The 87th floor of Oscorp Tower hums with activity—white-coated scientists hurrying between workstations, the soft beeping of lab equipment, the occasional announcement over the PA system. Nobody gives me a second glance as I stride through the main corridor, projecting the confidence of someone who belongs here. Amazing what a designer suit and the Osborn name can do.
I check the building directory on my phone. The Cross-Species Genetics lab occupies the northeast section of the floor—a sprawling, glass-walled space where the school tour will be heading shortly. I make my way there, rehearsing what I'll say if anyone questions my presence.
As it turns out, I don't need an excuse. The lab director—a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun—practically trips over herself when she sees me.
"Mr. Osborn! What an unexpected pleasure." Her name badge reads Dr. Lowell. "We weren't informed you'd be visiting today."
"Last-minute decision," I say smoothly. "My father mentioned the school tour, and I thought I'd observe. See how our outreach program is going."
Dr. Lowell's expression flickers—surprise, then calculation. I can practically see her thinking: is this an opportunity or a threat? Is the boss's son here to report back to daddy, or is this a genuine interest?
"Of course, we're delighted to have you." She gestures toward an office overlooking the main lab. "Would you like to observe from there? It offers the best view of the demonstration area."
"Actually, I was hoping to get a closer look at the spider specimens before the students arrive. I've been reviewing the project files, and I'm particularly interested in the genetic modifications."
Now she looks genuinely surprised—and slightly suspicious. Harry Osborn showing interest in actual science must be out of character.
"Certainly," she says after a moment's hesitation. "Though I should mention that one of our specimens is currently unaccounted for. A minor incident that we're addressing."
"Unaccounted for?" I feign concern. "You mean loose in the building?"
"Oh no, nothing like that," she assures me quickly. "Most likely it's still in its containment area but has moved to a section not visible from the exterior. The specimens are quite docile unless directly threatened."
Except for the one that's about to change the course of superhero history.
Dr. Lowell leads me through the lab to a circular glass display case in the center of the room. Inside, fifteen genetically modified spiders hang in individual webs. They're larger than normal house spiders but not grotesquely so—about the size of a half-dollar. Their bodies are an iridescent blue-black with subtle red markings.
"Magnificent, aren't they?" Dr. Lowell says with unmistakable pride. "Each one has been modified with genetic material from multiple spider species, plus some... proprietary additions."
"Radiation treatment?" I ask, remembering the comics.
She looks startled. "Yes, actually. How did you know?"
I shrug. "Lucky guess. It's a common method for activating certain genetic expressions." Thank you, decade of reading superhero comics and watching sci-fi movies.
Dr. Lowell launches into a detailed explanation of the project—how they've combined traits from multiple spider species to create organisms with unprecedented abilities. Enhanced strength relative to size, adhesive capabilities, resistance to radiation and toxins.
"And what's the practical application?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Medical, primarily. Their silk has properties that could revolutionize wound treatment. And their venom contains compounds with potential applications for pain management, anticoagulation..." She catches herself, perhaps remembering she's talking to the boss's son, not a fellow scientist. "The possibilities are quite extensive, Mr. Osborn."
I nod, pretending to examine the specimens while actually scanning the ceiling and walls around the display case. The missing spider is up there somewhere, preparing to drop onto Peter Parker—or, if my plan works, onto me.
"The tour group will be arriving momentarily," Dr. Lowell says, checking her watch. "Would you like me to introduce you?"
"No need," I reply. "I'll just observe. Pretend I'm not even here."
She seems relieved. Less complication for her presentation.
"As you wish. Please feel free to position yourself wherever you'd like. The students will gather around the display case after my introduction."
Perfect.
As Dr. Lowell walks away to prepare for the tour, I circle the spider display, trying to spot the missing arachnid. There—a nearly invisible strand of silk descending from a vent directly above the east side of the case. That's where I need to be standing when Peter comes through.
Right on cue, the elevator chimes, and the tour group enters the lab. Twenty or so teenagers led by their teacher and an Oscorp guide. They look exactly like what they are—high school students on a field trip, alternately bored and curious. Peter Parker trails near the back, camera in hand, eyes wide behind his glasses as he takes in the high-tech surroundings.
I position myself casually near the spider display, phone in hand as if checking emails, but actually ready to make my move. The tour guide gives a rehearsed introduction to Oscorp's educational initiatives, then hands off to Dr. Lowell for the scientific presentation.
As the students gather around, I maneuver carefully, keeping track of Peter's position. He's drifting toward the exact spot where the spider is dangling. I need to intercept—now.
"Oh, sorry," I say, deliberately bumping into a student to create a small commotion, using the distraction to slide into position directly beneath the descending spider. I feel a momentary twinge of guilt for manipulating events, for altering Peter's destiny. But it's too late for second thoughts.
Dr. Lowell is explaining the genetic modifications now, the students clustered around the display. Peter is a few feet away, raising his camera to take photos. I shift slightly, ensuring I'm directly beneath the silk strand.
Then I feel it—the lightest touch on the back of my neck, followed by a sharp, burning sting.
I have to force myself not to react, not to slap at the site of the bite. Instead, I calmly raise my hand to my neck as if scratching an itch, feeling the small body of the spider. I brush it away discreetly, watching it fall to the floor where it scuttles under the display case.
The bite burns like fire, much more painful than I expected. My vision blurs momentarily, and I have to steady myself against the display case. No one seems to notice—all eyes are on Dr. Lowell as she activates a holographic display showing the spiders' DNA structure.
I need to get out of here before the effects worsen. I've seen enough movies to know what comes next—fever, disorientation, possibly passing out. Not something I want to happen in the middle of Oscorp's lab.
Quietly, I back away from the group and make for the exit. Peter glances my way as I leave—a curious look, perhaps wondering why Harry Osborn was slumming it at a high school tour. If only he knew.
By the time I reach the elevator, my skin feels hypersensitive, every brush of my clothing sending uncomfortable signals to my brain. The bite on my neck throbs in time with my accelerating heartbeat. I'm sweating despite the building's perfect climate control.
The elevator seems to take forever, but finally, I'm in the lobby, moving as normally as I can manage toward the exit. I make it to the street and hail a cab, giving the driver my address in a voice that sounds strained even to my own ears.
"You okay, buddy?" the driver asks, eyeing me in the rear-view mirror.
"Fine," I mutter. "Just need to get home."
The city blurs past the windows as the cab navigates midday traffic. My condition deteriorates rapidly—muscle cramps seizing my limbs, fever making me alternate between burning hot and icy cold. The spider venom is racing through my system, rewriting my DNA with every passing second.
By some miracle, I make it into my building and up to my apartment without collapsing. Bernard isn't around—small favors—and I stagger to my bedroom, shedding my jacket and tie as I go.
The pain hits in earnest then—a full-body agony that feels like my muscles are tearing themselves apart and reforming. I bite down on a pillow to muffle my screams, my back arching off the bed as another wave crashes through me.
This is so much worse than they showed in the movies. So much more violent. My body is being unmade and remade at the molecular level. I claw at the sheets, vision tunneling as consciousness threatens to slip away.
Don't pass out, I tell myself desperately. You need to monitor this. Need to stay aware.
But it's a losing battle. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is the ceiling of Harry Osborn's bedroom, spinning like a carnival ride above me.
I dream of falling through endless webs, of voices speaking in languages I almost understand, of bodies breaking and mending, over and over in endless cycles.
And then, nothing.
.....
...
...
..
.
I wake to darkness and the disorienting sensation that something fundamental has changed. The room is pitch black—night has fallen while I was unconscious—but I can see everything with perfect clarity. Every texture of the ceiling, every thread in the bedspread, dust motes floating in the air.
My hearing, too, has transformed. I can detect Bernard moving in the kitchen down the hall, the soft clink of utensils, his steady breathing. Beyond that, the neighbors above—their television playing what sounds like a game show. Below, someone playing piano. Outside, traffic on the street eighty floors down.
I sit up carefully, expecting pain, but my body feels... incredible. Like I've shed a restrictive suit I never knew I was wearing. Every muscle responds with effortless precision. I hold up my hand, flexing the fingers, marveling at the absence of the slight tremor I'd had since breaking my wrist playing hockey in eighth grade—a minor imperfection erased along with all the others.
The bite on my neck is gone, healed without a trace. I move to the bathroom and switch on the light, half-expecting to see a transformed face in the mirror—but it's still Harry Osborn looking back at me. Same face, same hair. The changes are internal, invisible to the casual observer.
But they're there. I can feel them.
On impulse, I press my fingertips to the bathroom wall—and they stick. A thrill runs through me as I slowly lift my palm to the tile, then my other hand. I crawl upward, defying gravity, until I'm hanging from the ceiling, looking down at the bathroom floor with a giddy sense of unreality.
"Holy shit," I whisper. "It worked."
A soft knock at the bedroom door startles me so badly I lose my grip, falling—but instead of crashing to the floor, my body reacts instinctively. I twist midair, landing in a perfect crouch on the bathroom counter, balanced on my fingertips like a gymnast.
"Mr. Osborn?" Bernard calls through the door. "Are you alright? You've been asleep for nearly ten hours."
I clear my throat, trying to sound normal. "Fine, Bernard. Just... tired. I think I'm coming down with something."
"Shall I call the doctor?"
"No! No doctors." The last thing I need is medical tests revealing spider DNA in my system. "I just need rest. And maybe some food?"
A pause, then: "I'll prepare something light and leave it outside your door."
"Thanks, Bernard. And, uh, I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the night."
"Very good, sir."
I listen to his footsteps retreating down the hall, marveling at how clearly I can track his movement through the apartment. Every sense is dialed up to eleven. It's overwhelming but exhilarating.
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, taking stock of my new reality. I've done it. I've intercepted the spider bite meant for Peter Parker. I have Spider-Man's powers.
But unlike Peter, I won't be improvising my way through this. I have knowledge of what's coming—the Chitauri invasion, Ultron, Thanos—and resources Peter never had. I can prepare, plan, build.
I grab my laptop and open a new document, fingers flying across the keyboard with new dexterity as I outline what I'll need: a suit that enhances rather than just contains my powers, an underground base of operations, technology that bridges the gap between Oscorp's current capabilities and what I know is possible in this universe.
Batman Beyond.....
The high-tech, futuristic evolution of the Dark Knight—has always been my favorite superhero concept. With spider powers and Oscorp's resources, I can make that vision real. Not just a man in a bat costume, but something more—a symbol of justice with the abilities to back it up.
By dawn, I have the beginnings of a plan.
Harry Osborn might be the name I answer to now, but soon, this city—this world—will know me as something else entirely.
Something beyond what anyone here has seen before.