The private gym on the 30th floor of my building is empty at 5 AM. Perfect. I've spent the night alternating between research and restless pacing, my enhanced body refusing to tire despite being awake for nearly 24 hours straight. The spider bite has fundamentally altered my metabolism—I can feel my cells humming with energy that demands release.
I approach a bench press station, eyeing the weights skeptically. Before, Harry Osborn's body could probably handle 185, maybe 200 pounds with effort. Now? No idea.
I start conservative—225 pounds—and it feels like nothing. Like lifting an empty bar. I add more weight: 315, 405, 495. Still too easy. By the time I've loaded every plate available—a ridiculous 675 pounds—I'm barely feeling resistance.
"Jesus," I mutter, racking the weight and sitting up. I'm not even breathing hard.
The true test comes at the pull-up bar. I jump, grip the metal, and pull myself up effortlessly. Then again. And again. After fifty repetitions without fatigue, I try a different approach—hanging by one finger. My body dangles with perfect stability, the finger adhering to the bar without conscious effort.
I need to push further, find my actual limits.
The gym's walls are textured concrete—perfect for testing wall-crawling. I press my palm against the surface, then my fingers, feeling the microscopic connections form between my skin and the wall. When I lift my right foot, it sticks just as easily. Then my left. Soon I'm climbing horizontally across the ceiling, moving with an instinctive grace that feels completely natural despite its impossibility.
I drop silently to the floor, landing in a crouch that my body automatically adjusts to absorb the impact. My muscles and tendons have become impossibly resilient, like biological shock absorbers.
Next test: reflexes and agility.
I set up an improvised obstacle course using gym equipment, then time myself navigating it. Too slow. I try again, faster. Again. By the fifth attempt, I'm moving in a blur, vaulting, spinning, and flipping through the course with a gymnast's precision and a speed that would make Olympic athletes look like they're moving through molasses.
But the most interesting ability is the hardest to define—the warning buzz at the base of my skull. My spider-sense. I've felt it activate a few times, but I need to understand its limits and reliability.
I pile floor mats in the corner, then blindfold myself with a towel. Standing in the center of the gym, I spread my arms and wait. After about thirty seconds, the buzzing sensation spikes sharply to the right. I dive left instinctively, feeling something whisk past me—a medicine ball I'd balanced precariously on a weight rack, set to fall at an unpredictable moment.
I repeat the experiment with different objects from different directions. Each time, the spider-sense warns me seconds before impact. It's not quite mind-reading or future sight—more like a danger radar that bypasses conscious thought and speaks directly to my reflexes.
By 7 AM, I'm finally starting to feel the edges of fatigue. I've pushed my new body to extraordinary lengths, and while I haven't found hard limits, I have a much better understanding of what I'm capable of. Conservatively, I estimate:
- Strength: At least 10 tons, possibly more
- Speed: 3-4 times human maximum
- Reaction time: 40 times faster than average
- Wall-crawling: Works on any surface, fully controllable
- Spider-sense: Warns of immediate physical danger, works even when blindfolded
I shower in the gym's locker room, watching steam rise off my body as the hot water hits skin that's running several degrees warmer than normal human temperature. Another side effect of the enhanced metabolism.
Back in my apartment, I find Bernard preparing breakfast. The smell of bacon and eggs hits me from the elevator—another reminder of my heightened senses.
"Good morning, sir," he says, eyebrows rising slightly at my gym clothes. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, which is true enough. "Thought I'd work out some energy before the board meeting."
"Very good, sir. Your suit has been pressed and is hanging in your closet. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."
I nod my thanks and head to my room to change. The board meeting. Norman. Reality rushes back in—I'm not just a guy with new superpowers; I'm Harry Osborn, son of a soon-to-be supervillain, with a company to eventually claim and a heroic identity to forge.
The suit Bernard mentioned fits perfectly despite my physical changes—tailored recently enough to accommodate my slightly broader shoulders and more defined build. I examine myself in the mirror: Harry Osborn, heir to Oscorp. The face still feels like a mask I'm wearing, but I'm beginning to inhabit it more naturally.
As I adjust my tie, my thoughts drift to Peter Parker. In the original timeline, this would be his second day with powers. He'd be experiencing the same confusion, excitement, and fear I've been navigating. Instead, he's just a regular teenager looking forward to a quantum physics presentation with friends.
Have I stolen his destiny? Or merely shifted the trajectory of this universe in ways that might ultimately benefit everyone? The weight of that choice settles heavily on my shoulders.
A sharp knock at my door interrupts these thoughts.
"Mr. Osborn," Bernard calls, "your father is on the phone. He's quite insistent."
Great. First direct contact with Norman since arriving in this body.
I take the call in my study, steeling myself for the voice of the Green Goblin.
"Harry." Norman's voice is clipped, controlled, but with an underlying edge that raises the hair on my neck. "So good of you to finally acknowledge my calls."
"Sorry, Dad," I reply, the word feeling strange in my mouth. "I've been working on something important."
"More important than your responsibilities to this company?" The question is a razor wrapped in silk.
"Actually, related to the company. I've been reviewing our cross-species genetics project. I think it has more potential than we're currently exploring."
A pause. I've surprised him.
"Since when do you take an interest in Oscorp's research divisions?"
"Since I realized I've been wasting my potential," I say, the words coming easily because they align with my actual plans. "I want to be more involved. Really understand what we're doing. What you've built."
Another longer pause. I can almost hear the calculations running behind Norman's response.
"Well," he says finally, voice softening a fraction, "that's... unexpected. But welcome. We'll discuss it after the board meeting. You will be there?"
"I will."
"Good. 9 AM sharp. Don't embarrass me."
The line goes dead before I can respond. Charming guy, my new father.
I return to the dining room where Bernard has set out a breakfast that would feed a family of four—eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, toast. He's intuited my increased appetite without comment.
"Will you be requiring the car this morning, sir?" he asks as I devour the food.
"Yes, for the board meeting. But I'll find my own way home afterward. I have some errands to run."
Bernard nods, though something in his expression suggests concern. "If I may, sir... your father seemed particularly agitated this morning. More so than usual."
I pause mid-bite. "Did he say something to you?"
"Not directly. But I overheard him on the phone earlier when he called. He was speaking to someone else before demanding to talk to you. Something about 'accelerated trials' and 'performance enhancements.' He sounded... not himself."
The Goblin formula trials. He's already testing it on himself.
"Thanks for letting me know," I say, mind racing. "I'll keep an eye on him today."
Bernard hesitates, then adds: "Sir, if I might speak freely... your father has not been well for some time. His behavior has become increasingly erratic. The household staff at the manor have noticed changes—mood swings, talking to himself, working through the night in his laboratory."
"Are you worried about him, Bernard?"
"I'm worried about what he might do," Bernard says carefully. "To himself. Or to others."
The unspoken question hangs between us: What are you going to do about it?
I consider my options. In the original Spider-Man story, Norman's transformation into the Green Goblin leads to violence, death, and eventually his own destruction. If I could prevent that—save Norman from himself—it would alter the trajectory of this universe significantly.
"I'll talk to him," I promise. "After I understand better what's happening."
An hour later, my driver pulls up to Oscorp Tower. The morning sun glints off its glass facade, transforming the building into a gleaming monument to scientific achievement and corporate might. Employees stream through the main entrance, scientists and executives beginning another day of work, unaware of the darkness growing at the company's heart.
The elevator ride to the executive floor gives me time to center myself. I'm about to face not just Norman, but the entire Oscorp board—people with power, influence, and their own agendas. As Harry Osborn, I need to present a specific image: the maturing heir, taking a newfound interest in his birthright, worthy of their consideration but not yet a threat.
The boardroom doors are imposing—dark wood with the Oscorp logo embedded in polished steel. I take a deep breath, straighten my tie, and enter.
Twelve faces turn toward me. At the head of the long table sits Norman Osborn, my "father," looking exactly like Willem Dafoe but with better hair. His expression shifts from irritation to practiced neutrality as he sees me.
"Ah, Harry. Right on time. Please, take a seat."
I slide into an empty chair halfway down the table, nodding politely to the board members I recognize from my research. The meeting proceeds with typical corporate formality—financial reports, R&D updates, market projections. I listen attentively, noting which projects are being emphasized and which glossed over.
Norman dominates the room with a cold charisma that's both impressive and unsettling. He's brilliant, articulate, and completely focused—no obvious signs of the mental deterioration Bernard described. But there's something in his eyes when he thinks no one is watching—a feverish intensity that doesn't belong in a corporate boardroom.
"And now," Norman says, reaching the final agenda item, "our military contracts division. Dr. Stromm, if you would."
A thin, nervous-looking man stands, shuffling papers. "Thank you, Mr. Osborn. As you know, we've been developing the performance enhancement serum under Project GREEN for the past eighteen months. Initial results were promising, but recent animal trials have shown significant side effects, including aggressive behavior and neurological abnormalities."
Norman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"In my professional opinion," Dr. Stromm continues, "we should delay human trials until we can address these issues. The current formula is simply too unstable."
"And in my professional opinion," Norman cuts in, voice dangerously soft, "we cannot afford delays. Stark Industries unveiled their latest weapons platform last week. We're falling behind."
"But sir, the psychological side effects—"
"Can be managed," Norman snaps. "With proper monitoring and adjustment protocols."
Dr. Stromm looks like he wants to object further but thinks better of it. "As you wish, Mr. Osborn."
The meeting concludes shortly after, with Norman asking me to stay behind. As the board members file out, several giving me curious looks, I prepare for my first real conversation with the man who doesn't know he's destined to become the Green Goblin.
When we're alone, Norman's demeanor shifts—the corporate mask slipping to reveal something harder, more intense.
"So," he says, leaning against the table, "you've suddenly developed an interest in cross-species genetics. Why?"
Direct question. Direct answer.
"I think it represents the future of Oscorp," I reply. "The applications go beyond what we're currently exploring—medical treatments, performance enhancement, adaptive materials."
Norman studies me like I'm a lab specimen showing unexpected results. "And what prompted this epiphany? Last week you were more interested in clubs than corporate strategy."
I meet his gaze steadily. "Let's just say I had a wake-up call. Realized it was time to start taking my future seriously."
A thin smile crosses his face. "Well, better late than never. Though I admit, I'm skeptical of this sudden transformation."
"Give me a chance to prove it's real," I say. "Let me work with the research team. Learn the business from the ground up."
Norman considers this, drumming his fingers on the table. The movement is slightly too rapid, too intense—another hint of the changes happening beneath his composed exterior.
"Fine," he says finally. "But not cross-species genetics. Not yet. Start with something simpler. Materials science division. They're working on adaptive fabrics for military applications. Report directly to me on what you learn."
Perfect. Exactly what I need for my Batman Beyond suit.
"Thank you," I say, injecting genuine gratitude into my voice. "I won't disappoint you."
Norman's expression hardens. "See that you don't. I've had enough disappointment from you to last a lifetime."
The words are meant to sting, to establish dominance. But they're not my history, not my pain. I can see them for what they are—the tactics of a man who leads through fear and control.
As I turn to leave, Norman adds: "Oh, and Harry? Don't poke around in projects that don't concern you. Especially Dr. Stromm's work. Some things are beyond your current... capabilities to understand."
The warning is clear. Stay away from the Goblin formula research.
Which, of course, only confirms it's exactly where I need to look.
I exit Oscorp Tower into the bright midday sun, mind racing with plans. Norman has given me access to materials research—a critical component for my Batman Beyond suit. Meanwhile, I need to secretly investigate the GREEN project and find out how far Norman's self-experimentation has progressed.
My phone buzzes with a text from MJ: "Still on for tonight? Peter's excited you're coming. Me too."
I smile, typing back a confirmation. Tonight, I'll connect with Peter and MJ. Tomorrow, I begin my work at Oscorp.
I have power now. Real, tangible power. And with it comes the responsibility to use it wisely.
Uncle Ben's words, meant for Peter Parker, echo in my mind as I walk through the crowded streets of New York.
With great power comes great responsibility.
In this case, the responsibility to change fate itself.