Devil in the Details
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Peter tore his eyes away from the screen of his cell phone, looking high above him at the skyscraper with his neck craning back until it couldn’t bend anymore. The setting sun glared painfully against the crisp, clean glass — yellow and orange beaming into his line of vision with piercing clarity.
He had to squint until his eyes were practically closed just to be able to see the letters coming down the side of the tall tower. Each one stood bold, aesthetic, running down vertically all to say one word.
“Shoulda known...”
OsCorp.
The black camera bag hit the conveyor belt with a resounding thud.
“Please be careful with that!” Peter called out, sandwiched between two security guards who were both equally unintimidating, in more ways than one. “That’s-that’s a, uh, that’s a really expensive camera.”
Metal detectors beeped to life as each guard waved their wand up and down the length of his body, keeping him rooted in place at the front entrance of the OsCorp tower. An impromptu search was definitely the last thing Peter had been expecting tonight, and he watched with a tense jaw as his backpack and pocket belongings slid through the x-ray scanner up ahead.
At least he had small blessings to be thankful for. May had insisted he keep his suit at home, saying that if he’d be going out to study, then studying was all he’d be doing. He totally owed her for that — two churros at the very least.
The guard at the conveyor belt, the one who honestly was too overweight to catch a thief if they snail-paced it out of the building, gave Peter an umamused look. He pushed the tray full of belongings to the end of the belt, the items inside bouncing against each other until it came to a stop.
Peter groaned. He could hear his loose pocket change rattle in the plastic bin, all three dollars and sixty-five cents worth.
“Peter!” The voice came from ahead, tearing him away from his inner pity party. “I am so sorry, man, this is so embarrassing.”
Harry approached him at the front gates of the tower, an ID badge hanging loosely around a lanyard on his neck. It bounced with every step he took.
Peter couldn’t help but wonder who he felt this was embarrassing for, what with his used gum wrappers and pocket lint currently sitting in a plastic tray for all to see.
“It’s okay, Harry, really,” Peter bit his tongue as the guards got a little too close for his liking, their wands going up and down his pant legs with no regard to personal boundaries.
The only way it could get any worse was if they made him take off his shoes. Peter wasn’t sure when he last changed his socks, and now that he started to think about it, he was pretty sure the one foot had a big gaping hole in it.
He wiggled his toe for good measure. Yep, these were the socks with the hole in them. Things would definitely get worse if they asked him to take off his —
“The iWatch, kid,” the gruff security officer demanded.
Peter frowned, looking over at the guard with confusion. The beeping from the wand had picked up its pace, alerting them both to detection of metal nearby.
The guard’s eyes pointed towards Peter’s wrist, where a sleek, black bracelet was attached.
“It’s not a —” Peter shook his head, immediately going to detach Mr. Stark’s panic watch without further explanation. “Yeah, okay.”
Removing the device felt a lot stranger than he anticipated. It was almost like he had undressed naked, the chill A.C hitting the skin to his wrist for the first time since spring. Mr. Stark had only given him the watch less than five months ago, back when they had celebrated his belated sixteenth birthday. But he hadn’t taken it off since.
The guard tossed it into the tray of his belongings like it was nothing.
“You have no idea how much I hate bringing people here like this,” Harry explained, waiting at the end of the conveyor belt to collect Peter’s belongings. “It makes me seem...pretentious or something. Like I’m trying to show off. And I’m not, I swear.”
An employee all but slapped a guest badge in Peter’s hand, clearly having determined there was no threat to him. The blue and gray dressed security guards stepped away, resuming their business at the entrance gates. Harry was already gathering Peter’s belongings, loose change included.
Peter’s cheeks reddened as he stuffed the coins back into his pockets. “It’s cool, man. I get it —”
“I just got caught up with work, and I didn’t want to blow you off,” Harry continued to explain, noticeably eyeing the black watch in the bin before handing it over. “I know I was an asshole for...well, for kinda doing that before and all. I didn’t want you to think I was still like that.”
Too distracted soaking in his surroundings, Peter absentmindedly nodded, unable to really absorb what Harry was saying. Now that there wasn’t a security guard latched to each side of him, it was much easier to gawk at the front lobby of the enormous tower. His eyes roamed the tall, cathedral ceilings with a strikingly reminiscent clarity.
It looked almost the same as it did two years ago, on the day of that field trip. Call him crazy, but it even smelt the same. The memory felt like ages ago, yet somehow still felt like the day before last.
Back when things were much simpler, before his life had changed in ways he could never comprehend. It was weird to think how it all took place here. A little deterring, even.
“It’s all good, Harry, really...” Peter trailed off, fingers latching the black watch onto his wrist without ever looking down. The nanotech wrapped snugly against his skin at the same time realization dawned on him.
“Did you say...work?” Peter furrowed his brows, his eyes suddenly staring at the ID badge hanging around Harry’s neck. “Do you work here now?”
Harry gestured his head down the hallway, taking the lead in guiding Peter through the chaotic lobby. For being past five o’clock, the building was still a beehive of activity, bustling with chatter and commotion at every corner. It reminded Peter a tad bit of the Avenger’s compound; always something going on somewhere.
“It’s an evening internship,” Harry explained, weaving them through the crowds of suits and ties. “My dad sorta...forced me into it.”
Peter narrowly avoided being shoulder-grazed by a tall man carrying a briefcase. “An internship for economics?”
“Graphic design, actually.” Harry took a sharp left down the corridor, heading straight for the two large elevator doors at the end. They weren’t hard to miss, the modern chrome so reflective that Peter could see himself in them. “I’m working with the visual communication department to build a design portfolio.”
Harry reached over to press the elevator button before leaning back on the heels of his feet, hands resting comfortably in his khaki pants. There was a pause between them as Peter took in what he heard, the sound of hustling corporate business filling their lull while the elevator slowly descend to the ground floor.
“Wow, Harry,” he finally managed. “Economics, statistics, graphic design...you’ve really got a lot on your plate these days.”
Harry gave a close-lipped smile as the elevator dinged open. He gestured inside for Peter to step ahead, following closely behind. It took a swipe of his ID badge before he could press another button, and a moment after that until they began to ride upwards.
“Dad’s got me doing everything. He thinks the more I do, the better chance I have at something sticking. He doesn’t know I caught onto that, but it’s obvious. Why else would he be pushing for me to take a marketing course while I’m enrolled in a STEM school?” Harry began counting fingers on his hand as he rattled off, “I’m taking statistics on the off chance I get into enterprise analyzing, economics for business administration, mathematics for accounting and finance — you get the point.”
Just like that, a sinking weight hit Peter’s stomach. It was an odd feeling, what with the elevator lifting high as his gut dropped low. Almost like he was heavy and light at the same time.
He felt bad, the awful sensation of guilt speaking a million negative things into his inner ear. To think that most days he struggled to balance Spider-Man, school, and his social life — which let’s be honest, wasn’t much of a hot topic even before the spider bite.
Here it seemed Harry had no time to himself.
Suddenly his ‘boring’ weekend pranking Sam didn’t seem all that boring after all.
Ugh, and here he was having Harry tutor him in World History. World History. Peter shook his head; he really needed to learn to deal with his problems on his own.
“That’s...crazy,” he finally squawked out. “Do you ever have any time to do...you know, what you want to do?”
“Uh, not really, no.” Harry rubbed at the nape of his neck repeatedly, to the point that his skin grew irritated.
“Have you even thought about it?” Peter turned to look at him as he spoke, noticing how Harry stared straight ahead, unblinking at the elevator doors in front of them.
“I don’t have time to think about that,” he chuckled tensely, hand now gripping the back of his neck with a posture that seemed uptight and nervous. “Well, I mean, I have, but —”
“What is it?” Peter was quick to interrupt, a sense of eagerness coating his tone.
Harry paused, the reflection of consideration noticeable in his eyes. They both found themselves staring at the LED numbers above the doors, the count increasing as the elevator kept rising up. Peter suddenly wondered when exactly they were going to reach their destination.
He had almost forgotten that the OsCorp tower was only a few floors shy of being taller than the old Stark tower, now bought out and used as office space of all things. A year later and the thought still felt so strange to him. They were still renovating the exterior, the signage reading Basiter or Baxter or something – Peter couldn’t really tell, he never bothered to get a good look at it these days.
It just wasn’t the same without the large A looking over Manhattan.
Harry noticeably cleared his throat before speaking up.
“What I really want to do is get into environmental law, like my mom.” A brief glance to his side where Peter stood and Harry let the glimmer of a smile creep up at his lips before quickly looking away. “But that has nothing to do with business, and that means I can’t take over the company if dad were to —”
The elevator let out a low-tone ding sounding as modern as the aesthetic surrounding them.
“Ah, here we are.”
The doors split open sharply, slowly, parting way to a much different sight than what Peter had expected. The cold, sleek design of the lobby was gone, and in its place was a much warmer atmosphere. The lights were more yellow, the walls brown and gold; there was even carpet covering the ground instead of Mosaic flooring. It was what Peter assumed rich people would call ‘homey.’
“Hey, real quick.” Harry stopped him the moment they both walked out of the elevator. “Not to seem, like, instructive with your personal life or anything. I know we just caught up after a few years and all, so it’s totally not my business…but...”
The elevator doors slid shut, a whir of machinery filling the pause that fell between them as it began to descend back down to the ground floor.
“There’s this story going around school." Harry seemed hesitant before he continued. "It’s about you.”
“About me?” Peter didn’t intend to sound like a chipmunk, yet the sudden panic that bubbled up in his chest had his throat narrowing and constricting in a way that reversed all three glorious years of his puberty.
“Yeah,” Harry saved him face, overlooking the bundle of nerves that wore heavily around Peter’s self. “And it doesn’t...I don’t know, man, it doesn’t fit you. Doesn’t seem like something you’d do. It’s probably a dumb rumor or something, I don’t know. I just...I never pinned you for that guy.”
Peter’s face dropped. That guy? What did that mean? And since when was the school talking about him of all people? Last he checked, Peter Parker didn’t exist unless he face-planted into his tray of lunch in the cafeteria — circa freshmen year 2015. Five million possibilities bombarded his mind, all at once, all crossing the worst-case scenario.
Between Ned already knowing about Spider-Man, and MJ having found out over spring break — it had to have gotten out. People had to be talking about him being Spider-Man.
“Wh-what...what is it? What’s the rumor?” Peter stuttered, trying – and failing – to act casual. “Can’t be anything too crazy, right? Like, I’m a...I’m an Avenger or something?”
Harry looked at Peter.
“No, that’d be stupid,” he bluntly stated, mouth pinched tightly in amusement. “People are saying you went to Paris over spring break. That true, man?”
“Oh! Oh yeah, yeah, Paris…” Peter let out a sound of relief. It was only a moment later the insult hit him, an expression of offense briefly washing across his face before he recovered. “Right, yeah, I, uh, I went to Paris. For-for spring break. Paris is uh, that’s where I spent my spring break.”
Jeeze, talk about high-school. It had been months since that news had gotten around to his classmates — the cover story Mr. Stark made up for him, more accurately — and yet they were still talking about it. He supposed the next ‘big thing’ hadn’t happened over summer break to get them gossiping about something else. Maybe that would change now that Harry had joined their class. It was only a matter of waiting it out.
“So, you did go!” Harry clapped him against the back, the sound echoing throughout the quiet hallway. He pointed straight ahead as they began walking, leading the way past a few corners and turns. “Look at you — Peter Parker, getting out of Queens and seeing the world. Did you at least manage to visit the Catacombs while you were there?”
Peter barely caught onto the tail end of Harry’s question, too busy eyeing the different decor of the corridor they walked down.
“The Cata… — yeah totally!” The words slipped out on autopilot, his distraction taking over. He couldn’t get over how different everything looked, like they had stepped into a whole different building. The entire ambiance changed with one elevator ride.
Harry kept talking, but Peter wasn’t paying attention. His eyes roomed over every door they passed, each one labeled as individual office suites. It didn’t take long to realize they belonged to high high up’s in the company. People he’d never encounter in his entire life, let alone breathe the same air as them had it not been for Harry’s escort to this part of the building. There wasn’t one door that hadn’t been labeled for a Chief something or another.
Chief Operating Officer, Chief Financial Officer – the only one they hadn’t come across yet was CEO.
Somehow, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Norman had a whole floor to himself. Something fancy, overseeing The Empire State building or Rockefeller Plaza.
“So what’d you think?” Harry enthusiastically asked, failing to notice Peter’s wandering attention span. “I gotta be real with you, the skulls started to freak me out a little bit. Okay, at first, they freaked me out a lot. Seeing death in its raw form like that was pretty gnarly.”
Suddenly, like a snapping tree twig, Peter’s focus came back.
“Huh?” He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tense up as his head shot over to Harry.
Weren’t they just talking about Paris? Where had the conversation gone?
Harry didn’t look the least bit fazed.
“It really makes you think, ya know,” he continued, stopping in front of a single mahogany-colored door, the label plate reading Osborn Loft. “About death and whatnot. How one moment those people are were all alive and living and now here I was, staring at their skeletons. All that was left of them. Humbling, right?”
Peter wasn’t sure what Harry was saying, his ears only picking up on certain words.
The selective hearing was completely out of his control. He could see his lips moving, he knew there was more to be heard besides ‘death’ and ‘skeletons’, but the rest was lost to him.
It was as if his head had been submerged underwater, sound waves muffled and muted from the pressure of heavy liquid. A butcher knife might have well sliced right through his composure.
And with a heart pounding five times faster than he was ever used to, Peter knew something was wrong. His skin had become clammy, flushed with sweat, and breathing was suddenly difficult, his chest too tight and heavy for him to inhale air when he needed it the most.
He knew something was off, something was bad — something was very, very, wrong.
But why was something was wrong with him?
“Uh, is there, a-uh...a bathroom?” Peter stammered to ask. “That I can use. Nearby? A-a bathroom nearby?”
Harry paused upon opening the door to the lounge, hand clutching the doorknob, eyebrows drawing into a deep frown.
“I mean, there’s one inside...” he drawled out, his head cocking slightly to the side. He seemed to notice something was amiss. “But yeah...if you go right down the hall, to your left.”
Peter did a quick glance behind him, swallowing away the knot that had suddenly tied his vocal cords together in one of those nearly unbreakable Boy Scout bows.
“Cool, cool.” A shaky finger pointed ahead at the door. “Meet you inside?”
Harry pursed his lips, letting his confusion slip just briefly before he nodded.
“Yeah, sounds good, pal.”
Peter smiled to the point of showing his teeth and gums, and for reasons he’d never understand, proceeded to give a thumbs up at Harry. The cringe that came was hard, so hard that he could feel it in his gut.
Or was that the anxiety coursing through his entire core, practically ripping him apart seam by seam?
Shit. That’s what this was. He hadn’t felt anxiety this bad since...well, sheesh, it had to be since shortly after the spider-bite, when he first starting figuring out his powers. Panic attacks were kind of inevitable when he suddenly started sticking to things and could lift an entire car over his head.
But something like that made sense, that moment called for this kind of raw, unadulterated panic.
This...this was something different.
As Harry closed the door to the lounge, Peter quickly made his way down the hall, his feet moving as fast as the thoughts racing through his mind. Sure, he had dealt with situational anxiety, circumstantial anxiety, Mr. Stark-yelling-at-him-on-Staten-Island-and-taking-away-his-suit-anxiety, but this...this was straight out of nowhere. This anxiety had no purpose, no cause. There was no reason for him to be getting this worked up.
Right?
He knocked on the bathroom door. Once, twice, three times —
“I don’t know what miracle he’s expecting us to pull off,” a voice quickly came from his right, where a door swung open, and a slew of personnel came striding through. “There’s only so much this team can do without the original census data to the birth host.”
Peter watched with wide eyes as scientist after scientist passed by him, lab coats brightening up the dimly lit area. Each came through the door at the very end of the hallway.
“By now, Doctor Frye, you should know how he works.” High-heels accompanied the female voice that followed, and Peter could barely make out a long-haired ponytail tied back tightly, nearly hidden behind two much taller men blocking his view. “Take it or leave it. This is what he expects, this is what we need to do.”
At least five more lab coats tailed behind the two speaking voices, arriving from the same door the others came pouring through. Peter eyed that door with curiosity — it wasn’t labeled, yet it looked like it went somewhere very important.
“How long does he have, Doctor Adler?”
The voices began to dissipate down the hallway, the distance between Peter and the huddle of scientists creating a draft that his hammering heartbeat wouldn’t allow him to fully hear. They were heading towards the elevator just as the last scientist walked through the unlabeled door across the way.
“At this rate, we’re lucky to squeeze in three more months. Get a baseline on the chemical structure, send it to chemistry for a...”
Peter looked down the hall, watching as the heavy door began to close. It was like slow motion, each inch turning into centimeters, each second like a minute. He quickly turned his head back around, watching the scientists load up into the elevator, none even noticing his presence.
He looked back at the door.
It slowly began to shut, the hinges squeaking metal along the way.
His hand gripped the bathroom doorknob, tightly, the metal creaking with strain underneath his grip.
Peter made a run for it.
The hallway filled with two simulations sounds; elevator doors sliding shut at the same time the singular door across the corridor finally closed.
Though not before Peter could narrowly squeeze on through.
Peter froze, his back pressed tightly against the chill metal of the door that shut behind him.
He didn’t move, didn’t even dare to breathe. For a brief moment, Peter pretended not to exist, just in case his stupid, spontaneous decision had gotten him into a world of trouble. It would totally be his luck that an employee would be waiting around the corner, wondering what the hell he was doing sneaking into an area that was clearly off-limits.
Off limit areas. OsCorp.
Déjà vu — major déjà vu.
A few seconds and many deep breaths later, Peter realized there was no one around. The room was a vestibule, another door straight ahead that would lead him elsewhere.
If, that was, he chose to proceed.
Which he shouldn’t, he absolutely knew he shouldn’t. He should just go back to Harry, begin studying — and have a normal, average night like regular teenagers do.
He couldn’t help it. The anxiety riddling his body was instantly replaced with boiling curiosity, the type that almost comforted him, to feel anything besides the pestering nerves that sent pins and needles up his skin. Curiosity he was used to, a feeling he loved. After all, nerds like him were always curious.
Was it really his fault that curiosity typically came with danger?
The door ahead opened easily, without any assistance of his super strength needed. Peter paused, closing his eyes tightly, almost trying to talk himself out of it.
And then, like the irresponsible teenager he knew he was becoming, he snuck inside.
Danger be damned – he was Spider-Man now. He could handle himself.
And Mr. Stark and the rest of the Avengers had been talking for months now about something being off with OsCorp, though they never gave him any details what. Something told him there was much more to the story, about why they were investigating the company — and why they were keeping Peter out of it.
Companies didn’t just have underwater bases of operations, after all.
So what was it about OsCorp that was trouble?
Peter caught sight of stairs nearby and quickly jogged up them, as quietly as he could. The stairway was dark, leading up to a total of what had to be two or three floors. After looking around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Peter noticed it was surprisingly void of security cameras. It only further piqued his curiosity.
Why wasn’t this area of the building monitored, or alarmed?
He shook his head, the deja vu stronger now than ever. This wasn’t like back then, he wasn’t going to get bit by anything this time.
There was one flight of stairs remaining, leading to a door at the very top. It almost surprised him that the doorknob was so old-fashion; nothing electronic, nothing fancy. No badge swipe needed, no code access required. Hell, even his personal quarters at the Avengers compound required fingerprints to get inside. The chances of anything top-secret being hidden behind such lack-luster security had to be slim to none. For all he knew, Peter was walking straight into a janitor’s closet.
The doorknob didn’t twist — not fully, not with the lock in place keeping the door shut. Peter may have twisted the knob a little too hard the third time around, surreptitiously, in a way no one would notice.
A crackling splinter of metal echoed the stairway as he broke the knob, and slowly, the door creaked open.
“Whoa...” Peter’s eyes reflected the bright blue and silver light that illuminated the room, dimly lit, most coming from the multitude of science equipment filling every corner his eyes could land on.
It was a lab.
Of course it was a lab.
Peter let the door slowly shut behind him, putting in extra effort to muffle the sound.
He had once encountered an abundance of OsCorp tech and equipment, rusting away, unused and untouched for who knows how long. That undersea bunker had been abandoned long before Peter was ever trapped inside it.
Everything he looked at right now was very much active, beeping with life, lights glowing with electricity.
The space was filled with everything he could imagine — apparatus cases, oxygen tanks, tube stations, glass-door refrigerators, and automated analyzer machines. The countertops were littered with microscopes and centrifuges, and the walls were enclosed with incubator tanks, each one containing something locked away.
On any other given day, Peter would have been ecstatic to be in the presence of such impressive equipment. And perhaps he would have been right now, if it weren’t for the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.
Peter took a step forward, and as he did, his camera bag bounced against his hip. His hands trembled slightly as he fought to unlatch the top flap and bring the camera out. Why his hands were shaking, he wasn’t too sure. Something just didn’t feel right.
Like a tingle in his head, growing by the second. Not strong enough to be his spider-sense, but still something there.
Which is why he reached for his camera bag, pulling the expensive DSLR out from within. Like MJ would always say — documentation, or it didn’t happen.
She was really smart. He liked that about her.
He liked a lot about her.
Peter forced a steady hand as he turned the camera on.
Left, right, top, bottom – he took picture after picture. Of course, there wasn’t much outside of equipment to take photos of, but some of the equipment was just downright weird. What was OsCorp’s obsession with tanks? The room had two, both flush against the wall, both dry and empty.
He was in the middle of snapping a picture when a sharp buzzing hit the back of his neck.
Peter spun around. The alert for danger was strong, persistent. Painful.
And yet all he saw were the incubator tanks ahead, back-lit with blue and white bulbs, each harvesting…something.
His fingers gripped the hefty camera tightly, his feet slowly approaching the row of compact, mini-fridge sized equipment lining the walls. The closer he got, the warmer he felt. The heat radiating from inside was strong enough of feel at even a distances length. He could tell that the tank was humid, fog condensing the edges of the glass.
Peter cocked his head to the side, studying the object inside. The sharp tingle at the base of his skull increased, but so did his curiosity.
Peter snapped a photo, just one, before lowering his camera down.
Whatever was inside, they were growing it. Breeding it.
And yet it didn’t look like an animal, or a creature, it didn’t look like anything but a — Peter squinted his eyes, mere feet from the glass tank. It looked like a black smudge, a blob.
Just...goo.
He did a quick glance at the other tanks, the ones nearby that he could see in the dimly lit lab. They all contained something similar, but the objects inside weren’t nearly the same as this one. They were smaller, less shiny even, almost as if they had been left to shrivel up and rot — left to die, whatever they were.
Maybe he had been looking at it for too long, maybe he had begun to zone out and his eyes were playing tricks on him. But the longer Peter looked, the more he began to wonder.
Peter’s eyes burned as he stare.
It moved.
Like it was breathing, like it had a mind of its own.
Peter reached out to touch the glass —
“Hello?” The door creaked open, and Peter shot his head over towards the sound. “Doctor Frye, are you still in here?”
Peter didn’t waste a second’s worth of time. He looked up, jumping to the ceiling with silent ease. His sticky fingers gripped the sleek, cold, aluminum metal from above.
Never in his entire life had he been so grateful for ceiling vents than that very moment.
Before the scientist had stepped foot into the room, he had climbed through one, gone before any witnesses could catch him.
Peter never saw the black slime from inside the incubator tank reach out to him, blocked by the cage it was contained in.
The hallway he dropped into wasn’t much different than the one from before, warm yellow light bulbs with carpet covering the floor. It was the executive hallways, the ones Harry had brought him to.
At least, that’s what it looked to be.
Peter was extra quiet in his descent to the ground, making sure to cover the ceiling vent before dropping to his feet. A soft tft was the only sound he made.
Peter breathed a sigh of relief to himself, turning the corner and —
“What are you doing here?”
He froze, unable to take another step forward. Peter’s eyes blew wide, locked intently on the broad chest of the tall man he nearly ran straight into. There were only two wrinkles lining the clean, white button-down shirt in front of him, exposed from the open black blazer.
Whoever it was, they wore no name-tag, no visible badge.
Canning his neck up, Peter immediately realized why.
CEO’s didn’t often have to.
“Are you lost?” Norman arched an eyebrow high.
The question seemed to echo. Not so much in the hallway, the walls keeping sound to a minimum, but rather through Peter’s ears. It bounced around in his head, beating against his skill to the same tune of his heartbeat — fast, erratic, hard. He tried to gulp, the little bit of moisture unable to slid down his tightly shut throat.
Norman’s eyebrow lifted higher.
“Yes!” Peter blurted out, his voice squeaking in pitch. “Yes, I’m —”
“— familiar,” Norman filled in, head tilting to the side with visible contemplation. “You look familiar.”
There was something incredibly daunting about the way Norman stared at him; studied him. Peter swallowed thickly, having lost count of how fast his heart was hammering in his chest. His pulse thumped unpredictably under his skin, in a way that made his arms and neck sticky with a thin layer of sweat.
Norman simply stared at him, perceiving. Examining.
“I’m here with Harry, sir,” Peter choked out, realizing just in time that he was gripping the body of his camera a little too tightly. For being so worried about the security guards damaging it, he was about to shatter it into pieces. “I’m a friend of his.”
The words felt weird coming out of his mouth. A little too odd, a bit too strange. Almost like a lie that wasn’t totally a lie — could he really call Harry 'a friend' again?
Now wasn’t a time he could deliberate on the finer points of it all. Not with Norman’s firm gaze holding him hostage.
There was a blink, a shuffle of movement as Norman shifted on his feet. A forced smile pulled his lips upward, just slightly.
“Well then...” he hesitated with his movements, hand reaching out briefly and pausing mid-air around the back of Peter’s elbow. He never allowed himself to make contact. “Follow me to my office. We’ll call Harry, get you back down to his lounge.”
Peter nodded jerkily. “Yes, sir.”
The walk down the hallway couldn’t have lasted more than a half a minute, a full minute at most. Yet it felt like the longest moment in Peter’s entire life. The silence was oppressive, hanging heavily in the air, the sound of their footsteps suddenly the loudest noise he’d ever heard. His only saving grace was the camera he still held in his hands, the reminder to not accidentally crush it keeping his rampant thoughts at bay.
They approached Norman’s office together. Inside, the lights were already on, albeit dim, and there was a slew of paperwork scattered across the large, expensive-looking desk.
Peter noticed notice that all the windows — which were a lot, being a corner office on the very top of the skyline tower — had been covered with thick, dark curtains, the seams of which draped low to the floor. There was a fireplace flush against the wall near the bookcases. It wasn’t lit.
So caught up scanning his surroundings, Peter never paid attention as Norman closed the office door behind them. The sound startled him, his shoulders jerking in response.
If Norman had noticed his tightly wound nerves, he surely didn’t mention it. He casually walked around Peter, his moves holding purpose as he slipped off his black blazer. With one smooth motion did he slip it around the back of his desk chair, settling down in the seat while reaching forward to pick up the cordless telephone nearby.
“Cynthia,” Norman spoke into the handset of his phone, “page Harrison to my office, please.”
Peter looked away from the rows and rows of bookcases lining the walls, eyeing Norman with a sense of confusion. Was that a secretary he had been talking to? Why couldn’t he just call Harry himself?
Around the same time, Norman locked eyes on him. He nodded to towards the empty chair in front of his desk.
“Have a seat.”
Everything boiling within Peter certainly did not want to sit in the plush, leather chair across from Norman. In fact, if it were even possible, his senses were screaming louder now than they had been before. The moment was growing so intense that it was hard to differentiate his spider-sense from his own anxiety — serrated and piercing, loud and fuzzy at the back of his neck.
Feelings of panic be damned, Norman’s hard stare was enough to have him scuttling into the over sized chair. And only once he sat down did the man look away, preoccupying himself with gathering the scattered papers across his desk. Peter noticed that they were all turned upside down; he couldn’t sneak a peak even if he had wanted too.
Norman neatly stacked the documents aside. “You’ve been Harrison's friend for a while, Mr…?”
“Parker. Peter Parker, sir.” Peter set his hands low into his lap. “And...yeah, sort of. But not really. We —”
“Were you that disabled boy Harrison would bring to the house?” Norman never looked up from the papers as he spoke. “The one in the wheelchair who drooled a lot?”
Peter blinked, digesting the question.
“No sir, I’m...I’m pretty sure that was David Kemp,” he paused, fingers tight in their cupped hold. “I’m also pretty sure that kid is...dead now.”
Norman made a noncommittal sound, his one and only response to the short-lived conversation. His eyes never broke away from the surface of his desk, staring intently at stacks of papers while simultaneously sorting through others.
Peter briefly wondered – if he’d got up and left this very second, would the man even notice? Considering he had already tested his luck once already, he decided to stay seated.
As it was, he was really pushing his Parker luck today.
Restless and nervous, Peter began looking around the comfortably sized room, taking in details of things he hadn’t first observed. It was interesting how much less modern the office was designed. While all of OsCorp remained contemporary, Norman’s office was...well, not.
Peter wasn’t quite sure what to call it, what the word would be. ‘Old’ came to mind, though he supposed it could be called ‘traditional’ as well. There was a lot of wood — covering the walls, his desk, and bookcases. While every other room in OsCorp was bright, contemporary silver and sleek, Norman’s office was the opposite. It was full of deep, rich colored tones that were barely highlighted under the dim yellow lights, what in all terms should have created a cozy environment, elegant and relaxed.
Yet the heavy smell of cedarwood and leather had Peter on edge, tying knots tightly in his gut. There was also some cologne heavy in the air, one he’d never encountered before. It was strong, oily. A stuffy, musky aroma that coated his nostrils — too strong, bordering on overwhelming. Peter didn’t like it.
He also couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered in diplomas, certificates; flaunting his PhD, his CEO credentials — everything formal, everything professional.
Not one family photo was in sight.
“You into journalism?”
Norman’s voice brought him back to the present moment. Peter snapped his head over, realizing that the man was talking to him. An uneven breath momentarily stole his response. He wasn’t too sure why — he wasn’t typically this awkward, this uncomfortable. But there was something odd about the way Norman would look at him. Straight in the eyes, unfaltering, unrelenting.
Peter didn’t like that, either.
When he didn’t answer right away, Norman nodded towards the camera hanging at his hip.
“Uh, not really, no,” Peter stammered out. “I...more like photography.”
Norman leaned back in his chair, the slightest creak resonating in the room. “I don’t often see children of your age casually carrying around the highest tech on the market for their...selfies. You must really have a passion, Mr. Parker.”
“I suppose,” he managed. “I’m, uh, I’m more into science, though. Chemistry and stuff.”
Norman hummed. “So you’re an intern here at OsCorp.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “No! No, I’m —”
“Stark caught you first.”
A humorless smile crept on his lips, the kind that showed no teeth, no genuine contentment. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion, and Norman nodded again, this time to the watch wrapped around Peter’s wrist.
“If you don’t want people to know, I would recommend not wearing his tech.”
Peter did a quick glance down, immediately going to stuff his hand inside his jean pockets.
“Right,” Peter muttered, cursing under his breath. For being so noticeable, the stupid nanotech felt like a second skin — one he kept forgetting he was even wearing. “I’m uh, I have an internship there. With Stark Industries.”
Norman titled his head to the side, indulging himself in interest.
“What is it that you do?”
Peter bit his bottom lip, suddenly wishing for the uncomfortable silence to return.
“I’m a, uh...I assist in their Science and Technology division,” he scrambled to think on top of his feet. “Mainly in, uhm...engineering and uh...chemistry.”
Peter held back his grin, proud of how quickly he had come up with that one. And hey, it wasn’t totally a lie. Using Mr. Stark’s labs for the tech in his suit was totally engineering, and he was constantly working new chemistry equations with reinventing the chemicals in his web-fluids.
But, still. He made a mental note to talk with Tony about doing something to make this internship look real. Especially now that Norman OsCorp of all people was calling him out on it. Hell, even a photo would do. Something.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Norman carried on, his hands folding methodically on the top of his desk. “A boy as smart as yourself could do some impressive work with us here at OsCorp. You should consider attending open house, see what we have to offer.”
“I have, sir.” The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he realized it. His eyes shot wide, his brain quickly working to backtrack. “Something similar, anyway. My class went on a field trip here a few years back.”
Norman perked up, his eyebrows dangerously close to disappearing into his hairline.
“Field trip, you say? We haven’t opened doors to one of those in quite some time now. The company stopped after an...unfortunate loss of research.” Norman cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in the high back, executive styled chair. “The public relations department decided it’d be best not to increase any likelihood of students getting hurt because of our inventions.”
The room fell so quiet that Peter was sure he could hear a pin drop, without his enhanced hearing. His spine stiffened, his face failing to conceal his rising panic.
“What-what research was lost?”
Norman’s eyes flittered up to his, a moment of deliberation etching across his features in the beat that followed. It seemed he was debating on whether or not he should provide an answer, if it was in his best interest to start such a discussion over what Peter knew had to be sensitive information.
With or without an explanation, Peter had the answer.
He knew it sat directly in his DNA.
“Our one and only success with genetic modification,” Norman finally explained. “All the testing was performed on one solitary spider.”
Peter didn’t break eye contact with him, not even as his foot taped incessantly on the floor — tap tap tap… taptaptap growing more and more unremitting.
“Oh, uh, nothing...nothing like that happened on my field trip.” His throat spasmed, his nerves getting the best of him. “It was smooth sailing. Actually, it was kind of boring.” Peter realized a second too late what he had said. If it were possible, his eyes grew even wider. “Not-not that this place is boring! Not at all, no, it was just...that day was boring. I think. I was tired? It was a long day and you know, I actually wasn’t here for most of it, I got in trouble and had to stay on the bus and —”
“It’s just interesting to me,” Norman interrupted. His face was pinched in thought, clearly paying little to no attention to Peter’s rambling. “We lost that spider and...not even six months later there’s a new vigilante on the streets of New York. Calling himself...low and behold — Spider-Man.”
Suddenly, every hair on Peter’s body stood up straight, in a way he knew was most certainly not his spider-sense. They felt like knives across his skin, sharp-edged goosebumps that ran deep into his muscles.
“That’s a...big coincidence, sir.”
The way Norman smiled at him — all lip, no teeth — it had Peter’s breath quickening in his chest. He didn’t understand what it was; there was nothing inherently threatening about the man, perhaps a bit intimidating, even unnerving. But certainly nothing threatening.
Yet there was a sense of anxiety Peter couldn’t shake, a feeling of unease threading deep into his core.
“Coincidences mean you're on the right path. Simon Van Booy.” Norman leaned back in his chair, settling his folded hands across his stomach. “My wife’s favorite book, and the last she would read.”
Peter’s eyes fluttered to the floor, memories of his childhood suddenly slowing down his racing heartbeat and hasty breathing. He remembered Harry’s mom — didn’t know for long, barely ever saw her to begin with, but he definitely saw her more than he ever saw Norman.
Norman had always been like a ghost in Harry’s life. Mentioned, never seen.
Mrs. Osborn though — Peter remembered her as being a very nice woman, sweet as ever, genuinely kind. It was without any doubt where Harry got most his personality from. Uncle Ben had been the one to take him to the funeral; May having been tied up with something else. He remembered hugging Harry tighter than ever that day. They ended up seeing each other again a few more times, casually, never outside of school. It wasn’t long after Harry was transferred upstate, right at the start of high-school.
A few months after that and Ben had been shot.
Harry didn’t attend that funeral.
Their own tragedies seemed to pull them apart instead of bring them together. Peter wished it had been different.
“You much on history, Mr. Parker?”
The question caught him off guard. Peter looked up, swallowing hard.
“Uh, no, sir. I’m actually...struggling a bit in that area. But Harry’s —”
“Did you know that the first recorded mention of cancer came around 1600 B.C. Egypt? A lot of people don’t know that,” Norman mused aloud, his tone cool, contemplative. Whether or not Peter showed interests in his discourse mattered not. Norman continued on, “They think cancer came along with cigarettes and food preservatives. They think we brought cancer on ourselves as a plague...a plague of modern society. But it’s always been there...since man first figured out how to poke and prod itself — it’s always been there.”
Peter felt frozen in his seat, muscles all but paralyzed, as if he was worried any movement would disturb the sudden conversation that had uprooted from Norman.
He listened intently, expression fixated.
“Then you skip ahead to Greece and Rome,” Norman waved a hand about, “Sure, doctors, Hippocrates and Galen lifted their ideas of medicine from magic and superstitious nonsensical suppositions. But it was the Hippocrates who named it. They named it cancer; karkinoma in Greek because a tumor looked like a crab. Karkinoma.”
The words floated in the air like an afternoon lecture, practiced and perfected, studied to a tee.
“And slowly but surely we got a better understanding of human anatomy. Then better technology. Better microscopes...then comes better understanding of cell structure.” Norman's fingers played idly across the armrest of his chair as he explained, “Chemical carcinogens, diagnostic techniques, chemotherapy...and before we know it, oncology is a science. You like science, don’t you, Mr. Parker?”
Peter felt a chill work down his spine as he stared at the man, so casually going on about something that felt incredibly out of the blue. He frowned, his eyebrows tugging down.
“Yes, sir,” he managed, distantly but acutely wondering where exactly is this going?
Norman met his eyes for the first time since he began speaking.
“Our understanding and treatment of cancer has evolved greatly in the last few decades thanks to science, massively in the past era. But we’re still not there yet, are we?” He shook his head, answering his own question, “No, we’re not. And that’s where OsCorp comes in, where we try to bridge the gap between society’s apathy and failure to push onward to greater achievement.”
Norman adjusted himself stiffly in the chair, sitting up straight and leaning closer to the desk that separated him and Peter.
“I’m not sure what Stark Industries is doing these days, outside of designing the most outlandish, sensationalist costumes for their above-the-law vigilantes. But I can, and will, speak for myself and for this company.” Two fingers tapped firmly on the wooden desk. “We’re one step away from creating a cure for cancer, one for all of mankind to revel in.”
It took a moment of pause for Peter to register what Norman had said, for the words to truly sink in. When they did, his eyes widened, his jaw slowly un-working from the tense hold it had been locked in.
“Really?” Peter gaped. “A-a cure for can —”
“The theory isn’t a new one,” Norman went on to say. “The human body carries within itself the ability to create everything it needs to function. Everything it needs to fight off any disease, to starve off any cancer. You see, this treatment...it’s better, wiser. A genetic bodysuit that would temporarily take hold of a patients biology, find out what their body needs, and then find a natural solution. If a cancer has spread — a tumor — the suit would search the body for the right natural toxins, find solutions on the patients own body chemistry, and put them to work. No radiation, no poison, no destruction of your own immune system. This would find cancer, diagnose it, and kill it. The ultimate natural medical treatment.”
Norman’s timing was precise, as if he wanted just a mere split second to pass before speaking again, just enough time to let the awe and wonderment spread across Peter’s features.
“It’s a shame, though,” he leaned back in his chair, hands settling into his lap once more. “Many people will die before we can get it off the ground.”
Peter blinked, eyelashes fluttering as he failed to veneer his confusion. “Why?”
Something odd crossed along Norman’s face. Not quite hesitance, not quite distrust. Yet the difference wrought was noticeable, tangible.
For a brief second, Peter wondered if it could possibly be desperation.
It was gone before he could even question it.
“That spider we spoke of contained the genetic material needed to go any further. And unfortunately it, along with all its data, is lost to us.”
With a rushing gravity that didn’t exist, Peter felt his stomach drop five feet below where it was supposed to be. The feeling was so intense that breathing suddenly became a task he didn’t have the coordination for.
Especially not as Norman stood up from his chair, walking the distance between them to sit on the edge of his desk.
The smell of musky cologne became stronger, overpowering, coating his nostrils in the scent that shot his nerves. Norman sat directly across from him, looking down. And Peter gulped as he looked up, watching the man adjust the tie hanging around his neck. Two wrinkles on his white button-down, nothing more.
“With all that said, Mr. Parker, I must ask...” Norman stared sat him, unblinking, for a long time. “If that spider was lost on the day of your tour, would you have any clues as to...what may have transpired?”
It was a subconscious instinct to grab his hand, unintended, one that neither of them noticed until it was too late. Peter rubbed the skin near his wrist before promptly letting go.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was...” Peter timidly shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Norman arched one an eyebrow high on his forehead, the other staying low as he stared at Peter. Slowly but surely, he forced a tug at his lips, a weak endeavor at a grin.
“That’s quite alright. My bio-organic chemistry department is already working hard on replicating the genetic material,” Norman said in a carefully measured voice, his eyes looking beyond Peter, seemingly far off. “It’ll simply take...time.”
Peter swallowed again, his throat tight from the heavy aroma whiffing off Norman’s blazer jacket. He opened his mouth to speak before closing it immediately, unsure of what he would even say. Besides, what more was there to say?
Suddenly full of guilt, or shame — or a combination of both — Peter looked away, unable to handle the expression on Norman’s face. He couldn’t lock down what it was; worry maybe, or something more akin to frustration. Whatever it was, it wore heavy on his face, etching deep into the tired lines around his eyes and lips.
Around the same time, Norman stood up straight, putting distance between himself and the desk, and subsequently Peter.
“On that note, please, think twice about where you’d like to spend your free time. OsCorp has a lot it could offer you, and even more the other way around.” He neared back around to his chair, gesturing his open palm out towards Peter. “Tony Stark, well...he’s a careerist, son. Everything he says and does is in a way to advance only himself. You’re getting paid, correct? Perhaps we could discuss wages to try and sway your opinion.”
“Uh, no, sir. I’m...” Peter shook his head with jerky movements, the bob in his throat working up a storm as he choked out, “I’m not getting paid at all. Just...happy for the experience.”
Half-way into sitting back down in his chair and Norman paused, his eyes latching onto Peter’s for a brief moment. An audible ‘hm’ bounced between them, gone once the creak of leather took its place.
“Well...regardless, the offer remains to stand.” Norman leaned back, hands folding neatly into his lap. “Know your worth, Mr. Parker.”
Peter wasn’t sure if he nodded. He wasn’t sure if he even managed something remotely close to a nod, the muscles in his neck stiff and hard, the tension in the room thicker than the awful smell of rich cologne and furnished wood. His focus remained taunt, noticing how something seemed to dripped in Norman’s tone — insidious, sticking to Peter like glue.
Five knocks was all it took to tear him away from that one thought.
“Dad?” A door slowly creaked open. “Cindy said that you called for me —”
Harry stood in the doorway, polite caution thrown out the window at the sight of Peter sitting across from his father. His eyebrows flew up, his eyes widening twice their size.
“Pete! Jeeze, there you are. Where the hell did you go? How’d you —” He quickly looked to Norman, his face all but paling at the realization of what he had walked in on. “How’d you end up in my father’s office?”
Though his question had no heat or bark, Peter still fumbled for a response, somehow managing the feeling that he had been scrutinized. Or caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing — which in all fairness was more accurate and something he one-hundred-percent deserved.
“It’s alright, Harrison,” Norman answered for him. “Your friend and I were just having a little chat.”
Harry looked between them, his features the epitome of soured confusion.
“I got lost,” Peter finally choked out, stirring slightly in his chair. “Your dad had me wait here for you.”
Harry took a few steps further into the room. “How’d you get lost? The bathroom was down the hall, not three stories up the building.”
Peter sheepishly shrugged, somehow making it look like involuntary twitch. “I’m horrible with directions.”
Harry sighed, one that quickly turned into a chuckle. His closed fist knocked gently against Peter’s shoulder, the slightest of grins pulling at his lips.
“Man, you haven’t change a day.” His chuckle dissipated into a rough cough that he kept in his throat, audibly clearing the pathways to his vocal cords before he spoke again, this time looking directly ahead. “Did you need me for anything else, dad?”
“That was all,” Norman dismissed them both with a wave of his hand, his chin tilted low, eyes having returned focus to the paperwork on his desk. “You may leave.”
The interaction held the same sentiment as if Norman was talking with one of his employees; cold, distant, terse.
Slowly, Peter stood up from the over-sized, leather-covered chair he had been sitting in, stuck in the moment of his own confused disorientation.
Without realizing it, his eyes flickered back and forth between the Harry and Norman; two individuals who he knew without certainty were father and son, yet acted nothing of the like. At least not on Norman’s end, the businessman returning to his work without so much as a kind gesture towards Harry.
Peter knew things were strained between them. They always had been — Harry would often mention that he felt Norman never wanted kids, that he was an accident-turned-successor-in-the-making.
From the looks of it, things only got worse after Harry’s mom passed away.
Still...hearing was always different from seeing, and what he saw — well, Peter didn’t like it. On many levels.
Specifically, the odd feeling that Norman gave him, a feeling so similar to his spider-sense that he almost couldn't tell the difference.
Something just didn’t seem...right.
A tug at his arm caught him off guard.
“Come on, dude,” Harry whispered, encouraging him out with an arm wrapped around his bicep.
Peter’s voice was paper-thin as he nodded. “Right...let’s go.”
No further goodbyes were said. Harry didn’t even look behind them as he closed the door, though Peter did, catching sight of Norman reviewing the documents on his desk. He studied them with intense concentration, the lines deep on his forehead aging him by a handful of years.
And though they left, Peter’s growing suspicion stayed.