The incubation chamber was essentially a silk farm, draped in layers of high-tensile webbing produced by the genetically modified arachnids.
Toby looked around, a cold sneer playing on his lips.
In his eyes, Norman Osborn was a fool. To eliminate the spiders' creator, Richard Parker, before cracking the genetic code was the act of a man driven senile by his own hereditary illness. Leaving these spiders at OsCorp was a waste of divine potential.
Furthermore, OsCorp had no right to own the fruits of the Parker family's genius.
A cold light flashed in Toby's eyes. He pressed his left hand over his right wrist. With a faint thwip, a dozen strands of silk—thinner and more precise than his usual combat webbing—shot out, enveloping twelve specific super-spiders.
With a sharp tug, Toby reeled them in. Mid-air, the silk wrapped around the spiders, forming cocoons no larger than marbles. Small gaps in the weave ensured the specimens wouldn't suffocate. Toby tucked the silk spheres into the deep pockets of his overcoat.
Next, he fired several more strands, sealing the fire suppression nozzles on the ceiling.
Finally, he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a specialized incendiary puck—a custom job with a non-metallic casing that could bypass any security scanner. He pulled the pin with a metallic clink.
He tossed the device into the center of the web-choked room.
The white-hot magnesium flare ignited the silk instantly. The fire raced along the webbing like a fuse, consuming the remaining hundreds of spiders in a flash of heat. As the high-pitched shriek of burning chitin filled the air, Toby turned his back and walked out.
Osborn didn't deserve these spiders, and Toby wouldn't let anyone else have them. The world needed a Spider-Man, but it didn't need an army of them. As far as he was concerned, every super-spider in existence—save for the ones in his pocket—needed to burn.
As he stepped back into the hallway, the piercing scream of the OsCorp fire alarm finally erupted.
Because he had blocked the sprinklers, the fire raged unchecked. By the time it consumed the lab, it was already licking at the structural supports of the floor. Toby didn't care. He drifted through the panicking crowds, a ghost in the chaos.
He spotted Peter ahead, being ushered out by a frantic Dr. Connors. Moving with a speed no human eye could track, Toby slipped behind his cousin. He pulled a single spider from its cocoon and dropped it down the back of Peter's collar.
Then, he vanished again, reappearing beside Gwen. She was looking around wildly for him. Toby slid an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. His massive frame acted like a prow, easily parting the sea of panicked employees as he led her out.
The moment Gwen caught the faint, woodsy scent of Toby's cologne, her panic evaporated. She leaned into his broad chest, letting him guide her.
"Guide" was an understatement. Because of the height difference, Toby simply tightened his grip on her waist and lifted her slightly; her feet barely brushed the ground as he carried her through the exit.
By the time they reached the sidewalk, Gwen was practically "drunk" on his presence—flushed, dizzy, and unwilling to let go of his arm.
Her reverie was broken by the sight of someone in much worse shape.
Peter was crouched on the pavement, clutching his head. Beside him, Dr. Connors was hovering, his face a mask of anxiety. Gwen snapped out of her "catnip" haze and pulled Toby toward them.
"Oh my god! Doctor, what happened to Peter?" Gwen cried, looking at Peter's feverish face.
Connors looked helpless. "I don't know! We were just starting the algorithm test when the alarm went off. We evacuated with everyone else, but halfway through the crowd, Peter cried out. Now he's dizzy and burning up. I'm about to call an ambulance."
Toby stepped in, his hand stopping Connors from dialing. He hooked an arm under Peter's shoulders and lifted the boy effortlessly.
"The streets are a mess," Toby said, his voice calm and commanding. "EMTs won't get through this gridlock for an hour. I've got my car right there. I'll take him to the hospital myself. Don't worry."
Seeing Toby's steady composure, Connors and Gwen both let out a sigh of relief. Since Toby's Audi R8 was a strict two-seater, they couldn't go with him. They could only watch as Toby loaded the semi-conscious Peter into the low-slung sports car.
"Let us know the moment he's stable!" Gwen shouted as the R8 roared to life.
Toby gave a sharp nod and sped off. But he didn't head for the hospital. He steered the Audi toward Queens.
He knew Peter wasn't "sick." His DNA was currently being rewritten, a violent genetic restructuring that no ordinary doctor could handle—or should be allowed to see. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a gift.
When he arrived home, the driveway was empty. No sign of Ben's new truck.
Good, Toby thought. Dad's probably taking Mom for a long drive. They might not be back until morning.
He carried Peter up to his room, tucked him into bed, and closed the door. The metamorphosis had begun. There was nothing left to do but wait for the boy to wake up as something more than human.
Sure enough, his phone buzzed an hour later. It was a text from May: Ben's enjoying the new truck too much! We're staying at a bed and breakfast upstate for the night. Dinner's in the fridge for you and Peter. See you tomorrow!
Toby looked at the phone and gave a dry chuckle. I just hope they don't bring back a new little brother for me at their age.
In this universe, Ben and May weren't the elderly couple from the old movies. They were in their early fifties—closer to the "Aunt May" of the later films. Energetic, healthy, and thanks to the expensive supplements Toby had been buying them for two years, they looked a decade younger.
Toby headed down to his basement gym. He placed the remaining super-spiders into a pre-prepared terrarium and then went to the kitchen.
For the first time in a week, he prepared himself a meal that didn't taste like shoe leather. Tonight, his taste buds were finally free.