So, I wasn't going to post this story for a while, but I figured since I got four chapters done in one day that are upwards of 17,000 to 20,000 words long… why not?
…
Marvel: Viral
Chapter 1: Death and Rebirth
…
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed faintly, casting sterile halos over the frantic scene. Nurses darted between monitors and doctors, their voices sharp and urgent. Among them, Gwen Stacy, known to some as Spider-Gwen, stood frozen outside the ER doors, her masked identity set aside for now. Her hands clenched her phone tightly as she stared through the glass pane, watching the chaos unfold within.
Inside, Peter Parker lay motionless on the gurney, his Spider-Man suit shredded, exposing deep gashes across his chest and abdomen. His skin was pale, and his body unnaturally still, impaled on a length of rusted rebar that had pierced him clean through. Blood seeped onto the sheets beneath him, a cruel reminder of how close he was to the edge.
"He's coding!" a nurse shouted, her voice rising above the cacophony.
"Charge the paddles!" one of the doctors barked.
Gwen's breath caught in her throat as the defibrillator's ominous whine filled the air. They pressed the paddles to his chest, Peter's body jerking violently before collapsing back onto the table. Nothing. His heart monitor remained a flat, unyielding line.
"Again!" the doctor demanded.
Another surge of electricity coursed through Peter's frame. Still nothing.
The door behind Gwen burst open, and a security guard stepped forward. "Ma'am, you can't stand here. Please-."
"I'm not leaving!" Gwen snapped, her voice cracking as she glared at him. The man hesitated, recognizing the mix of desperation and authority in her tone, then nodded silently and stepped back.
Inside the ER, the lead doctor shook his head grimly. "Time of death—" he began, but his words were cut off as the monitors beside him flickered erratically. A low hum filled the room, and Peter's body tensed, just for a moment, before going still again.
"What was that?" a nurse whispered, glancing nervously at her colleagues. The lead doctor frowned but dismissed it as a power surge.
With a heavy sigh, the doctor gave the final pronouncement. "Time of death: 10:47 p.m."
The words hit Gwen like a physical blow. She stumbled back, her vision blurring as her phone buzzed in her hand. She blinked rapidly, focusing on the screen. Mary Jane. Her thumb hovered over the answer button for a moment before she swiped up, pressing the phone to her ear.
"Mary Jane," Gwen began, her voice trembling, "I—I need to tell you something."
"What is it, Gwen?" MJ's voice was curt, tired. The years had hardened her, and her relationship with Peter had long since disintegrated into distant memories she'd rather not revisit.
"It's Peter," Gwen managed. "Something happened. He… he didn't make it."
A long pause followed. Gwen could hear the faint clatter of dishes on the other end of the line, the sound of MJ setting down whatever she'd been holding.
"Don't," MJ said finally, her tone icy. "Don't call me about him."
"But-."
"Enough, Gwen!" MJ's voice cracked, a mix of anger and something more brittle, pain. "I told you, I'm done with him. I don't care what happened, and I don't want to know. Do you hear me?"
Gwen's voice faltered. "MJ, please…"
The line went dead with a sharp click, and Gwen stared at the phone in disbelief. Her legs buckled, and she slid to the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall of the hospital corridor.
Behind the glass, the medical team wheeled Peter's lifeless body out of the ER and down the hall. A nurse hesitated as she passed Gwen, her expression sympathetic but detached. "They're taking him to the morgue," she said softly before continuing on.
Gwen sat there, her world reduced to the muffled echoes of her own thoughts. Peter Parker, her friend, her ally, her anchor, was gone.
But as the hospital doors closed behind the stretcher carrying Peter's body, none of them noticed the faint ripple beneath his skin. A black, liquid-like substance pooled briefly at the edges of his wounds before vanishing into his body, leaving no trace of its presence.
The hours dragged like shards of broken glass, cutting into Gwen's sense of reality. Every minute blurred into the next, leaving her disoriented, numb, and adrift. She moved mechanically through the sterile corridors of the hospital, each step heavier than the last.
"I need to see him," she had said to the nurse. Her voice was calm, too calm—hollow and void of the usual fire that drove her.
The nurse hesitated. "Are you sure?" she asked gently. "It's... not easy to—"
"I said I need to see him," Gwen interrupted, her tone firm, though her trembling hands betrayed her fear.
The nurse gave a reluctant nod and gestured for Gwen to follow. The walk to the morgue felt endless. The walls seemed to close in around her, the fluorescent lights overhead casting cold, clinical shadows. Every sound—footsteps, distant voices, the hum of machinery—was muffled, like she was hearing it all underwater.
At last, they arrived. The nurse pushed open the heavy double doors, revealing the morgue's sterile, lifeless interior. Rows of metal drawers lined the walls, their cold surfaces gleaming under the harsh lights. A single stretcher sat in the center of the room, draped in a stark white sheet.
Gwen stopped in the doorway, her legs frozen in place. Her heart pounded against her ribs, threatening to shatter her fragile composure. She didn't want to move closer, but she had to. Her mind screamed for her to turn and run, but her body betrayed her, carrying her forward step by agonizing step.
The nurse moved to the stretcher and hesitated before looking back at Gwen. "Are you ready?"
No. She wasn't. She would never be ready.
But she nodded.
With careful hands, the nurse pulled back the sheet, revealing Peter's body. Gwen's breath caught in her throat. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as she stared at him.
His face was pale, too pale, the faint freckles that once dusted his cheeks now drowned in the ashen hue of death. His lips were slightly parted, and his hair, normally tousled with life, lay limp and matted against his forehead. But it wasn't his face that made her knees buckle.
It was the gaping hole in his chest.
The rebar had been removed, leaving a cavernous wound that exposed the raw, ruined remains of muscle and shattered bone. The surrounding tissue was charred and jagged, as if the explosion that had torn through him carried with it a malevolent force. It was grotesque, unnatural, and undeniably real.
She reached out a trembling hand, stopping just short of touching him. Her fingers hovered above the stillness of his form, desperate for any sign of warmth, any spark of life. But there was nothing.
Her legs gave way, and she sank to her knees beside the stretcher. "No," she whispered, shaking her head as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "No, no, no. This... this isn't real. It can't be real."
Her chest heaved with silent sobs as she stared at him, her mind a storm of memories—his laugh, his crooked smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about science or cracked one of his terrible jokes. All of it was gone. All of it reduced to this cold, lifeless shell.
The nurse placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Take all the time you need," she said softly before stepping out of the room, leaving Gwen alone with her grief.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours, time had lost all meaning. Gwen stayed on the cold, tiled floor, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she tried to steady her breathing. The raw, primal ache in her chest threatened to consume her, but she clung to the last shreds of her composure.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," she murmured, her voice cracking. "You were supposed to... to be stronger. To survive. You're Spider-Man. You're not supposed to die."
But the gaping wound in his chest told a different story, a brutal, undeniable truth.
Her phone buzzed again in her pocket, pulling her back to the present. She ignored it. She couldn't bear to face anyone right now, couldn't bear to explain what had happened, couldn't bear the hollow words of comfort they would offer.
She reached out once more, her hand trembling as she gently brushed a strand of hair from Peter's forehead. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
As the words left her lips, she felt a faint, almost imperceptible tremor beneath her fingertips. Her breath hitched, and she jerked her hand back, staring at him in disbelief.
But his body remained still.
Her mind must have been playing tricks on her. She was exhausted, shattered, and drowning in grief. It was impossible, wasn't it?
"Get it together, Gwen," she muttered, her voice shaking. "He's gone. He's gone, and there's nothing you can do."
But as she turned to leave, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. The air in the room felt heavier now, charged with an energy she couldn't explain. She cast one last glance at Peter's body before walking out, the door closing softly behind her.
In the silence of the morgue, the faintest ripple passed beneath Peter's skin, the black liquid shifting subtly, hidden deep within his lifeless form.
…
The morgue was a solemn and sterile space, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that illuminated the space.
Peter Parker's body lay motionless on a cold metal table, zipped inside a black body bag. The room was quiet save for the faint hum of the air conditioning, a stark contrast to the emotional storm that had unfolded earlier.
Aunt May had been here. Gwen had been by her side, holding her as she wept inconsolably, her grief spilling over in broken whispers and trembling hands. They had both left shattered, the weight of Peter's death pressing down on them like a suffocating fog.
Now, the coroner stood alone in the morgue, a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. He was an older man, seasoned but weary, the kind of person who had seen enough death to believe he'd become numb to it. Yet, as he unzipped the body bag, an uneasy feeling stirred in the back of his mind.
The zipper hissed open, revealing Peter's face. The coroner frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head. The young man looked... too perfect. His skin was unblemished, his features peaceful, as though he were merely sleeping. The ragged, torn Spider-Man suit he'd been wearing was gone, replaced instead by simple, nondescript clothing: black boots, dark pants, and a plain gray hoodie. The coroner hadn't dressed him, nor had anyone else mentioned a change of clothes.
"Strange," the coroner muttered, leaning closer. He adjusted his glasses and reached for his penlight, his practiced hands steady as he began to examine the body.
He started with Peter's chest, where the massive, gaping wound from the rebar should have been. But there was nothing. No scars, no bruises, no sign that Peter had ever been injured. The coroner's frown deepened as he ran his fingers over the smooth, unbroken skin. It was impossible.
"What the hell...?" he murmured.
He stepped back, flipping through the chart on his clipboard. According to the ER report, the body had been impaled, the wound catastrophic. There was no way anyone could survive, let alone heal, from such an injury. Yet here he was, standing over a body that seemed completely unscathed.
He turned toward the desk to double-check the records when a loud clatter broke the silence. The clipboard slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor as his head snapped toward the source of the sound.
The body.
Peter was sitting upright on the table.
The coroner froze, his breath caught in his throat as the young man turned his head slowly, scanning the room with sharp, calculating eyes. There was something off about the way he moved—too fluid, too precise, like a predator sizing up its surroundings.
Peter's gaze locked onto the coroner, and for a moment, his face was unreadable. Then, as the coroner took a cautious step closer, he saw it, a brief, almost imperceptible flash of red in Peter's eyes. His pupils seemed to contract unnaturally, and his teeth glinted faintly, sharper than they should have been.
"Who the hell are you?" Peter asked, his voice low and guttural, carrying an edge that made the coroner's stomach churn.
The coroner stumbled back, his hands raised defensively. "I, I'm the coroner," he stammered, his voice shaking. "You... you were dead. You shouldn't be-"
Peter's head tilted slightly, his piercing gaze narrowing. "Dead?" he repeated, his tone cold and biting. "I don't feel dead."
The coroner swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to process what he was seeing. "You... you were brought in hours ago. No pulse. No vitals. You were-."
"Stop," Peter snapped, cutting him off. The sharpness in his voice made the coroner flinch. "What is this place?"
"It's... the morgue," the coroner said hesitantly, his voice trembling. "You... were pronounced dead."
Peter swung his legs over the side of the table, his movements smooth and deliberate. He planted his feet on the floor, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stood. The coroner took another step back, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief.
Peter's hands gripped the edge of the metal table, his knuckles whitening with the pressure. His breath came in slow, measured bursts, but his movements betrayed a growing agitation. The coroner stood frozen, his back pressed against the cold wall, too stunned to speak.
Peter's head dipped, his tousled hair shadowing his face. His jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened until the faint sound of metal groaning under his grip filled the room.
"Who…" His voice was low, barely a whisper, but it carried a weight that made the coroner's stomach drop. "Who am I?"
The coroner blinked, unsure if Peter was speaking to him or to himself. "Y-You're Peter Parker," he said cautiously, his voice trembling. "That's what they said when they brought you in-."
Peter's head snapped up, his sharp gaze locking onto the coroner. "Peter Parker," he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. His expression twisted, frustration and confusion warring in his eyes. "That's who I'm supposed to be?"
"Yes," the coroner stammered, gripping his clipboard tightly as though it could shield him. "You're-."
"Then why…" Peter cut him off, his voice rising in both volume and intensity. He staggered forward a step, his hand flying to his temple as though trying to claw through a fog in his mind. "Why don't I remember?!" He doubled over slightly, his breathing sharp and ragged. "Why is it just… nothing?"
The coroner took a cautious step back, watching as Peter's posture tensed. "It's... it's probably the trauma," he said hesitantly. "You were-."
"Dead!" Peter snapped, straightening abruptly, his voice a guttural growl. He jabbed a finger at the coroner, his eyes flashing red for an instant. "That's what you said. Dead. Gone. Pronounced. Then why-!" His words faltered, a guttural sound escaping his throat. He clutched at his chest, his voice breaking. "Why am I here? Why am I… like this?"
The coroner's breath hitched, the man now too terrified to respond. Peter's hand fell from his chest, and he stared at the coroner, his expression teetering between despair and fury.
"Who am I?" Peter's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, trembling with emotion. "Why don't I… remember anything?" His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms as his head tilted back. "Who the hell am I?!"
The coroner flinched as Peter's shout echoed off the tiled walls, the raw anguish in his voice sending a chill down his spine. Peter's breathing came fast and shallow, his chest heaving as he paced in uneven steps, his movements like that of a caged animal searching for an escape.
Peter turned back toward the coroner, his face a mask of torment. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice ragged. "Tell me who I am! Why does it feel like there's something… something crawling under my skin, like I'm not even… me anymore?"
The coroner stammered, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "I, I don't know! You were brought in like any other case! I don't know what's happening to you!"
Peter's body tensed, his hands curling into claws at his sides. For a moment, he looked ready to lash out, his eyes narrowing and his breathing ragged. Then, just as suddenly, he stilled. His shoulders slumped, and his head dipped, his voice trembling as he muttered, almost inaudibly, "Neither do I."
The tense silence in the morgue was shattered by the shrill ring of the wall phone. The sudden noise startled Peter, his head snapping toward it as if it were a threat. His body reacted instinctively, his muscles coiling like a spring.
Without warning, his arm convulsed, an unnatural ripple passing through his flesh. The skin on his forearm warped and twisted, veins bulging and turning black as jagged, crimson streaks shot through them. The transformation spread like wildfire, his hand stretching and splitting into a mass of writhing, viral tendrils that coalesced into a grotesque, oversized weapon.
The blade was monstrous, gleaming with an organic sheen, as though it were alive. Its surface pulsed faintly, black and red veins running across the sharp, muscular edges. The weapon extended across the room with terrifying speed, slamming into the concrete wall above the phone with a deafening crack. The impact sent a violent shockwave through the room, causing the coroner to stumble back against a cabinet. The phone exploded into a shower of sparks and plastic shards, the ringing replaced by a high-pitched whine of destruction.
Peter stared at the weapon in stunned silence, his breathing ragged as his newly-formed arm remained embedded in the wall. The viral blade quivered slightly, as though savoring the destruction it had wrought, before retracting with a sickening, slithering motion. The tendrils unraveled, pulling back into Peter's arm until it returned to its normal form, smooth and unmarked.
The coroner's legs gave out, and he slid to the floor, his back pressed against the cold metal cabinets. His wide eyes darted between the smoldering wreckage of the phone and Peter, whose chest heaved as he stared at his arm with a mix of horror and disbelief.
"What… what the hell was that?" the coroner whispered, his voice shaking.
Peter didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on his hand, his fingers trembling as though the limb no longer belonged to him. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he stumbled back, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.
"What's happening to me?" he muttered, his voice barely audible. He turned his hand over, flexing his fingers as if testing their reality. "What… what did I just do?"
The coroner inched toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate, his survival instincts overriding his professional curiosity. "Listen," he said shakily, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "I don't know what's going on, but-."
Peter's head snapped toward him, his eyes glowing faintly red for the briefest moment. The coroner froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he saw something primal, something predatory, flicker across Peter's expression.
"I didn't mean to," Peter said, his voice unsteady. His arm tensed again, and for a moment, the coroner thought the grotesque transformation might repeat. But Peter took a deep breath, forcing his hand down to his side as he clenched it into a fist. "I didn't mean to…" he repeated, his tone softer now, tinged with a desperate, fractured plea.
The coroner swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to comprehend what he had just witnessed. "You… you need help, perhaps SHIELD," he said carefully, his voice trembling. "You need-."
Peter turned to him sharply and raised an eyebrow in genuine confusion. "What's SHIELD?" he asked, his tone sharp but curious, like someone encountering an alien word for the first time.
The coroner froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His mind raced as realization dawned, Peter Parker, a man who should have known all about SHIELD's involvement in New York's affairs, had no idea what he was talking about. The implications were staggering. This wasn't just amnesia or trauma. This… thing didn't know the world it was standing in.
The coroner's silence lingered, and Peter's gaze narrowed, the faint red flicker returning to his eyes. "I asked you a question," Peter said, his voice edged with impatience. The tension in the room was ready to snap at any moment, a precarious balance on the verge of collapse.
…
The rhythmic hum of helicopter blades faded into the distance as Nick Fury stepped out of the black SHIELD SUV parked outside the hospital. His trench coat swirled in the cool night air, and his single eye scanned the scene with practiced efficiency. Around him, SHIELD agents moved with military precision, securing the perimeter and clearing civilians from the area. The hospital loomed above, its windows glowing faintly in the dim light.
Fury's comm unit crackled to life. "Director Fury, we've secured the morgue. The coroner is alive, but he's shaken up. No sign of the subject—yet."
Fury's jaw tightened. "And the scans?" he asked, striding toward the cordoned-off ambulance where a small cluster of agents were gathered.
"Disturbing, sir," came the clipped reply. "We're running detailed bioscans now."
Fury reached the ambulance and stepped inside, his gaze immediately locking onto the figure sitting on the gurney. It was Peter Parker—or at least, it looked like him. The young man sat hunched over, his hoodie pulled tight around him as though he were trying to make himself small. His hands rested on his knees, his posture unnaturally stiff, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to sit like a human.
"Talk to me," Fury ordered.
Agent Hill handed him a datapad, her expression grim. "We managed to get a close-range scan when he exited the morgue. At first glance, we thought it was Peter Parker. The face, the general build… it all checks out. But when we dug deeper…" She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Well, take a look."
Fury's eye darted across the datapad's screen, his brows knitting together as he processed the information. The bioscan displayed a rotating 3D model of the subject, but instead of a normal human anatomy, the interior was… wrong.
"What the hell am I looking at?" Fury muttered, zooming in on the model.
The agent monitoring the scans chimed in, his voice tense. "Sir, his entire body is composed of a... a mass of viral tendrils. They move together like they're part of a hive mind. No bones, no organs, no traditional cells of any kind."
Fury's eye narrowed as he studied the shifting patterns on the display. The tendrils pulsed and coiled, almost like a swarm of living organisms tightly packed into a humanoid shape. They seemed to flow and adjust with each subtle movement the subject made, maintaining the illusion of muscle and skin.
"And it's all… centralized?" Fury asked, his tone measured.
"For now," the agent replied. "The mass is holding together, but it's not bound by any recognizable biological structure. If it wanted to… disperse…" He trailed off, the implications clear.
Fury's gaze flicked to the ambulance, where Peter, or whatever this thing was, sat silently, his head tilted as though listening to a conversation no one else could hear.
"What about his behavior?" Fury asked.
"He's responsive," Hill answered. "He speaks coherently, seems confused but not violent, so far. However…" She glanced at the ambulance uneasily. "The coroner reported an… incident. Something about his arm transforming into a weapon and destroying a phone."
Fury's grip on the datapad tightened. "A weapon," he repeated.
"Black and red," Hill confirmed. "Organic. It extended across the room and impaled a concrete wall before retracting back into his arm."
Fury's jaw clenched as he handed the datapad back to Hill. He took a slow step toward the ambulance, signaling the agents to hold their positions. "Let me guess," he said, his tone heavy. "The coroner also said something about glowing eyes and sharp teeth."
Hill nodded grimly. "Yes, sir."
Fury stopped just outside the ambulance, his gaze fixed on the figure within. "Peter Parker," he said, his voice carrying an authoritative edge. "Or whoever you are. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"
His shadow stretched long under the flickering streetlights, his gaze fixed on the figure sitting just inside. Peter, or whatever this thing was, shifted slightly, his posture unnervingly relaxed. He raised his head slowly, meeting Fury's one good eye with a stare that froze the air between them.
In that moment, Fury felt something he hadn't experienced in years: a chill. It crawled down his spine, primal and undeniable, like the air had grown too thin, and the world itself had tipped slightly off-kilter. The thing sitting in the ambulance wasn't just looking at him—it was evaluating him, the way a predator sizes up its prey. There was a hunger in its gaze, not for food, but for something deeper, something more unsettling.
Peter's lips twitched, forming a faint, humorless smirk. His eyes gleamed faintly, not glowing exactly, but catching the light in a way that made them seem far too sharp, too alive. Fury's fingers tensed, hovering near his sidearm, but he forced himself to hold steady.
"Well?" Fury demanded, his voice firm despite the growing unease gnawing at him.
Peter tilted his head slightly, as if considering Fury's question. His smirk widened just enough to expose teeth, normal, at first glance, but there was something faintly wrong about them. The edges seemed sharper, almost serrated, as though his mouth were just waiting for the right moment to reveal something far more dangerous.
"Honestly?" Peter said, his voice low and deliberate, carrying an edge that made the words feel like a threat. "I don't remember anything about anything." His gaze flickered, a faint crimson hue pulsing in his irises for just a heartbeat before it was gone. "So do me a favor…"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone darkening, every syllable laced with venom.
"...and fuck off."
The words hung in the air like a gunshot, stark and final. Fury's jaw tightened, his instincts screaming at him to draw his weapon, to order the containment team forward, to do something. But he didn't move. He didn't need to. The thing in front of him wasn't attacking, yet, and there was a part of him, a deeply buried instinct, that told him provoking it would be a very bad idea.
Instead, Fury straightened, his expression unreadable, though his mind raced. "Alright, Parker," he said coolly, his voice measured. "You don't remember. That's fine. But if you think I'm walking away from this, you're dead wrong."
Peter's smirk faded, his expression darkening as he sat back against the edge of the gurney. "Do what you want," he muttered, his gaze turning distant, as though Fury was no longer worth his attention. "Just stay out of my way."
Fury stepped back, giving a subtle signal to the nearby agents to hold their positions. He turned to Hill, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Keep your eyes on him. I don't care what it takes, satellites, drones, a goddamn psychic, this thing doesn't leave our sight."
Hill nodded, but her expression mirrored Fury's unease. "Understood, sir. But… what if we can't contain it?"
Fury's gaze lingered on Peter, who was now staring at his own hands, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration. "Then we better hope we can figure out what it wants before it decides it doesn't need us anymore."
…
Nick Fury stood at the center of SHIELD's mobile command post, a room alive with the glow of monitors and the murmur of agents working at breakneck speed. On the largest screen, a grainy security feed looped, showing the moment Peter Parker was caught in the explosion. The detonation sent debris flying, and amidst the chaos, the faint glint of a small, cracked vial was barely visible. Fury's gaze lingered on it as he folded his arms.
"Pause it there," Fury ordered, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
The image froze, zoomed in on the vial lying amidst shards of glass and rubble. A faint biohazard symbol glared back at them, partially obscured by a faded logo. An agent worked quickly to enhance the image, and within moments, the letters became clear: OSCORP.
Fury's eye narrowed, and he turned to Agent Hill. "Tell me we've got a paper trail on this thing."
Hill nodded and gestured to a nearby console. "It wasn't easy, sir. The records were buried under layers of red tape, but we managed to piece together a history." She tapped a few keys, and the timeline of the vial's movements appeared on the screen.
"Start talking," Fury said, leaning forward.
Hill began. "The vial dates back to the early days of Oscorp, long before Norman Osborn rebranded himself as the Gold Goblin. It was part of an experimental series of biological projects, classified under something called Project Apex. The records don't say much, but the few details we uncovered suggest it was some kind of adaptive viral research. Self-replicating, self-healing, and..." She hesitated.
"And what?" Fury pressed.
Hill sighed. "Self-aware, sir. At least, that was the intent."
The room fell silent for a moment before she continued. "The project was scrapped before it reached any official trials. Early experiments were... let's just say disastrous. Oscorp didn't destroy it outright, though. Instead, the vial was stored in a secure black site and shuffled between facilities over the years. Some were Oscorp-owned, others... not."
"Not?" Fury raised an eyebrow. "You mean the government."
Hill nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. The vial was flagged as a potential bioweapon and ended up in the hands of a few shadowy agencies for safekeeping. It stayed in deep storage for decades, until about a year ago."
"What changed?"
Hill tapped the screen again, pulling up a more recent report. "Norman Osborn found out. When he transitioned to his new role as the Gold Goblin, he began auditing Oscorp's old projects, trying to clean house. When he saw what this was, he pushed to have it destroyed immediately. But it wasn't that simple."
"Why not?" Fury asked.
Hill shrugged. "Bureaucracy. Paperwork. The usual nonsense. The vial was still in transit between black sites, and getting it back to Oscorp required a lot of approvals. Osborn finally got it moved to New York a few weeks ago, but he never got the chance to dispose of it."
Fury frowned, his gaze returning to the frozen image of the vial on the monitor. "Let me guess. That's when the Sinister Three got involved."
Hill nodded. "Shocker, Electro, and Vulture. They hit the convoy moving the vial to Oscorp. No evidence they even knew what they were stealing, just that it was valuable. The explosion that caught Parker happened during their escape attempt."
Fury's jaw tightened. "So, they accidentally unleashed something even Oscorp was afraid of. Great."
"Not just Oscorp," Hill added. "If the records are accurate, this thing was classified as a global threat. Even Osborn, who, let's not forget, used to be one of the most dangerous men alive, wanted it wiped off the map."
Fury stepped back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "So now it's not just out there—it's walking around in Peter Parker's skin. And we still don't know what the hell it's capable of."
Hill glanced toward the monitors displaying Peter's recent scans. "It's worse than that, sir. If the vial really was self-aware, then whatever infected Parker might not just be a virus. It could be..."
Fury finished the thought, his voice low and grim. "Alive."
The weight of his words settled over the room. For a moment, even the constant buzz of the command center seemed muted.
"Alright," Fury said finally, his voice sharp and decisive. "I want everything we have on Project Apex. Dig into Oscorp's archives, cross-reference with every black site that touched it, and get me a full report. I don't care how deep you have to go, find me the whole damn picture."
Hill nodded. "Understood, sir."
Fury turned back to the frozen image of the vial, his eye narrowing. "And get me Osborn. I don't care what cape he's hiding under these days. He's going to answer some questions."
…
The SHIELD conference room was cold and clinical, a far cry from the opulent offices Norman Osborn was accustomed to. He sat at the long metal table, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he sifted through a stack of old, weathered documents Fury had placed in front of him.
Fury stood at the other end of the room, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Agent Hill hovered near the door, her posture tense as she kept a wary eye on Osborn.
"This isn't some random virus," Fury said, his voice cutting through the silence. "You made it, Osborn. You're going to explain what the hell it is and how we stop it."
Osborn shook his head, his eyes darting across the faded pages of his own notes. The logo at the top of each page was a stark reminder of a different era: an older Oscorp insignia, the kind used during the company's most ethically dubious days.
"I didn't…" Osborn muttered, his voice trembling. "I mean, I, he, the Goblin, made this." His fingers gripped the edges of one page tightly, his knuckles whitening. "But it wasn't supposed to go anywhere. There was only ever one vial. Just one."
"And now it's loose," Fury said, his tone sharp. "We've already seen what it's done to Peter Parker. He's alive, but barely human. His entire body is a mass of viral tendrils, and whatever you cooked up, it's wearing him like a suit."
Osborn flinched visibly at the words, his shoulders hunching as though the weight of his past sins were pressing down on him. "You don't understand!" he said, his voice rising. He shoved the papers aside, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Fury's. "This isn't merely a virus! It's not even a symbiote virus!"
Hill exchanged a glance with Fury, her hand inching toward her sidearm. "Then what the hell is it?" she asked, her tone cautious.
Osborn's voice dropped, trembling as he spoke. "It evolves. It's psychic, adaptive beyond anything we've ever seen. And worse… if it ever consumes someone else, anyone else, it gains their memories. Their abilities. Everything."
Fury straightened, his face darkening as the implications hit him. "What do you mean… consumes?"
Osborn's breath quickened, his hands fumbling through the stack of documents. He yanked out a page covered in scrawled handwriting and chemical diagrams, his fingers trembling as he pointed to a highlighted section.
"It doesn't just infect," he said, his voice frantic. "It assimilates. Consumes organic material to fuel its evolution. It… it absorbs everything, flesh, bone, neurons, and integrates it into itself. The more it consumes, the more powerful it becomes. The more…" He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The more intelligent."
Hill's face paled as she took a step back. "You're telling us this thing can eat people and… what? Become them?"
Osborn nodded shakily. "Not just become them. Surpass them. It doesn't just copy, it improves. The memories, the skills, the traits, it uses everything it absorbs to evolve further." He clutched the papers tightly, his eyes wide with fear. "It wasn't supposed to survive outside the lab. I designed it to break down within days if it escaped containment."
"Clearly, your failsafe didn't work," Fury said, his voice cold. "So now we've got a walking biological nightmare running loose in New York."
Osborn buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled but desperate. "You don't understand… The Goblin wasn't just playing with bioweapons. This was his answer to a symbiote, a creature that wouldn't just bond but dominate. It was supposed to be contained, locked away forever. I didn't even remember it until you brought me here!"
Fury leaned over the table, his tone low and dangerous. "Well, you better start remembering, Osborn. Because if this thing decides to start 'consuming,' we're all screwed."
Osborn looked up at Fury, his face pale and drenched in sweat. "It's already started," he said quietly. "If Parker's body is… intact, it's because it's learning. Testing its limits. But if it feels threatened, if it's pushed too far…"
He trailed off, his eyes darting toward the stack of documents, as though the answers might leap off the page.
Hill broke the tense silence. "How do we stop it?"
Osborn hesitated, his lips trembling. "I don't know if you can," he admitted, his voice cracking. "If it's already bonded to Parker, it's no longer just the virus. It's… him. And if you kill it…" He shook his head. "You'll kill what's left of him, too."
Fury straightened, his face unreadable. "Then you've got one job, Osborn: find us a way to separate them. I don't care what you have to do or who you have to talk to. Fix it."
Osborn nodded weakly, his hands trembling as he clutched the old documents. "I'll try," he whispered. "But if this thing evolves any further…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Fury turned to Hill, his voice low and grim. "Put him under constant surveillance. If he so much as breathes funny, I want to know about it."
Hill nodded, already signaling to the nearby agents. Fury turned back to Osborn, his gaze cold. "And Osborn? If you're hiding anything else, anything, you better tell me now. Because if this thing gets out of control, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Osborn didn't respond. He just stared at the papers in front of him, his mind racing as he tried to unravel the horrors he had unleashed.
…
The SHIELD helicarrier loomed high above the clouds, its secure conference room filled with some of the most powerful individuals on the planet. Nick Fury stood at the head of the table, flanked by Agent Hill and Spider-Gwen, who remained quiet but visibly tense. Across the table sat representatives of the X-Men, Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Logan, and Magneto, alongside a contingent of Avengers, including Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor. On the far side of the room, Nathaniel Essex, better known as Mister Sinister, leaned casually against the wall, his smirk as infuriating as ever.
Fury's voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "Thank you all for coming. I wish it were under better circumstances, but we've got a situation that affects all of us."
He tapped a button on the console in front of him, and a holographic image appeared above the table. It was Peter Parker, or what was left of him. The 3D model showed the writhing mass of viral tendrils beneath his skin, shifting and pulsating in a way that made even the hardened veterans in the room uneasy.
"This," Fury began, "is Peter Parker. Or at least, it was Peter Parker. Now, it's something else entirely. We're dealing with a bioengineered virus that has completely replaced his body's cellular structure. No bones, no organs, no traditional cells. Just this… thing."
Jean Grey's expression tightened, her telepathic senses brushing against the edges of the projection. "It's alive," she said softly, her voice tinged with unease. "It's not just viral—it's sentient."
"More than sentient," Fury replied. "It's psychic, it's adaptive, and it's dangerous. Norman Osborn calls it Project Apex. According to him, it evolves by consuming organic material—people, to be exact, and it gains their memories, abilities, and more."
The room fell silent, the weight of Fury's words sinking in. Logan growled low in his throat, his claws twitching instinctively. "So what you're sayin' is this thing eats people and becomes 'em? That about right?"
Fury nodded grimly. "Exactly. And it's already bonded with Parker. The longer it stays in control, the more dangerous it becomes."
Before anyone could respond, the door slid open, and Peter, or the virus wearing his face, stepped into the room. He was flanked by two SHIELD agents, their
as they guided him to a seat at the far end of the table. Peter's movements were fluid but slightly unnatural, as though he were still getting used to his own body.
His gaze swept across the room, taking in each individual with an unsettling intensity. He tilted his head as he locked eyes with Logan, then Jean, Scott, and Magneto. His nose wrinkled slightly, and a faint, humorless smile tugged at his lips.
"Who are these inbred fuckers?" Peter asked, his voice cold and biting. He gestured vaguely toward the X-Men with a dismissive wave of his hand. "They smell like that guy over there." He jabbed a thumb in Mister Sinister's direction, his expression darkening. "What's the deal? Family reunion?"
The room froze. Jean's eyes widened, Scott's jaw tightened, and Magneto's typically calm demeanor faltered. Logan's claws extended halfway before he caught himself, his sharp gaze locked onto Peter as he sniffed the air again.
"Kid," Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous, "you'd better explain yourself real quick."
Peter's smirk widened, the faint crimson glow returning to his eyes. "Oh, don't play dumb, Wolverine. You reek of whatever he is," he said, pointing again at Sinister. "It's faint—real faint, but it's there. Like bad cologne."
Logan's nostrils flared, and he took another cautious sniff. "He's lyin'," Logan said firmly, his claws fully retracting. "I don't smell anythin' besides this… thing." He gestured toward Peter.
Jean, her voice trembling slightly, spoke up. "He's not lying, Logan," she said, her telepathic abilities brushing against Peter's mind. "Or at least, he doesn't think he's lying. He… he senses something we can't."
Sinister, who had remained silent until now, finally let out a low, amused chuckle. "Oh, how delightful," he said, his grin widening as he leaned forward. "It seems our little guest has quite the nose for bloodlines. Fascinating."
"Shut it, Essex," Magneto snapped, his voice hard. His piercing gaze turned to Peter. "What exactly do you mean by 'smell'? Be precise."
Peter shrugged, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual defiance. "It's not just smell," he said, tapping his temple. "It's like… layers. Echoes. You all reek of him, like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit together but came from the same box." His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his expression softened into something almost human.
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he tapped a finger against his temple. His smirk faded, replaced by an unsettling intensity that made even the hardened heroes in the room shift uneasily. His crimson-tinged gaze swept over Logan, Jean, Scott, and Magneto before flicking back to Sinister, who watched the scene with thinly veiled amusement.
"It's not just smell," Peter began, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "It's like… layers. Patterns. I can see it when I look at you." He gestured toward Sinister, his tone dripping with disdain. "That guy's genes—they're in all of you. It's like a shadow cast over your DNA."
The room fell silent, the weight of Peter's words sinking in. Jean's breath hitched, her telepathic senses flaring as she tried to make sense of what he was saying.
"And it's not just his genes," Peter continued, his gaze narrowing. "It's like... a signature. A mark." He tapped his forehead. "You've all got it. Right here. A faint diamond-shaped imprint in your brains, just like the one on his forehead."
Logan growled low in his throat, his claws twitching. "Kid, you'd better not be screwin' with us."
"I'm not," Peter said coldly, his eyes locking onto Logan's. "I don't need to. I can see it plain as day. He copied you. Implanted his genetic material in all of you. It's part of you now."
Sinister's smirk widened, his crimson eyes glinting with interest. "Oh, how delightful," he purred, leaning forward. "You're quite perceptive for a fledgling construct. I must say, this is fascinating—"
"Shut up!" Peter snapped, slamming a hand on the table. The viral tendrils under his skin rippled visibly, their movement sending a chill through the room. He turned his glare back to the X-Men, his voice laced with frustration. "And whatever process he used? It's rotting you."
Jean's face paled, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "What do you mean… rotting?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Peter shrugged, almost dismissively. "Your DNA. It's falling apart. Breaking down at the seams. Even if you've only gone through it once, it's like a ticking time bomb. Eventually, you'll lose control of your powers. Your bodies will start to collapse from the inside out." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You'll end up like… rotting corpses."
Scott's jaw tightened, his fists clenching. "That's not possible. We've been through the resurrection process dozens of times, and-."
"It's already happening," Peter cut him off, his voice sharp. "You just don't know it yet. But him…" He jabbed a thumb toward Sinister, his expression darkening. "He knew."
All eyes turned to Sinister, whose smirk had faded into a thin line. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a faint tension in his movements, a predator suddenly caught in the spotlight.
"What the hell is he talking about, Essex?" Magneto demanded, his tone icy.
Sinister chuckled softly, though the sound lacked its usual confidence. "Well," he drawled, "it seems our young viral friend here has stumbled upon a rather... inconvenient truth."
"Enough with the games, Sinister," Jean snapped, her voice trembling with barely-contained anger. "Is he right? Did you know this would happen?"
Sinister's eyes flicked between the furious faces around him, his grin returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Define 'know,'" he said airily. "I may have… theorized certain long-term effects. But let's not forget, darlings, that all great progress comes with its risks."
"You son of a-!" Logan growled, lunging forward, but Jean's telekinetic grip held him back.
Peter's smirk returned, though it was colder this time. "There it is," he said, his voice low and mocking. "The mental plans I picked up from him were clear as day. He knew what he was doing. He just didn't care." His gaze shifted back to the X-Men, his tone dripping with disdain. "So maybe ask yourselves, how much of you is still you? And how much is just his leftovers?"
The room erupted into chaos. Logan roared, struggling against Jean's telekinesis as Magneto's metal manipulation caused the table to groan under the strain. Scott's visor glowed ominously, and even Captain America looked visibly unsettled.
Through it all, Peter sat back, his arms crossed, watching the storm he had unleashed with a detached expression. "And you thought I was the monster," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Fury slammed his hands on the table, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip. "Enough! All of you!" The room stilled, though the tension remained thick enough to cut with a knife.
Fury's single eye locked onto Sinister. "We're not done here," he said coldly. "But first, we need to deal with this virus. So everyone gets their heads in the game, or we're all going to end up as footnotes in this thing's evolutionary history."
The room fell into uneasy silence, the weight of Peter's revelations hanging heavy in the air. Sinister's smirk returned, faint but infuriating as always, as he leaned back and steepled his fingers.
"Let's just hope," Sinister said, his tone sickeningly sweet, "that Parker here doesn't decide he likes the taste of mutant genes."
The tension in the room hit a breaking point as Sinister's smug comment hung in the air, his words as sharp as the smile spreading across his pale face.
But Peter—or the thing that wore his face—stopped smirking. His expression darkened, his features tightening into something cold and unreadable. The transformation was subtle at first, just a faint stillness that spread across his body, as though every muscle had frozen in place. His crimson-tinged eyes locked onto Sinister, unblinking, unwavering.
The room grew eerily silent. Even Logan, claws half-extended, froze mid-movement. Everyone else exchanged uneasy glances, their gazes flicking between Peter and Sinister, who appeared unnerved for the first time, his grin faltering.
Peter didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared at Sinister with the focus of a predator waiting to strike. Seconds dragged into what felt like hours as the air in the room grew heavy, oppressive.
Finally, Peter broke the silence, his voice low, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.
"Okay…" he said, the word hanging like a death knell. "…I'm going to eat you now."
Before anyone could react, Peter's head exploded into a mass of writhing black and red tendrils. They surged across the table with horrifying speed, the sound of their movement like wet leather dragged over steel. Sinister's expression twisted into shock, but he had no time to respond. The tendrils pierced his skull in an instant, burrowing deep and coiling around his head like a nest of serpents.
Sinister screamed, his voice gurgling and wet as the tendrils pulsed and tightened, dissolving his head and upper body into a black, steaming slurry. His body convulsed once, then collapsed into an unrecognizable heap, leaving only the faint scent of burnt flesh and ozone in the air.
The tendrils retracted just as quickly as they had struck, slithering back into Peter's form with a sickening squelch. His head reformed seamlessly, the black and red tendrils knitting back together until his face was once again the picture-perfect likeness of Peter Parker. He blinked once, as if nothing had happened, and adjusted the sleeve of his hoodie.
The room was deathly silent. Every eye was fixed on Peter, wide with shock and horror. Fury's hand hovered near his holster, his knuckles white. Logan's claws were fully extended now, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to process what he had just seen. Jean pressed a hand to her mouth, suppressing a gasp, while Scott instinctively positioned himself between her and Peter.
Peter looked up, his gaze meeting Fury's. His expression was eerily calm, as though the horrific act of consumption had been nothing more than a casual conversation. He gestured lightly with his hand, a faint smile returning to his lips.
"Please," he said, his tone polite, almost cheerful. "Continue."
The words broke the spell. Fury's jaw tightened, his voice a low growl as he addressed the room. "Nobody moves. Nobody says a damn thing."
Peter tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. "What? He was annoying." He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, as if daring anyone to challenge him. "Besides," he added casually, "you don't need him anymore. He was just going to lie to you anyway."
Fury didn't lower his hand from his weapon, his voice sharper now. "And what exactly do we need you for?"
Peter tilted his head, his crimson-tinged eyes gleaming with something dark and calculating. The faint smile on his face widened, taking on an edge of mockery as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. The silence in the room was suffocating, the tension a knife's edge ready to snap.
"Oh, Fury," he began, his tone dripping with condescension, "I'm so glad you asked. It's like you're all children, sitting here with no idea what kind of sandbox you've been playing in. Let me make it simple for you."
He raised a finger, holding it up as if giving a lecture. "Number one: Resurrection isn't real." He let the words hang for a moment, savoring the stunned silence. "It's just cloning. Copy-paste bodies with memories stuffed in like old data on a corrupted USB drive. The original you? Gone. Dead. Every time one of you 'comes back,' it's just a shiny knockoff. Sinister knew it. He designed it."
Jean's breath hitched, and Scott's fists clenched. Logan growled low in his throat, his claws twitching, but Peter didn't even look at him.
"Number two." Peter raised another finger, his voice growing colder. "He had a plan. A long-term, meticulous, insane plan. Over the next 2,000 years, every mutant on Krakoa was going to become… him." His gaze flicked toward Magneto, who stiffened visibly. "He was going to overwrite your DNA, one resurrection at a time, until every single one of you was just another Sinister clone, walking around thinking you're still you."
The table erupted into murmurs of shock and outrage, but Peter's voice cut through it like a blade.
"Don't believe me? Check your genetics. The cracks are already there."
He raised a third finger, his tone becoming almost amused now, as though he were recounting an absurd story. "Number three: He already succeeded." He gestured to himself, his smile widening. "When I consumed him just now, I got a little glimpse of his future self. That smug bastard managed to pull it off. He turned the entire mutant population into his little puppet army."
Jean's face paled, and she instinctively gripped Scott's arm for support. Fury's gaze darkened, his hand still hovering near his weapon, though he hadn't drawn it—yet.
"Number four," Peter continued, raising another finger, his voice now tinged with disgust. "The mothers. Every time someone went through the resurrection protocols? He made damn sure they never knew that their children, their fetuses, were lost in the process. You've been lied to. They've been lied to. And Sinister just… conveniently kept that little detail to himself."
Magneto's hands clenched, the metal in the room groaning faintly as his anger rippled outward. Jean looked on the verge of tears, her mind racing as she tried to process the weight of Peter's words. Even Logan seemed shaken, his claws fully extended now as he glared daggers at the spot where Sinister had stood moments ago.
"And finally," Peter said, raising a fifth finger, his smirk fading into something colder, more menacing. "Number five: He planted a bomb in all of your heads."
The room erupted in gasps of shock, but Peter raised his hand, silencing them with a sharp gesture.
"Oh, not the kind you're thinking of. It's much more subtle than that," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "It's organic. Part of your brain tissue. Built into your very selves every time you come back from the dead. You can't see it. You can't feel it. But it's there. And he had the trigger, just waiting for the right moment."
The silence that followed was deafening. The weight of Peter's revelations hung over the room like a guillotine, the implications too horrifying to fully grasp. Fury's jaw tightened, his eye narrowing as he took a deliberate step forward.
"And how do you know all this?" Fury asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Peter shrugged, leaning back in his chair as if the question was beneath him. "I ate him," he said simply, his tone almost casual. "And let me tell you, his mind was… messy. But the memories? The plans? All there. So, you're welcome." He gestured toward the room, as though expecting applause. "I just saved you all from living under Sinister's thumb for the rest of eternity."
Fury's voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold. "And what's stopping you from being worse?"
Peter's smirk deepened, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering in his crimson-tinged eyes as he regarded Fury's question. For a moment, he let the tension in the room hang, savoring the weight of it. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his intertwined fingers like a predator playing with its prey.
"I'm curious," he said, his voice smooth and unsettlingly calm, "to see how this will all turn out."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping across the room, lingering on the horrified and angered expressions of the X-Men and Avengers. His smirk widened, now cold and mocking.
"And besides," Peter continued, his tone darkening just enough to make the hair on the back of their necks stand up, "I rather like the looks on your faces when you realize just how far you've been tricked. The betrayal, the anger, the disbelief, it's all so… human. It's fascinating."
The room remained silent, the tension suffocating, as Peter leaned back in his chair again, his posture relaxed but his eyes betraying the calculated menace beneath the surface. He looked almost thoughtful now, his expression softening in a way that felt unnatural coming from him.
"But…" His voice dropped slightly, tinged with something almost resembling sincerity. "In spite of what you may believe, this isn't just for me. It's not just about curiosity or amusement."
He paused, his gaze drifting for a moment, becoming distant as if recalling something deeply buried. "I remember someone," he said softly. "Someone who was in that morgue with me. Someone who didn't leave me alone when I was laying there... dead, someone who I remember touched this face, as I became… aware of someone else."
The room fell utterly silent, every eye fixed on him, the weight of his words hanging like a storm cloud. Spider-Gwen, who had been standing near the edge of the room, stiffened visibly. Her breathing hitched as her hands clenched at her sides, her mind flashing back to that moment, the cold, sterile morgue, Peter's lifeless body, the overwhelming grief that had threatened to consume her.
Peter's eyes flicked toward her, locking onto hers with a piercing intensity that sent a chill down her spine. For a moment, his smirk softened into something unreadable, his expression almost... human.
"In a way," he continued, his voice steady, "I'm doing this for her. She's earned that much."
Gwen's heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and unease. She opened her mouth as if to speak but found no words. Her mind raced, replaying those agonizing moments in the morgue, wondering how much of Peter, the real Peter, was still inside the thing sitting before them.
The others exchanged glances, the unease in the room growing. Fury's jaw tightened, his eye narrowing as he studied Peter carefully, weighing his words.
"And what happens," Fury said finally, his voice sharp, "when you decide she's not enough to stop you?"
Peter's smirk returned, colder this time. He stood, the movement slow and deliberate, his hands resting lightly on the table as he leaned forward slightly.
"I guess we'll find out," he said, his tone laced with menace and dark amusement. Then, without another word, he turned and began walking toward the door, leaving the room in stunned silence.
As he reached the exit, Peter glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Gwen's once more. "You'll figure it out," he said softly, almost to himself. Then he disappeared through the door, leaving behind a room full of shaken heroes and a silence thick with unanswered questions.
The room remained deathly silent after Peter left, the faint sound of the door clicking shut reverberating like a gunshot. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on everyone, suffocating and oppressive.
Finally, Logan broke the silence, his voice a low growl. "What the hell was that?" His claws were still partially extended, his nostrils flaring as if he could catch Peter's scent even through the walls.
Jean sat rigid in her chair, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her temples. "I… I don't know," she admitted, her voice shaking. "Whatever that thing is, it's not Peter anymore. It's something… something worse."
"Something worse than Sinister," Scott muttered, his voice tight. He crossed his arms, glancing toward the blackened smear on the floor where Sinister had been consumed. "Which I didn't think was possible until about five minutes ago."
Fury, still standing at the head of the table, exhaled slowly and rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger. "We're dealing with something unpredictable," he said, his tone sharp but controlled. "It knows too much, it's dangerous as hell, and worst of all, it's toying with us."
"Toying?" Magneto's voice cut through the tension, his tone cold and sharp. His hands rested on the table, metal objects around him faintly trembling with his restrained anger. "That thing just delivered a masterclass in everything Sinister was hiding, all while reminding us it could kill any one of us without a second thought. It's not toying, Fury. It's dominating."
Spider-Gwen, who had been standing near the wall, finally stepped forward. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and her voice was quiet but baring a seriousness. "He… he remembers me," she said, her words trembling. "Peter, whatever's left of him, he remembers that I was there in the morgue."
Logan frowned, his sharp gaze cutting to her. "You think that's what's keepin' him from tearin' us all apart? Some memory of you?"
Gwen hesitated, her fists clenching. "I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe. But if he remembers me, maybe he remembers more. Maybe there's still a part of Peter in there."
Jean shook her head, her voice heavy with dread. "That wasn't Peter. Not anymore. Whatever he is now… it's using those memories, twisting them. It's not him."
"Then why didn't he kill us?" Gwen shot back, her voice rising as she stepped closer to the table. "He could have killed us all right then and there, but he didn't. He warned us. He told us everything Sinister was planning. Why would he do that if there wasn't a part of Peter still in there?"
"Because it's a game to him," Scott said bitterly. "That thing doesn't care about us. It doesn't care about anyone. It's playing with us, keeping us off-balance. Everything it said—it wasn't for our benefit. It was for his."
Thor, who had been silent until now, spoke up, his voice a rumble of controlled fury. "This… creature… spoke of curiosity, of watching us squirm. I have seen such beings before, ones who revel in their power over mortals. They do not kill outright because they enjoy the torment of knowing they could."
Gwen looked at him sharply, her fists tightening. "You're wrong," she said, her voice shaking but baring more force now.
"I know Peter. I knew Peter. And I know what I saw in there. He might not be the same, but he's not… completely gone."
Fury's voice cut through the growing argument, cold and commanding. "It doesn't matter what's left of Parker," he said. "What matters is what that thing can do. And right now, we don't have a plan for stopping it."
Magneto leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze fixed on Fury. "Do you even intend to stop it, Director? Or are you planning to make it your next weapon?"
Fury's jaw tightened, his single eye narrowing. "I don't work like that, and you know it. But let me be clear: if it steps out of line, if it becomes a threat to the world, then I'll do whatever it takes to neutralize it."
"Neutralize it," Magneto repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "A curious word for something that just dissolved one of the most dangerous men alive without breaking a sweat."
"Better question," Logan said, leaning forward, his claws tapping the table. "What do we do if we can't stop it? If he decides to 'eat' anyone else?"
The room fell silent again, the weight of that question settling over everyone like a shroud. Jean finally broke the quiet, her voice quiet but filled with dread. "If it consumes anyone else, it gets stronger. Smarter. And if it consumes someone like us…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
"Then we'd better pray it doesn't come to that," Fury said grimly. His gaze swept over the room, landing on each of them in turn. "Because if it does, we might not be able to stop it."
…
J. Jonah Jameson stormed into the Daily Bugle's bustling newsroom, the floor trembling slightly under his heavy steps. Clad in his usual gray suit and suspenders, his face was a mask of fury and disbelief, with his trademark cigar clenched tightly between his teeth. The air was electric with the buzz of reporters scrambling to meet deadlines, but the tension skyrocketed the moment Jameson barked out his first order.
"Parker's alive?!" he roared, slamming a stack of newspapers onto a nearby desk. The headlines screamed across the page: "Spider-Man Dead… Then Alive? Mystery at the Morgue!" and "Witness Claims Peter Parker Seen After Being Pronounced Dead!"
Robbie Robertson, standing nearby with a coffee mug in hand, sighed heavily. "Jonah, you've got to calm down—"
"Calm down?!" Jameson interrupted, pointing a finger at him like an accusation. "You want me to calm down when I've got people calling in saying they saw Parker, blown to bits and IMPALED, sitting on an ambulance like nothing happened? And then what? He just walks away?!" He snatched one of the papers from the stack and waved it in the air. "We're supposed to be the ones breaking the news, not chasing rumors like some two-bit tabloid!"
Robbie set his coffee down, his expression measured. "Jonah, the footage is real. We verified it. Someone caught him on their phone. He was there, sitting on the ambulance. And now, with everything coming out about Krakoa and resurrection…" He trailed off, glancing toward a nearby TV.
The newsroom's televisions were all tuned to major news outlets, each one broadcasting heated debates about the growing global backlash against Krakoa. Panels of talking heads argued vehemently about the ethics of mutant resurrection, the implications of Sinister's secrets, and the ripple effect it was having across the world. The words "CALL FOR SANCTIONS" and "BAN RESURRECTION" scrolled across every chyron.
Jameson followed Robbie's gaze, his scowl deepening. "Of course, they're blaming the mutants!" he snapped, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Because why not? Can't trust a mutant, can you? Always hiding something! And now, thanks to Sinister, the world thinks all of them are playing God!"
"Jonah," Robbie warned, his tone sharp. "Careful where you're pointing that finger. Not every mutant's like Sinister."
Jameson stopped pacing, glaring at Robbie. "I know that, Robbie, but you think the rest of the world cares? No! This is all they need to throw the whole lot of them under the bus! And now we've got Parker tangled up in this mess?!" He threw his arms in the air, exasperated. "A kid who, for all we know, got caught in the middle of a mutant conspiracy and turned into some kind of Frankenstein monster!"
Betty Brant, peeking over the top of her computer, cleared her throat hesitantly. "Uh, Mr. Jameson? There are reports saying it's… not really Peter anymore."
Jameson whipped around, fixing her with a glare. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
Betty shrank slightly but pressed on. "The SHIELD report, they're saying whatever's walking around looking like Peter isn't… human. It's some kind of virus or mutation. People are calling it a threat. Some are even saying it's tied to Krakoa's resurrection protocols."
Jameson froze, his cigar nearly falling out of his mouth. For a brief moment, the newsroom held its collective breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
"A threat?!" Jameson bellowed, slamming his fists on the nearest desk. "Are you telling me the same kid who risked his life over and over to save this city is now being called a threat because some science experiment went sideways?!"
Robbie stepped forward, his tone calm but baring the seriousness of the situation. "Jonah, think about what you're saying. If Parker's been… changed, people are going to be scared. Especially with everything coming out about Krakoa. They're not going to care about who he was. They're only going to see what he is now."
Jameson's face turned red, his voice dropping into a low, angry growl. "They'll see what I tell them to see. Parker's no monster. I don't care what the rumors say, this is a kid. A kid who's been through hell and back. And if SHIELD or the government or anyone else tries to make him into a scapegoat for mutant politics, they'll have me to deal with."
"Jonah…" Robbie began, but Jameson wasn't finished.
"And as for Krakoa," he said, jabbing a finger at the TVs, "let the politicians fight over sanctions and bans and whatever else keeps their ratings up. But we've got a story here, Robbie—a real story. Not just about Parker, but about the truth. People deserve to know what really happened, not just what these talking heads think happened."
He straightened, adjusting his tie and planting his hands on his hips. "Betty! I want a front-page story on Parker by the end of the day. None of this 'monster' crap, focus on who he was, what he's done for this city. Make them remember the man, not the rumors."
Betty nodded, already typing furiously. "Got it, Mr. Jameson."
Jameson turned to Robbie, his expression grim. "And find out everything we can about this Krakoa mess. If Sinister's been playing God and lying to everyone, I want it exposed. Every dirty secret, every cover-up. We're not letting him or anyone else drag Parker's name through the mud."
Robbie gave a faint smile, shaking his head. "You know, Jonah, sometimes you surprise me."
"Don't get used to it," Jameson snapped, grabbing his cigar and storming back toward his office. "And someone get me a damn coffee! We're burning daylight!"
As the newsroom buzzed back to life, Robbie glanced back at the TV, his smile fading. The headlines hadn't changed. The world was turning against mutants, against Krakoa, and against resurrection. And somewhere out there, Peter Parker, or whatever he'd become, was walking a dangerous line between savior and monster.