstable. Bio-weapons? Possible. An army of controlled Lizards? Nonsense... Or is it? Control over Connors himself? Using his genius for their own ends? Yes. That's more their style. They fund him, give him resources, allow him to work on his dream... and then, when he achieves success or makes a mistake and transforms, they'll get either a finished technology, or a unique biological weapon, or both. Or maybe they just need the existence of such technology as leverage? Or do they need Connors himself as a specialist for other, darker projects?"
Questions multiplied, but the answer was one—this was bad. Very bad. It meant that even if our inhibitors worked, Hydra wouldn't leave Connors alone. They would find a way to either steal the technology, or force him to work for them, or... eliminate him if he became a hindrance. The situation was an order of magnitude more complicated than I thought.
"Senator Stern?" I asked as neutrally as possible. "The one from the Armed Services Committee? I didn't know he was interested in bioengineering. Commendable."
"Oh yes, he's a very passionate person," Connors confirmed enthusiastically, not noticing my internal turmoil. "He calls regularly, asks about progress, promised any support... Thanks to him, I have access to equipment I could only dream of before! And to reagents... Some components for the serum would have been simply impossible to get without his connections."
"Connections... I bet," I thought grimly. "Hydra has connections everywhere."
"Okay, enough talk!" Connors firmly set down his cup. "Words are good, but science requires experiments! Since you're here, young geniuses, and your ideas are so... inspiring, why don't we test them right now? I just happen to have a batch of mice ready for the next stage. And the reagents to synthesize your... inhibitors... I think we can prepare a trial batch of modified serum today! How does that prospect sound? Want to participate in a real scientific breakthrough?"
Peter and Gwen looked at each other, their eyes shining.
"Of course!" they blurted out almost simultaneously.
"Well then, let's get to work!" Connors threw off his lab coat, remaining in a shirt with the sleeve of his only arm rolled up, and headed toward one of the workbenches cluttered with synthesis equipment.
"Gwendolyn, please prepare group 'Delta.' Twelve specimens. Peter, I'll need your help with calculating concentrations for the siRNA and selecting the optimal vector from our library. John..." he looked at me, "you, as the author of the concept, will be our main observer and... consultant on common sense? Sometimes we scientists lack it."
I chuckled. "I'll try, Doctor."
The next two hours flew by unnoticed. The lab filled with busy activity. Peter and Connors leaned over monitors and calculations, arguing about nucleotide sequences and transfection efficiency. Their dialogue was like a cipher to the uninitiated, but I caught the gist—they were indeed creating a working model of an inhibitor cocktail. Gwen, putting on gloves and a mask, carefully prepared the mice, checked the cages, and labeled the test tubes. I... I observed. Their work, the equipment, Connors himself. He worked with one hand with striking dexterity and concentration. His passion for science was obvious. But I also noticed how his gaze sometimes lingered on his empty sleeve, how his lips curled barely perceptibly. The dream of a second arm was his driving force. And his Achilles' heel.
Finally, the modified serum was ready. A few milliliters of clear liquid in a syringe. Connors took it with his only hand.
"Moment of truth," he said quietly, and tension sounded in his voice. "Group 'Delta.' Twelve mice with an amputated hind leg. To six mice, we will inject the new serum with inhibitors. To six—the control, without inhibitors. And we will observe."
He carefully but confidently gave injections to each mouse. Then they were placed in special cages with monitoring systems.
"Well, then," Connors wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Now all that's left is to wait. The first signs of regeneration should appear by tomorrow or the day after. And stability... clarity will come in three or four days. But..." he looked at me and Peter, "...theoretically, your idea is so logical that I'm almost certain of success. If we chose the targets and concentrations correctly... it should work."
"We hope so too, Doctor," Peter nodded.
"Yes, we'll keep our fingers crossed," Gwen added.
We stood by the cages for a while longer, watching the mice, which for now were behaving perfectly normally. The experiment was launched. Now we had to wait and hope that our "butterfly" in the form of the inhibitor idea wouldn't cause some unforeseen "hurricane."
While Connors was clearing away the equipment, I decided to ask the last, most important question. I approached him, trying to look as casual as possible.
"Doctor, may I ask one more question? Purely hypothetical, of course," I began cautiously. "You're striving for limb regeneration. It's a noble goal. But... as you said yourself, lizard genetics are aggressive. What if... what if the inhibitors turn out to be insufficiently effective? Or some unforeseen reaction occurs? What if, despite all the precautions, the serum recipient... well... transforms? Doesn't just regrow an arm, but... changes more significantly? Turns into... something else? Into a large, strong... lizard, for example?"
Connors froze, the syringe in his hand trembling. He slowly turned to me. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a strange expression—a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and... fear?
"Where... where do such thoughts come from, John?" he asked quietly, his voice tense. "We're talking about controlled regeneration, about a therapeutic effect..."
"I understand, Doctor. But science isn't just about successes, but also failures. And unforeseen consequences," I looked him straight in the eye, trying to maintain a calm but insistent tone.
"Any serious experiment should have safety protocols. A plan for the... worst-case scenario. What if you, Doctor? What if something goes wrong specifically with you when you decide to test the serum on yourself? And you will decide, am I right?" I saw from his eyes that I'd hit the mark.
"What then? Who will stop... what you might turn into? Do you have... an antidote? An emergency neutralization protocol? Some kind of fuse? Or are you just hoping for luck and our inhibitors?" I finished.
The questions hung in the air of the lab. Gwen and Peter, having heard the last part of the conversation, froze, looking with concern from me to Connors.
Dr. Connors looked away. He walked to the window, looking down at the bustling campus. His shoulders slumped. He suddenly looked very tired and... vulnerable.
"I... I've thought about it, John," he finally said hollowly, without turning around. "Of course, I've thought about it. The risk... it's always there. And it's great. But the dream... the dream to get my arm back, to become... whole again... it's stronger than fear." He paused.
"An antidote? Yes, I'm working on it. In parallel. Based on the same inhibitors, but with a different delivery and activation mechanism... So that the process can be quickly stopped or reversed if something goes wrong. But it... it's not ready yet. Far from completion. I... I hoped it wouldn't be needed. That your inhibitors... that they would work perfectly," he turned around, and in his eyes was a mixture of despair and hope.
"I believe in science, guys. I believe in reason. I believe we can control this power. We must. For the sake of all those it can help. But... yes, you're right. A Plan B is needed. And I... I will work on it even harder. I promise."
His words sounded sincere. He realized the risk. He was working on an antidote. That was good. But he was still obsessed with his dream. And Hydra was breathing down his neck. The situation remained extremely dangerous.
"Thanks for the honesty, Doctor," I nodded. "We believe in you. And we're ready to help however we can."
"Thanks, guys," he smiled weakly. "Your support... and your ideas... they help me a lot. Well, you should probably get going? I won't keep you any longer. Gwen, keep me posted about the mice. And... stop by again. Always glad for smart interlocutors."
We said our goodbyes and left the lab. In the corridor, Gwen and Peter pounced on me.
"John, why did you do that?" Gwen asked worriedly. "You scared him! Talk about monsters, lizards..."
"I had to ask, Gwen," I replied seriously. "This isn't a game. The stakes are too high. Better to discuss the worst-case scenario in advance than to face it later unprepared."
"But... Hydra?" Peter lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you think it's connected?"
"I don't think anything, Pete. I'm just gathering information," I replied evasively. "But yes, this... complicates things. Complicates things a lot. We need to be even more careful."
How does Peter know about Hydra? Simple. I told him about it after creating the suit.
We silently went down in the elevator and stepped outside. The evening air slightly cooled our heated heads. We learned a lot today. And understood a lot. The experiment was launched. The Goblin is preparing for his show. Hydra is weaving its nets. And we... we found ourselves in the very center of this storm.
So... first thing is to get back home. To 2B. And to the Gacha System. I still had 20 points left. And a feeling that the next pull would be decisive.