Two weeks after the Thor incident and I'm losing track of my life outside the suit. Every day follows the same pattern: train for three hours at dawn, run Oscorp until eight at night, then Batman until sunrise. Sleep? Optional. Social life? Becoming a distant memory.
I've ghosted Peter and MJ twice this week already. Yesterday's text from MJ was just a middle finger emoji. Fair enough.
But what choice do I have? HYDRA's building weapons specifically for killing enhanced individuals. Loki's coming, then the Chitauri, then fucking Thanos. I don't have the luxury of balance anymore. I need every advantage possible if Batman's going to make a difference when the real threats arrive.
Which brings me to tonight's target: Dr. Wilfred Nagel.
I've spent the past week tracking him through a web of CIA security protocols and HYDRA double-blinds. The man is a ghost in the intelligence community, but I had one advantage none of the intelligence agencies have: foreknowledge of who he is and what he creates.
In the timeline I remember, Nagel gets point blank domed in Madripoor after recreating the Super Soldier Serum for the Power Broker. But that's years from now, post-Snap. Currently, he's splitting his time between CIA black sites and secret HYDRA facilities, quietly perfecting his version of Erskine's miracle formula.
Tonight, he's working late in a CIA lab in Virginia that doesn't officially exist. The lab where he keeps his most promising prototypes.
The Batplane cuts through clouds at 38,000 feet, running silent with all stealth systems engaged. Below us, the Virginia countryside rolls by in darkness, occasionally broken by the lights of small towns.
"Five minutes to drop zone, sir," Bernard's voice comes through my cowl. He's running support from the Cave tonight—not just because this op requires remote coordination, but because we both know what I'm planning. And what I'll need afterward.
"Any change in the security patrols?"
"None detected. Three two-man teams, rotating on fifteen-minute intervals. The southeast approach remains optimal."
I double-check the infiltration gear secured to my suit. "And our friend Dr. Nagel?"
"Still in his lab. Thermal imaging shows consistent activity for the past three hours."
Perfect. Working late means fewer witnesses.
"One question before I drop, Bernard." I adjust the oxygen mixture on my rebreather. "If you had any reservations about this operation, you'd tell me, right?"
A brief pause. "I believe my role is to support your mission, sir, not question it."
"That's not what I asked."
Another pause. "If I genuinely believed you were making a catastrophic error, yes, I would voice my concern. However, given the threats you've described and the evidence we've gathered regarding HYDRA's activities... extraordinary circumstances may require extraordinary measures."
Translation: he doesn't fully approve, but he understands why I'm doing this.
"Thank you for your honesty." I move to the drop hatch. "Maintain comms silence unless emergency protocols are triggered. I'll signal when extraction is needed."
The hatch opens beneath me, and I fall into the night. The suit's stealth systems adapt to the surrounding darkness, bending light around me as I plummet toward earth. At 500 feet, I deploy the wing extensions, transitioning from free-fall to controlled glide.
The CIA black site comes into view—a nondescript facility disguised as a pharmaceutical research center, surrounded by three layers of security that would be impressive against conventional infiltration.
But I'm anything but conventional.
I land silently on the facility's roof, absorbing the impact without effort. The security system is state-of-the-art—motion sensors, infrared detection, weight-sensitive panels—all feeding into a centralized monitoring station.
With practiced precision, I deploy a specialized device that interfaces with their security network. Within 30 seconds, I have access to their entire system. Another 45 seconds and I've created a loop in their surveillance feed, rendering me effectively invisible to electronic monitoring.
Physical security is another matter. I track guard movements through my heads-up display, timing my approach to their blind spots. Even with my enhanced abilities, getting captured would complicate things unnecessarily.
I access the building through a maintenance shaft, moving silently through the ventilation system until I reach the section housing Nagel's lab. Through a vent, I observe him working alone, hunched over equipment that definitely isn't standard CIA issue. HYDRA's investment in his research is evident in the specialized equipment surrounding him.
Nagel is focused entirely on his work—a slender man with thinning hair and the intense concentration of someone who has forgotten the world outside his research exists. Perfect.
I drop silently into the lab behind him. He doesn't notice my presence until I speak.
"Dr. Nagel."
He jumps, spinning around with wide eyes that grow even wider when he sees Batman standing in his supposedly secure lab.
"What—how did you—" He reaches for an alarm button.
My hand closes around his wrist before he can make contact, applying just enough pressure to communicate that resistance would be unwise.
"The Winter Soldier Program," I say, my voice modulated through the suit's systems. "You're recreating Erskine's serum for HYDRA."
All color drains from his face. "I don't know what you're talking about. I work for the government."
"You work for both. And right now, you're going to work for me."
His eyes dart toward the door, calculating chances of escape or rescue. Zero on both counts.
"What do you want?" Fear has replaced denial now.
"Your serum. The latest viable prototype."
He almost laughs, hysteria bubbling beneath the surface. "That's insane. Even if such a thing existed, it would be impossible to—"
I release his wrist and activate a display on my gauntlet, projecting his research notes onto the wall—notes stolen from HYDRA's secure servers during previous operations.
"Page 217, paragraph three: 'Subject shows 300% increase in cellular regeneration with minimal rejection symptoms.' Page 342: 'Version 7.6 demonstrates stable integration with existing genetic markers.'" I turn off the projection. "Shall I continue?"
Nagel stares at me, professional fear now replacing personal terror. "How did you get that information?"
"The same way I got into this facility. The same way I'll ensure your other employers learn about your divided loyalties if you don't cooperate."
"They'll kill me."
"They'll try," I correct him. "But that becomes a concern only if you refuse to help me. Right now, I'm your immediate problem."
He slumps slightly, the fight leaving him. "What specifically do you want?"
"Three doses of your most stable version. And detailed documentation of administration protocols."
"For what purpose?" A scientist's curiosity momentarily overcoming his fear.
"Does it matter?"
He studies me for a long moment. "You're enhanced already. I can tell from your movement patterns. The serum could interact unpredictably with existing modifications."
Smart man. "I'm aware of the risks."
He moves to a locked cabinet, entering a complex sequence on a keypad. "You understand I'm giving you an unfinished product. It's vastly improved from the Winter Soldier version, but still not perfected."
"What are the limitations?"
"Compared to the original Erskine formula? Less dramatic physical transformation. The body accepts the changes more readily, but the upper limits are correspondingly lower. Perhaps 50% of what Rogers achieved, though still far beyond human norms."
The cabinet opens, revealing a temperature-controlled storage unit containing several vials of clear blue liquid.
"These are samples from version 8.3," he explains, carefully removing three vials. "Our most stable iteration. The enhancement process is less traumatic than previous versions, though still... intense."
I take the vials, securing them in a specialized compartment on my utility belt. "The administration protocol?"
He hesitates. "It's not just injection. There's a specific sequence of catalyzing agents, followed by controlled electromagnetic stimulation to activate the serum once it's been introduced to the bloodstream."
"Show me."
For the next twenty minutes, Nagel details the precise procedure required for successful implementation. I record everything, committing the critical elements to memory while the suit's systems capture the technical specifications.
When he finishes, I verify the information against what I already know about Erskine's original process. It checks out.
"What happens to me now?" Nagel asks, fear returning now that his scientific explanation is complete.
"You continue your work. You tell no one about this interaction." I step closer, letting him feel the full intimidation factor of the suit. "And you understand that I now have enough evidence to destroy you with either of your employers. Cross me, and both the CIA and HYDRA will receive comprehensive dossiers on your activities for the other."
He swallows hard. "And if I cooperate?"
"Then maybe someday I'll help you escape when HYDRA eventually decides you're a liability." Not a promise I intend to keep, but a motivation for his continued silence.
I fire a tranquilizer dart into his neck before he can respond. He'll wake in an hour with no evidence of my presence except his missing serum and the nagging fear that Batman could return at any moment.
The extraction goes as smoothly as the infiltration. The Batplane retrieves me from the designated pickup point, and we're halfway back to New York before the facility's security even notices Nagel unconscious in his lab.
"Mission successful?" Bernard asks as I secure the serum vials in the plane's refrigerated safe.
"Completely. Prepare the medical bay for my return. We begin immediately."
"Sir, if I may... perhaps a more thorough analysis of the serum's properties before—"
"Every day we wait is another day HYDRA advances their plans," I cut him off. "The serum is as ready as it's going to get, and I need every advantage possible."
Bernard falls silent, but his disapproval radiates through the comm system. He's right to be cautious, of course. Combining an experimental super-soldier serum with my already spider-enhanced physiology is objectively reckless.
But then, nothing about my situation—dying in one universe only to awaken in another with foreknowledge of apocalyptic events—suggests caution is the appropriate response.
Back at the Cave, Bernard has prepared the medical bay exactly to Nagel's specifications. The administration apparatus looks medieval—a reinforced chair with restraints, surrounded by equipment that would make Frankenstein's laboratory seem understated.
"The electromagnetic calibration is complete," Bernard reports, his voice clinically professional despite his obvious concern. "I've prepared the catalyzing agents according to Dr. Nagel's formula. However, I must again register my recommendation that we conduct additional testing before proceeding."
I'm already stripping off the Batsuit, down to the compression garments worn underneath. "Recommendation noted. Let's begin."
The initial injection burns like acid in my veins. I grit my teeth against the pain, refusing the mouth guard Bernard offers. The second injection—the catalyzing agent—is worse, like liquid nitrogen replacing my blood. My enhanced physiology fights the foreign substance, accelerated healing battling what my body perceives as a toxin.
"Vital signs are destabilizing," Bernard reports, monitoring the medical displays. "Heart rate 210 and climbing. Temperature 103.5 degrees."
"Continue the sequence," I manage through clenched teeth.
The final stage—electromagnetic stimulation to activate the serum now saturating my cellular structure—crosses the threshold from pain to agony. Every nerve ending fires simultaneously. My muscles spasm against the restraints, threatening to snap the reinforced steel.
I've been shot, stabbed, burned, and beaten in both my lives. Nothing compares to this. This is being unmade and remade at the cellular level, my DNA rewriting itself in real-time.
I don't remember screaming, but my throat is raw afterward. I don't remember Bernard administering emergency counteragents when my heart stopped for eight seconds, but the empty syringes tell their own story.
What I do remember is the moment everything changed—when the pain suddenly vanished, replaced by a clarity and power unlike anything I've experienced before. My senses, already enhanced by the spider bite, expanded exponentially. My awareness of my body, of every muscle fiber and nerve ending, became hyper-precise.
When I finally regained full consciousness, four hours had passed. I was still secured to the chair, Bernard watching me with poorly concealed concern.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
My voice, when I find it, sounds deeper than before. "Release the restraints."
"Perhaps we should run some tests first to ensure—"
"Bernard. The restraints."
He complies reluctantly, standing ready with what I assume is a powerful sedative should I prove unstable. Unnecessary. Despite the trauma my body has just endured, my mind is remarkably clear.
I stand slowly, acutely aware of how different my body feels. More... present. More capable. Like upgrading from standard definition to 8K ultra-high definition.
"How do you feel?" Bernard asks cautiously.
"Different. Better." I flex my hands, watching the interplay of muscles beneath the skin. "Stronger."
The medical scanner confirms what I already sense: dramatically enhanced musculature density, improved neural transmission speed, optimized cellular efficiency. The changes aren't as visually dramatic as Steve Rogers' transformation—I was already in peak physical condition from the spider bite—but the internal improvements are substantial.
I've gained perhaps an inch in height, and my physique has become more defined, but nothing that can't be explained away as intensive training in Harry Osborn's public life.
"The preliminary readings are... remarkable," Bernard acknowledges, reviewing the data. "Particularly the integration with your existing enhancements. The spider-derived abilities appear to have been amplified rather than suppressed."
I move to the training area, testing my new capabilities against the Cave's specialized equipment. Weight that previously required effort now feels insignificant. Reaction times that were already superhuman have improved by approximately 40%. Even my wall-climbing ability has been enhanced, the microscopic hairs that allow adhesion now stronger and more controllable.
"I believe congratulations are in order, sir," Bernard says dryly as I complete a series of physical tests. "You appear to have successfully created a spider-soldier hybrid."
I can't help but smile at his description. "That was exactly the plan."
"And the next phase of this plan?"
I walk to where the Batsuit stands in its case, already mentally calculating the necessary adjustments to accommodate my slightly altered physique.
"Tonight, we test these enhancements in the field. I've been saving a special target for this occasion."
"May I inquire as to the identity of this target?"
"Wilson Fisk."
Bernard's eyebrow raises slightly. "The businessman? I was unaware he had connections to HYDRA."
"He doesn't, directly. But Fisk controls half the criminal operations in New York. His network will have information on HYDRA's urban supply chains and recruitment." I begin suiting up, noting how the armor that once felt substantive now seems almost weightless. "More importantly, he thinks he's a cancer that thinks he's untouchable. I'm going to correct that misapprehension."
_______________________________
Three hours later, I'm perched on a rooftop opposite Fisk Tower, watching through specialized optics as the Kingpin of Crime concludes a meeting with his lieutenants. My new body barely registers fatigue anymore—another perk of the serum. Despite being turned inside out by the enhancement process just hours ago, I feel sharp as a razor.
Maybe crackheads were onto something... anyways.
Fisk is exactly how I remember from Netflix—a fucking mountain in an expensive suit. The way he moves, the way his men defer to him, all screams predator. His public face is all philanthropy and business innovation, but I know what he really is. A butcher who's built his empire on broken bodies.
I wait for his goons to clear out, leaving him alone with just two bodyguards. Perfect.
The gap between buildings would've needed web-shooters yesterday. Today? I just jump, sailing through the night air like gravity's more of a suggestion than a law. I touch down on his balcony without a sound, the suit's stealth system making me practically invisible against the darkness.
Just the way I like it.
Fisk's security is top-shelf stuff—pressure sensors, motion detectors, glass that could stop a .50 cal. Thirty seconds with my decryption tools and it might as well be tin foil and string.
I slip inside as Fisk pours amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, his back to me. The bodyguards spot me first—their hands dart toward shoulder holsters but they're way too slow. I put them down hard—not dead, but they won't be filing incident reports anytime soon.
Fisk spins around fast—shockingly fast for such a chunky bastard. His eyes widen for a split second before narrowing to cold slits.
"The Batman," he says, voice steady as bedrock despite finding me in his supposedly impenetrable sanctuary. "I was wondering when we'd meet."
I stay partially in shadow, letting him see just enough of me to fear what he can't. "Wilson Fisk. This ends tonight."
The bastard actually smiles, "Excuse me for being so rude," setting his drink down like we're having a business lunch. "But do you know how many people have stood where you're standing and made similar threats? The cops, the feds, even that acrobat in red pajamas." He straightens his cuffs. "Batman, you've just gotten your toes wet and think you're hot shit. Do you know where they all are now? Buried or bought."
"Extortion. Murder. Human trafficking. Is that what Vanessa thinks pays for her art galleries?" I step forward, deliberately invading his space.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the mention of his wife. "I call it enterprise," he says, massive hands resting on his desk. "Something you're interfering with—though I'll admit, with more... panache than that blind fool in Hell's Kitchen."
"Daredevil has a code." I move closer. "I'm more flexible, scum."
His hand darts beneath the desk—going for the panic button I know is there from binging the show in my past life. Before the serum, I might've just made it in time.
Now? I'm on him before his fingertip even grazes the button. His wrist is caught in my grip, and the genuine shock on his face is something I'll treasure forever. Nobody manhandles Wilson Fisk. Nobody.
His free hand comes swinging at my head with enough force to shatter concrete. I catch it one-handed, the impact jarring up his arm instead of mine. His eyes go wide with something I've never seen there before—actual fear.
"Wilson, you really do have no idea what you're up against."
"What the fuck are you?" Genuine panic edges into his voice.
I lean in until my mask is inches from his face, the suit's eyes burning into his. "I'm what keeps filth like you awake at night." I force him back against the wall, his size advantage meaningless against what I've become. "Now, let's talk about distribution networks in your territory, particularly HYDRA."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I don't know what—"
I slam him harder against the wall, cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster. "Don't. Lie. To. Me." Each word comes out like gravel through a meat grinder. "Nothing moves through this city without the 'Kingpin' taking his cut. Including HYDRA's weapons and personnel."
Something shifts behind his eyes. "And if I did have such information... what's to stop me from warning them the moment you leave?"
I lean closer until the mask is almost touching his face. "Because I'll know, Fisk. I'll be in your phone, your email, your goddamn dreams. You breathe a word about this conversation to anyone... Vanessa.." I let the threat hang unfinished.
For the first time in probably decades, genuine terror crosses the Kingpin's face. He's faced powered people before, but something about me—the combination of strength, technology, and the utter lack of hesitation in my voice—has gotten through his armor.
Good, the time for games was over. It was do or die. And I was in the business of doing.
"You're making an enemy you can't afford," he manages, but there's no conviction behind it.
I release my grip slightly. "You're an appetizer, Fisk. HYDRA. Everything you know. Now."
What follows is forty minutes of Fisk spilling his guts—shipping routes, front companies, key personnel, security protocols. Information he would normally take to his grave, given up to a man in a bat costume because, for the first time in forever, Wilson Fisk feels like prey instead of predator.
What a sight.
When he's exhausted his knowledge, I fire a tranq dart into his neck. As his eyelids grow heavy, I lean in close one last time.
"Your empire ends tonight, Fisk. I'm tearing it down brick by brick. Resist, and Vanessa gets to visit you through prison glass for the next forty years, maybe even with a Bat for a husband. Play nice, go legitimate, and maybe—just maybe—you have a future when this is over."
He won't change. Guys like Fisk don't. But the seed of fear I've planted will grow into something beautiful, paranoia that will poison his operation more effectively than a RICO case.
As I disappear back into the night, I can't help smiling behind the mask. For the very first time since I arrived in this universe, I don't feel like I'm playing Batman.
I am Batman.