The Columbia University campus on a Saturday morning had entirely shed its chaotic, weekday bustle. The sprawling academic quads were quiet, leaving only the crisp autumn sunlight to filter through the yellowing sycamore leaves, casting beautiful, mottled shadows across the red-brick pathways.
I walked leisurely down the center of the path. To my left, Peter Parker was practically vibrating with wide-eyed, academic excitent. To my right, Gwen Stacy walked with serious, focused purpose, clutching a heavy research notebook to her chest. The three of us followed the brass campus signs, making our way toward the primary biological research building.
"I literally stayed awake until 3:00 AM last night reading peer-reviewed papers on cross-species gene editing, and I still cannot mathematically comprehend how Dr. Connors managed to force reptilian regenerative DNA to express stably within a mammalian host," Peter rambled, aggressively scratching the back of his neck. His face was flushed with an absolute, desperate thirst for scientific knowledge. "I absolutely have to ask the Doctor about his transcription algorithms later. This is genuinely incredible!"
"Peter, try not to entirely lose yourself in the theoretical excitent. Do not forget that our primary objective today is to formally apply for an undergraduate internship in his laboratory," Gwen sighed, shooting him a highly exasperated look as she flipped through her notebook. "I have already compiled my entire proposed research thodology. I am going to present it to Dr. Connors today, and hopefully, I can secure a position assisting him with the cellular data."
I maintained a soft, polite smile and said absolutely nothing.
I knew exactly how impossibly high Peter and Gwen's academic expectations were today, and I knew exactly how profoundly horrified they were going to be when they actually witnessed Dr. Connors' 'breakthrough' experintal results.
Furthermore, I already had my tactical sights locked dead onto the finalized vials of the Lizard Serum currently resting in Connors' possession.
To Peter and Gwen, today's laboratory visit was a prestigious, high-level academic exchange. To , it was a highly classified, black-ops infiltration mission to permanently avert the Lizard tragedy.
The three of us quickly arrived at the heavy glass doors of the biological research building. Dr. Connors was already waiting for us in the polished marble lobby.
He was wearing a pristine white lab coat, with his empty left sleeve ticulously pinned up against his side. His skin was an incredibly unhealthy, jaundiced pale. The bruised, dark circles under his eyes were significantly heavier than they had been during our AP Biology class. His eyes radiated an absolute, profound physical exhaustion, yet buried deep within his pupils was a terrifying, irrepressible, fanatical fire.
"Peter. Gwen. Mira. You made it," Dr. Connors offered a highly strained, jittery smile, stepping aside to lead the way to the elevators. "Please, follow . The primary laboratory is located on the first subterranean level. It is incredibly quiet down there; absolutely no one will disturb us."
Following Dr. Connors out of the basent elevator, a heavy, suffocating mixture of dical-grade disinfectant and raw chemical reagents instantly assaulted my olfactory sensors.
The subterranean laboratory was massive. Dozens of highly advanced, precision biological instrunts were ticulously arranged across the stainless-steel benches—sterile biosafety cabinets, high-velocity centrifuges, and next-generation geno sequencers. The massive whiteboard occupying the entire back wall was aggressively covered in dense, chaotic mathematical formulas and twisting genetic sequences. Sitting quietly in the far corner of the room was a heavy, climate-controlled biological incubator.
"Wow..." Peter couldn't stop himself from letting out a loud, genuine gasp of admiration. His brown eyes were wide as he stared at the millions of dollars worth of advanced equipnt, his gaze filled with pure, academic longing.
Gwen imdiately unclipped her pen, flipping open her notebook and rapidly transcribing the highly advanced genetic formulas scrawled across the whiteboard. She occasionally looked up to scrutinize the lab benches with an incredibly sharp, professional gaze.
I was the only one who didn't care about the equipnt. My sea-blue eyes calmly, ticulously swept across the room, instantly locking onto the climate-controlled incubator in the corner. A microscopic flash of tactical calculation crossed my pupils.
Target acquired.
Dr. Connors' finalized version of the cross-species Lizard Serum was resting securely on the top shelf of the incubator. There were exactly five sealed glass vials. The pale, glowing green liquid swayed sluggishly inside the glass, casting a highly toxic, eerie luminescence under the harsh fluorescent laboratory lights.
"Co closer, everyone. Let show you the culmination of my life's work," Dr. Connors whispered, his voice trembling with barely suppressed excitent.
He walked quickly to the incubator, retrieved a heavy, reinforced acrylic cage, and placed it directly onto the stainless-steel bench in front of us.
Inside the cage, a white laboratory mouse was aggressively pacing across the cedar shavings. The mouse's right hind leg had originally been surgically amputated.
However, a completely flawless, fully functional new leg had regenerated in its place. The tiny pink claws moved with perfect, biological flexibility.
But at the exact sa ti, thick, dark-green reptilian scales had violently erupted across the mouse's spine and newly regenerated limb. The mouse was in a state of absolute, psychotic mania. It was violently, frantically gnawing its own teeth against the reinforced acrylic walls of the cage, letting out a series of sharp, highly aggressive, terrifying screeches.
"Do you see it?!" Dr. Connors' voice spiked an octave, his hands shaking as he pointed at the manic rodent. "Cellular limb regeneration! Absolute, perfect biological regeneration! In less than three hours, it successfully grew an entirely functional hind leg! This mathematically proves that human limb regeneration is no longer an unreachable scientific myth!"
Peter instantly leaned over the bench, staring at the scaled mouse with absolute, profound shock. "My God! This is genuinely incredible! Dr. Connors, you actually did it!"
But Gwen didn't celebrate. She took a step back, her brow furrowing into a deep, highly concerned knot. She pointed her pen directly at the violent, scaled rodent.
"Doctor... with all due respect, what is the biological pathology behind the reptilian scales erupting across its epidermis? And its psychological state—it is exhibiting extre, psychotic mania. Doesn't this definitively prove that the serum still possesses catastrophic, alienating side effects? Has the cross-species genetic fusion resulted in an uncontrollable, aggressive biological mutation?"
The fanatical smile on Dr. Connors' pale face violently stiffened. He aggressively waved his remaining hand, completely dismissing her highly accurate scientific concerns.
"They are simply minor, localized immunological anomalies! They are temporary rejection reactions," Dr. Connors argued, his voice tight with denial. "I can synthesize a solution very soon. As long as I mathematically adjust the underlying base-pair sequence one more ti, I can perfectly circumvent these side effects and achieve truly flawless, risk-free cellular regeneration!"
I stood silently near the back of the group. I looked at the terrifying, desperate paranoia burning in Dr. Connors' eyes, and I let out a very quiet, internal sigh.
How could a genius geneticist possibly not realize how catastrophic the biological side effects of his own serum are?
He knew perfectly well that the serum was highly toxic. But he was already hopelessly, psychologically trapped by his agonizing obsession with regenerating his severed arm. Even if the mathematical probability of success was only one in ten thousand, he was absolutely willing to gamble his humanity on the injection.
Just as Dr. Connors turned his back to grab the physical teletry reports from his desk, Peter and Gwen leaned intimately over the cage, deeply engrossed in a whispered debate regarding the mouse's cellular regeneration chanics.
I executed my tactical strike.
I casually took two steps toward the humming incubator. It looked exactly as if I were simply admiring the expensive machinery.
Nobody in the room noticed as a microscopic, practically invisible stream of pale-blue Siren energy silently seeped from my index finger, smoothly phasing straight through the reinforced glass of the five vials, sinking directly into the glowing green serum.
The sub-atomic molecular modification—executed via the Siren's reality-warping Matter Reconstruction algorithms—was completed in less than a microsecond.
The highly aggressive, dominant reptilian DNA segnts within the serum—the exact sequences that would irreversibly overwrite the human geno and mutate the host into the Lizard—were flawlessly targeted and biologically inactivated.
The epigenetic inhibitor sequence I had spent a week agonizingly developing in my apartnt was perfectly, seamlessly integrated into the serum's foundational protein structure.
If injected, this modified serum would still theoretically promote rapid cellular regeneration for a few minutes. However, the absolute second the biological teletry registered a tendency toward reptilian mutation, the inhibitor would instantly, violently activate. It would completely, permanently block the expression of all regenerative genes.
Forget mutating into a nine-foot-tall Lizard—even a papercut would be unable to heal.
Having successfully neutralized the apocalyptic threat, I smoothly withdrew my hand. My physical expression remained perfectly, flawlessly calm, looking exactly as if I were just a bored teenager staring at test tubes. Absolutely no one had registered my microscopic intervention.
Dr. Connors returned to the bench holding a thick stack of printed experintal teletry. He enthusiastically, manically explained the cellular data to Peter and Gwen. The two brilliant teenagers listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking highly advanced biological questions, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just saved New York City from a monster attack.
Once Dr. Connors finally finished his frantic presentation, Peter and Gwen imdiately retrieved their ticulously prepared internship applications from their backpacks. They handed the heavy folders directly to the Doctor, passionately expressing their desperate desire to assist in the laboratory.
Dr. Connors accepted the applications. He offered a strained, exhausted smile, promising to seriously review their academic credentials and provide them with a definitive answer by the following week.
Just as the laboratory tour was officially wrapping up, I suddenly spoke.
"Dr. Connors," I said, my voice calm and highly asured. "Actually, regarding the concept of human limb replacent, I have an entirely different theoretical approach I would highly appreciate discussing with you."
Dr. Connors paused. He turned to look at . He knew I rarely spoke during his AP Biology lectures, but when I did, I possessed a terrifying habit of flawlessly identifying the core mathematical variables of a problem.
He nodded slowly. "Go ahead, Mira. I'm listening."
"My primary academic focus is advanced computer science, algorithmic programming, and chatronic engineering. I have recently been conducting highly localized research into the theoretical applications of neural-interface technology," I explained. My tone was perfectly calm, yet it radiated an undeniable, heavy academic authority.
"Your cross-species biological regeneration serum is undeniably a landmark, Nobel-tier invention. However, as Gwen accurately pointed out, the biological risks associated with cross-species gene editing are currently mathematically uncontrollable. But... what if we entirely abandon the biological approach? What if we pivot our thodology, and utilize advanced cybernetic chanical prosthetics, seamlessly combined with a highly advanced, brain-computer neural interface?"
I casually walked over to the massive whiteboard. I picked up a black dry-erase marker and rapidly, flawlessly sketched out a highly complex, biochanical schematic diagram.
"The primary, limiting factor with all current, modern dical prosthetics is the absolute inability to achieve genuine, neural-level precision control," I lectured, tapping the marker against the board. "However, if we utilize advanced computer algorithms to engineer a localized brainwave-signal translation matrix—a system that directly, physically interfaces with the host's central motor nervous system—we can theoretically achieve the exact sa microscopic control precision as a natural, biological arm."
I turned around, locking my sea-blue eyes directly onto Dr. Connors. I spoke with absolute, piercing sincerity.
"And furthermore, by utilizing advanced titanium-alloy chanical structures, we can achieve kinetic strength and physical functionality that vastly exceeds the limitations of a natural, fragile human arm."
I paused, letting the heavy silence fill the room.
"Biological regeneration is a highly dangerous, unpredictable path. Advanced cybernetic chanical prosthetics are an infinitely safer, highly controllable, mathematically perfect path. With your unparalleled expertise in the field of biological neurology, combined with my advanced capabilities in computer algorithms and neurological signal translation... we could flawlessly engineer a set of cybernetic neural-interface prosthetics that truly, perfectly adapt to the human body."
The entire subterranean laboratory plunged into an absolute, stunned silence.
Peter and Gwen were completely paralyzed. They stared at the highly advanced biochanical schematic on the whiteboard, their eyes wide with profound, academic shock. In all their research, they had never even considered such a radical, cybernetic approach to the problem.
As for Dr. Curt Connors... he was physically frozen on the spot.
He stared blankly at the complex algorithm on the whiteboard. He slowly looked down at his empty, pinned-up left sleeve.
For the very first ti in over a decade, the terrifying, desperate paranoia and the unhinged fanaticism burning in his eyes showed a microscopic hint of loosening.
He had spent his entire adult life hopelessly obsessed with reptilian biological regeneration. He was absolutely obsessed with forcing flesh and bone to organically grow back. He had never, in his darkest monts, considered that there was an entirely different, technological path that could allow him to possess a 'complete,' highly functional arm again.
He wouldn't need to inject toxic, untested serums. He wouldn't need to gamble his sanity, his career, and his life. He wouldn't have to bear the terrifying risk of mutating into a scaly monster.
He could achieve his lifelong dream simply through the advanced, elegant combination of cybernetics and computer science.
Dr. Connors' pale lips trembled violently. He looked up at , his voice carrying a heavy, undeniable, desperate tremor.
"Mira... this mathematical frawork you just proposed... is it actually, genuinely feasible?"
"Absolutely," I nodded, my tone radiating cold, absolute certainty. "I have already successfully mapped out the preliminary algorithmic frawork for the core neural-translation logic. The only variable missing from the equation is your specialized, post-doctorate expertise in the field of human biological neurology. If you are genuinely interested, we can begin imdiately."
Dr. Connors stared at . He remained completely, utterly silent for a very long ti.
Finally, he offered a heavy, definitive nod. The terrifying, psychotic fanaticism in his eyes slowly, miraculously faded, replaced by a profound, exhausted touch of genuine clarity.
"Alright. Mira... once I officially conclude the biological trials I currently have on hand... let us have a very long, very serious discussion regarding this cybernetic project."
I smiled warmly and didn't say another word.
I knew with absolute, mathematical certainty that I had just executed the perfect tactical maneuver.
Even with my epigenetic inhibitor silently sabotaging his serum, Dr. Connors' psychological obsession would have remained. If the biological serum simply failed, he would have eventually returned to the drawing board, relentlessly continuing his dangerous research until he eventually engineered a serum that successfully bypassed my inhibitor and triggered the mutation.
But now, I had successfully provided him with a highly viable, technological alternative. I had given him a safe, brilliant path that could flawlessly fulfill his lifelong obsession.
As long as his obsessive academic focus shifted entirely to the cybernetic chanical prosthetic project, his dangerous fixation on the Lizard Serum would naturally, permanently fade away.
Only then would the apocalyptic root cause of the Lizard incident be truly, permanently extinguished.
It was mid-afternoon by the ti we finally walked off the Columbia University campus.
The crisp autumn sun was perfectly warm, and the New York breeze carried the pleasant, earthy scent of fallen sycamore leaves.
Peter was still aggressively, excitedly rambling about the high-level cellular teletry we had just witnessed in the laboratory. Gwen occasionally chid in, highly engaged in a passionate debate regarding the theoretical feasibility of my proposed neural-interface technology.
"Mira, you are genuinely, terrifyingly brilliant! That cybernetic prosthetic concept you pitched to Dr. Connors was absolutely genius!" Peter exclaid, looking at with an expression of profound, unadulterated academic admiration. "Why didn't I ever think of that?! Utilizing localized computer algorithms to actively interface with organic neural signals—that is a fundantally groundbreaking engineering concept!"
"It was honestly just a random, theoretical thought," I smiled smoothly, casually brushing off the overwhelming praise. "By the way, I happen to know a highly authentic, old-school Hong Kong-style tea restaurant located in Flushing, Queens. The culinary execution is absolutely flawless. Let treat both of you to a late afternoon tea to celebrate our highly successful laboratory tour today."
"That sounds incredible!" Peter and Gwen's eyes lit up instantly, nodding in aggressive agreent.
The three of us took the subway deep into Flushing, Queens. We navigated a labyrinth of old, densely packed streets until we found a highly inconspicuous, slightly rundown tea restaurant tucked away in a narrow alley.
Pushing open the heavy glass door, the incredibly rich, sweet aroma of authentic Hong Kong-style milk tea instantly greeted us. Inside, soothing, nostalgic 1980s Cantonese pop songs played softly over the speakers, and the restaurant was packed with loud, vibrant life.
We found a small, slightly sticky booth by the window. I ordered with the casual familiarity of a regular: three heavily iced pineapple buns stuffed with thick slabs of cold butter, three massive glasses of iced lemon tea, steaming bowls of shrimp wonton noodles, bamboo baskets of translucent shrimp dumplings (har gow), and a plate of braised chicken feet in black bean sauce—the absolute pinnacle signature dishes of the establishnt.
The food arrived quickly.
The freshly baked pineapple bun possessed a perfectly sweet, highly crispy crust. Paired with the freezing, rich slab of butter inside, a single bite made you want to close your eyes in absolute culinary delight. The wontons possessed impossibly thin skins, packed with generous, bouncy, perfectly seasoned shrimp. The heavily iced lemon tea was aggressively sweet and beautifully tangy, perfectly cutting through the heavy richness of the dim sum.
"Oh my god, this is genuinely incredible!" Peter mumbled, his cheeks physically stuffed with wontons, his eyes wide with joy. "I've never been to a place like this before. It is an absolute hidden culinary gem!"
"Right? I told you it was completely authentic," I smiled, taking a long, refreshing sip of my iced lemon tea.
Watching the two brilliant teenagers eat so happily, I felt the heavy, tactical tension in my sub-routines finally, completely relax.
The apocalyptic threat regarding Dr. Connors was officially resolved. The serum was permanently neutralized, and he had been successfully redirected toward a safe, cybernetic alternative. The Lizard incident was mathematically unlikely to ever occur.
The geopolitical situation on the West Coast was highly stable. Obadiah Stane was currently sitting in a federal holding cell, and with Dr. Yinsen actively managing Tony Stark's health, Iron Man was developing without any self-destructive trauma.
Every single major tiline variable was currently progressing in a highly positive, stable direction.
But exactly at that mont, Peter slowly put down his half-eaten pineapple bun.
The bright, innocent excitent on his face gradually faded, replaced by a heavy, deeply visible trace of gloom and profound teenage anxiety.
"Peter? What's wrong?" Gwen asked imdiately, her sharp instincts noticing the sudden, depressing shift in his deanor. "Did sothing happen at ho?"
Peter aggressively scratched the back of his neck. He let out a heavy, exhausted sigh, his voice dropping into a quiet, miserable register.
"It's nothing serious, really... it's just... we are having so pretty severe financial trouble at ho lately. The manufacturing plant where Uncle Ben worked initiated a massive round of corporate layoffs last month, so he's currently unemployed. He's been desperately looking for warehouse work for weeks, but he hasn't found anything suitable."
Peter stared down at his bowl of noodles. "Aunt May's health hasn't been great, either. Her prescription dication is incredibly expensive. Our savings are almost completely gone, and we are genuinely struggling to make the mortgage paynts on the house."
I sat quietly in the booth. I watched his deeply dejected, miserable expression. I said absolutely nothing, my acoustic sensors perfectly tuned to his confession.
"I just figured... since I'm practically an adult now, I need to step up and actively help share the financial burden," Peter continued, his voice tinged with the desperate, foolish stubbornness unique to teenage boys. "I've picked up several low-level part-ti jobs recently—delivering pizzas, washing dishes at a diner—but they pay minimum wage. It's nowhere near enough to cover our monthly expenses."
Peter took a deep breath, looking up at us. "A few days ago, I heard a rumor from a guy in gym class. There is a highly illegal, underground wrestling and boxing ring operating out of an abandoned warehouse in Queens. The promoter pays out massive cash prizes if you can survive three minutes in the cage. If you actually win a match, the payout is huge. And I figured..."
Before he could finish the catastrophic sentence, I brutally cut him off.
"What exactly do you think you are doing?"
My voice was completely, utterly calm. But the warm, friendly gentleness was entirely gone. The smile had completely vanished from my face.
It was the very first ti Peter and Gwen had ever seen project this specific, terrifyingly cold expression.
Peter physically flinched. He stared into my icy, dead sea-blue eyes. He instinctively stamred out a defense. "I... I just want to fight in the underground matches! You guys know my body is entirely different now! I am incredibly strong, and my kinetic reflexes are superhuman! I know for an absolute fact I can win the prize money! If I win, I can pay the mortgage for Uncle Ben and Aunt May..."
"Share the financial burden?"
I slamd my heavy glass of iced lemon tea down onto the table. The heavy glass made a sharp, violently loud CRACK against the wood. The surrounding custors in the restaurant instinctively stopped eating and stared at our booth.
I leaned forward. I locked my eyes onto Peter. My sea-blue eyes were burning with absolute, profound, unadulterated fury.
This was the very first ti Peter Parker had ever seen genuinely angry. And my anger was absolutely terrifying.
"Peter Parker. Look in the eyes and tell if your grand, heroic concept of 'sharing the burden' is to walk into an illegal underground fighting ring to get beaten for cash?" My voice wasn't loud, but every single syllable was razor-sharp, radiating an undeniable, suffocating, mountain-like pressure.
"Do you possess even the slightest mathematical comprehension of what kind of environnt that is?! It is a criminal enterprise where desperate people brutally fight each other to the death for the entertainnt of gang mbers! Just because your physiological condition has recently improved, you suddenly believe you are an invincible superhero?!"
I didn't let him speak. I verbally hamred him.
"What happens if the promoter puts you in the cage with a ruthless, ard killer? What happens if they realize you have powers and they shoot you? What happens if the NYPD raids the warehouse and you are arrested for illegal gambling and assault?! Have you calculated the actual, real-world consequences of this idiotic fantasy?!"
Peter couldn't even lift his head under the sheer weight of my verbal assault. He stared at his lap, whispering a pathetic, desperate defense. "I would be careful, Mira. I swear. I wouldn't get hurt. I just desperately wanted to make so quick cash to save the house..."
"Make cash?!" My voice dropped another ten degrees, practically freezing the tea on the table. "You are only calculating the financial trics! Have you spent a single second calculating the emotional trics regarding Uncle Ben and Aunt May?!"
"They raised you from childhood with absolute, grueling hard work! Do you honestly, genuinely believe they care more about you paying the mortgage than they care about your physical safety?! The absolute, single most important thing in their entire universe is that you are safe and healthy!"
"You know perfectly well that you have two elderly, fragile parents sitting at ho, desperately waiting for you to co back every night. And your grand solution to their stress is to run off to a filthy warehouse filled with violent thugs and ard criminals to risk your life for a few hundred dollars?! If you get crippled—or if you get killed—what exactly do you expect them to do?! How do you expect them to survive that grief?!"
"In my culture, executing a suicidal, reckless action like this and deliberately causing your parents that level of profound, agonizing grief is considered the absolute highest form of unfilial disrespect! It is the exact kind of arrogant, selfish behavior that makes people look down on you and utterly despise you!"
My words struck Peter Parker exactly like a series of heavy kinetic sledgehamrs directly to his heart.
His face instantly flushed a dark, humiliating red. His brown eyes rapidly welled up with thick tears. He buried his head even lower into his chest, his fingers violently gripping the fabric of his t-shirt.
He couldn't say a single word. He was completely, utterly destroyed.
He had only been calculating the raw financial trics. He had only been thinking about making quick money to save the house. He had never, for a single microsecond, calculated the catastrophic, agonizing devastation it would inflict upon Uncle Ben and Aunt May if the police showed up at their door to tell them their nephew had been beaten to death in an illegal cage fight.
Gwen quickly leaned over, her voice thick with worry, aggressively seconding my lecture. "Peter, Mira is absolutely right. Underground fighting is incredibly, violently dangerous. You absolutely cannot go anywhere near that warehouse. Have you actually thought about how incredibly disappointed and heartbroken Uncle Ben would be if he found out you were fighting criminals in a cage just to pay his bills? He would literally rather work three minimum-wage jobs until his heart gave out than ever, ever let you take a risk like that."
"I... I was completely wrong."
Peter's voice cracked, thick with heavy, highly emotional tears. He slowly looked up at Gwen and , his eyes filled with profound, agonizing guilt. "I was just so incredibly stressed and anxious about the mortgage... I didn't logically calculate the consequences. I was just acting on pure panic. I never should have even entertained the idea. I am so, so sorry."
Seeing him genuinely, deeply admit his catastrophic error with such profound guilt, the absolute fury burning in my eyes slowly, gradually faded. My tone softened considerably.
I let out a quiet sigh. I looked at Peter, speaking with absolute, earnest sincerity.
"Peter. I know you desperately want to help your family. I know you possess a massive, beautiful sense of personal responsibility. That is an incredibly noble trait, and you are not wrong for feeling it. But there are millions of logical, legal ways to generate inco that do not involve risking your life in a cage."
I leaned forward, tapping the table. "You are a confird, certified genius. You are incredibly gifted at advanced physics, chanics, and algorithmic programming. You can absolutely secure legitimate, highly-paid freelance work. You could execute backend server maintenance, process statistical data for university laboratories, or even privately tutor wealthy middle school students in Manhattan. All of those options generate significant revenue, they are completely safe, and they will never cause your family to suffer a heart attack from worrying about you."
I paused for a second, allowing the logic to settle into his brain, before offering my final solution.
"I currently possess several highly lucrative, completely legitimate freelance programming contracts on my personal servers. If you are genuinely willing to put in the hours, I can easily outsource so of the backend coding to you. The payout will easily be enough to cover your family's monthly mortgage and grocery expenses, and you won't have to take a single unnecessary physical risk."
Peter's head snapped up. He stared at , his tear-filled eyes wide with absolute, overwhelming gratitude.
"Really?! Mira... thank you! Thank you so much!" Peter stamred, frantically wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. "I swear to you, I will never, ever think about going near an underground fight club again. I absolutely promise!"
"Rember exactly what you said to today, Peter Parker," I warned, my tone dropping back into a highly serious, absolute register. "To your family, your physical safety is infinitely more valuable than any amount of money. Do not wait until you have catastrophically lost your life—or lost soone you love—to finally realize that."
Peter nodded heavily, multiple tis. The foolish, desperate confusion that had clouded his eyes completely vanished, replaced by a bright, mature determination.
The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the afternoon tea finally, smoothly eased back into a comfortable normalcy.
But deep inside his chest, Peter felt exactly as if he had been struck by lightning. My brutal, uncompromising scolding had acted exactly like a bucket of freezing ice water. It had violently washed away the arrogant, foolish fantasies in his teenage brain, helping him truly, fundantally understand the actual, heavy definition of being genuinely responsible for the people he loved.
As the sun finally began to set, casting a beautiful, bruised orange glow across the New York skyline, the three of us walked out of the tea restaurant.
Peter and Gwen boarded the bus to head ho first.
I stood alone at the busy intersection in Flushing, quietly watching the chaotic, bustling traffic of Queens. I let out a very long, very soft sigh.
I had been genuinely, truly furious today.
Because I possessed omniscient knowledge of the tiline, I knew exactly, mathematically, what catastrophic consequences would occur if Peter entered that underground wrestling ring.
In the original, canonical tiline, Peter participated in that exact underground match simply to win the cash prize to buy a car. Because he was arrogant and selfish, he deliberately allowed a fleeing ard robber to escape the arena. That exact sa robber then ran onto the street and murdered Uncle Ben in cold blood.
That single, selfish decision resulted in the lifelong, agonizing trauma of Peter Parker. It was the brutal, bloody catalyst that forced him to beco Spider-Man.
But I absolutely, fundantally refused to allow this sweet, brilliant young man to learn the definition of responsibility—to learn that 'with great power cos great responsibility'—at the brutal cost of his beloved uncle's life.
I would infinitely rather brutally, verbally traumatize him in a tea restaurant today, utterly destroying his foolish fantasy, so that Uncle Ben could live a long, happy life, and this young boy wouldn't have to grow up carrying a lifeti of suffocating, bloody guilt.
I looked up at the setting sun. A faint, highly satisfied smile curled at the corners of my lips.
As an anomalous variable operating completely outside the paraters of this universe... there is still an infinite amount of good I can execute.
What I absolutely, mathematically did not know, however, was that parked discreetly at a street corner less than half a block away...
Sitting inside the driver's seat of a sleek, black sedan, Natasha Romanoff slowly lowered a pair of high-powered, military-grade binoculars.
She stared intently at my slender silhouette standing at the intersection. A highly complex, profoundly conflicted light flashed through her sharp green eyes.
Natasha had been flawlessly, invisibly tailing for the entire day. She had tracked from the subterranean laboratory at Columbia University all the way to this rundown tea restaurant in Queens.
Utilizing directional parabolic microphones, she had perfectly intercepted my highly advanced, cybernetic conversation with Dr. Connors in the lab. And she had just flawlessly intercepted the brutal, highly emotional scolding I had delivered to Peter Parker.
This mysterious, quiet teenager... Natasha thought, her mind spinning with contradicting intelligence.
She might genuinely possess terrifying, apocalyptic firepower capable of physically shaking the planet. She might possess cybernetic technology that vastly exceeds the total sum of Earth's scientific knowledge.
Yet... she just flew into a genuine, highly emotional rage simply because a teenage boy wanted to risk his life in a street fight. She aggressively, beautifully lectured him on the importance of family, filial loyalty, and cherishing the people who raised him.
Who the hell is she?
Natasha started the engine of the black sedan and slowly, smoothly rged into the Queens traffic, driving away from the intersection.
Her operational confusion had deepened exponentially. But simultaneously, her apex operative intuition was becoming increasingly, absolutely certain of one, singular fact.
This girl nad Mira Vale... is definitively, absolutely not an enemy.
User Comments
0 comments from readers