Seeing himself as a Skrull — green skin and all — he looked much different than he had imagined.
He turned to the mirror and stared. It was genuinely strange, seeing himself like that.
"With this look I could fool anyone — even them," he thought, half joking.
"I don't feel much different than my human body though."
"Not that strong either, I think. Just top soldier level."
"Let's try changing into soone," he muttered, a little excited.
Then, like instinct, he tried to look like Gwen — and he transford into her, exactly as she had looked that day. Sa face, sa clothes.
He stared at the mirror. It was like looking directly at her.
"Hi, I am Gwen," he said — and even the voice matched.
"Even the clothes changed." He tried to remove them — tugged at the sleeve, then the collar — but it was like trying to peel off skin. They were part of the form. "Seems like I can't remove them, but I can change them easily enough."
He focused, and the outfit shifted — Gwen's casual clothes lting into a full Spider-Man suit.
He looked in the mirror.
Gwen Stacy. Spider-Man suit. Staring back at him.
He tilted his head. She tilted hers.
"...This is so weird," he muttered — in her voice.
But seeing Gwen's face staring back at him, a few thoughts crept in that he wasn't proud of.
He shook his head quickly. "No, no, no — I am a good guy, not a pervert." He pushed the thoughts aside.
He then shifted into Peter.
"I am Peter Parker, the best Spider-Man ever."
After that he cycled through several different people. He started switching forms quickly — like flipping TV channels.
First, Natasha Romanoff — it was cool. He did a flip and struck a pose.
Next, he softened into Mary Jane Watson — casual and confident.
A shift later, Colleen Wing — balanced and ready to fight.
Then ca Uncle Ben. "With great power cos great responsibility."
Finally, Jean DeWolff — who he had t just today.
"That was really fun. Transforming into different people — it's just like Mystique from X-n."
A red light flashed. Transformation ti up.
He shifted back to himself and sat down, thinking.
"Hmm. It would be really hard to spot a Skrull among people," he thought. "And it seems I can't copy other people's superpowers through imagination alone — but that was expected, or else it would've been an overpowered cheat."
He paused. "But I have a feeling that if I see soone like Thor, even if I can't master his thunder, I could still gain so of his physical traits — strength, durability — since the Omnitrix has optimized the Skrull DNA. Essentially making a Super-Skrull."
He leaned back. "But why would I need those powers when I have aliens stronger than that? Still — it might be useful sowhere down the road."
His thoughts drifted to sothing more pressing.
I need a base — and proper equipnt. If I'm building a Skrull-detection device and upgrading my suit to nano-level, I can't afford to be caught off guard again. Money helps — but so things can't just be bought.
"So what do I do?"
He paused.
"Should I steal it from sowhere?"
His mind split into two voices. A small angel appeared on one shoulder: "Jack, you're a hero. How can you even think like that? Don't do it."
On the other side, a devil: "Don't listen to him, Jack. A hero saves people — so to save more people, taking a little equipnt isn't a sin. And we can take it from organizations like HYDRA. They're not exactly going to file a complaint."
His mind stayed in conflict for a mont — then he made his decision. There were people like HYDRA already doing far worse out there. Taking from them wasn't wrong. It was practically justified.
The devil kicked the angel aside and celebrated.
There was still the matter of a base. He needed sowhere to build his future Plumber organization — sowhere hidden, sowhere no other organization could trace. He couldn't think of many options right now.
He decided to leave it to Greymatter.
He transford. In an instant he was small and grey, a Galvan standing in front of a notebook he'd grabbed from the shelf, pen moving fast across the page as plans and structures began taking shape.
At the sa ti, on the other side of New York, inside Osborn Industries —
A group of scientists stood around a lab table, watching a rat.
"Experint number 345," one of them noted.
After the injection, the rat made a few weak sounds — then went still.
Norman Osborn stared at it, then turned to the lead researcher. "Doctor — this is what you wanted to see?"
"No — no, sir. The last trial showed real progress. There must be a small error in this batch. I can fix it," Dr. Curt Connors said, stepping forward, voice tight.
"I don't have ti for errors, Doctor. I've been investing millions into this project for years and I have nothing to show for it." Osborn turned to leave. "You're off the project, Connors."
Connors moved quickly, following him out of the lab and into the elevator.
"Give one more chance, Mr. Osborn — please. We were close. This project — it's my dream. I want my arm back. I know I can do it."
Osborn looked at him for a long mont. Then, as the elevator doors began to open: "One month. That's it. I want to see results, Connors — or you're done here."
He stepped out. The doors slid shut.
Connors stood alone in the elevator as it closed around him.
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