Marvel: Viral

by abcd12344321

During a fatal accident involving a runaway vehicle containing viral cargo, Peter Parker meets his end. Only to wake up in the morgue hours later with hardly any memory of his life, and a few new, abilities. The question everyone is asking is, is this really Peter, or is it the virus that consumed his body and mind, 'Apex?

10. Chapter 10

Marvel: Viral

Chapter 10: Beast, and Developing Feelings

…

The SHIELD team, flanked by Iron Man and She-Hulk, approached the sprawling industrial complex on the outskirts of the city. The facility's exterior was deceptively mundane, a crumbling warehouse with rusted gates and faded signage. Inside, they knew, was a production line for Viral-EMP bombs and the highly flammable DNA-masking aerosol.

Iron Man hovered a few feet above the team, his sensors scanning for any activity. "Heat signatures on the ground floor and the east wing," Tony Stark reported, his voice sharp over the comms. "Heavily armed. Expect resistance."

She-Hulk cracked her knuckles. "Resistance or not, we're shutting this place down."

As they breached the doors, chaos erupted. Guards armed with high-tech rifles fired immediately, and the SHIELD agents returned fire, pinning them behind rows of stacked crates. The facility buzzed with activity as alarms blared. Machines churned, assembling weapons and aerosol canisters at breakneck speed.

Then, amidst the firefight, Peter, Apex, appeared. His viral mass rippled with fluid precision as he moved through the fray. Tendrils lashed out, disarming guards and pulling them into the air before pinning them to walls. His form seemed to flow, moving with an almost mechanical efficiency as he dismantled the facility's defenses.

"Looks like someone got here early," She-Hulk muttered, ducking behind cover.

Tony's suit scanned Peter's movements. "Early? Try halfway through the job. He's already taken down half their manpower."

Then came the retaliation.

"Deploy the Viral-EMPs!" one of the guards shouted.

Tony's HUD lit up as he saw a group of guards hurling small, spherical devices toward Peter. "EMP grenades! Take them out!" he barked.

Two of the bombs flew toward Peter, glowing ominously. Tony fired his repulsors, catching one mid-air and disarming it before it hit the ground. The second was intercepted by She-Hulk, who smashed it into scrap with a single swing of her fist.

But three more slipped past their defenses.

The bombs detonated with blinding flashes of blue light. The electromagnetic pulses rippled through the air, striking Peter's viral mass. His tendrils spasmed wildly, slamming into machinery and walls as an inhuman roar erupted from his core. The ground beneath him cracked, and sparks flew as his convulsing body collided with live wires and equipment.

She-Hulk shielded her eyes. "What the hell are those things doing to him?"

Tony's suit was blaring warnings as he analyzed the scene. "They're scrambling his cellular network... no, his subatomic structure! I've never seen anything like this. It's like they're trying to tear him apart from the inside."

Peter staggered, his form writhing as his glowing veins flickered erratically. For a moment, it seemed as though the Viral-EMPs might succeed. His tendrils retracted, his mass shrinking as if struggling to contain itself.

Then, with a guttural growl, Peter stabilized. His tendrils snapped back out, slamming into the remaining guards and destroying a section of the production line. His voice, layered with an unsettling resonance, echoed through the warehouse.

"That tickled," he said, almost mocking. "Let's not do that again."

Tony scanned him again. "Hold up, his structure's stabilizing. It's like... he's absorbing the disruption."

Before anyone could react, two more Viral-EMP bombs were hurled at Peter. They detonated near him, releasing another wave of electric-blue energy. This time, however, Peter didn't flinch. His form remained steady, the tendrils undulating calmly as the pulses washed over him.

"What the hell?" She-Hulk muttered.

Tony's readings went haywire. "Wait... this doesn't make sense. His subatomic structure-?!" He paused, his voice tinged with disbelief. "It's changing. The virus just rewrote itself. It adapted to the EMPs."

Peter's glowing crimson eyes flickered as he turned toward Tony. "What can I say? I'm a fast learner."

Tony's suit began recalibrating. "That's not just fast, that's terrifying. It didn't just adapt, it's like it made the EMPs obsolete."

Peter stepped forward, the remaining guards dropping their weapons and scrambling to surrender. His voice was calm, almost detached. "You might want to rethink your plans next time. I'm not going anywhere."

As SHIELD agents secured the facility and confiscated the remaining weapons and aerosol stockpiles, Peter stood amidst the wreckage, his form eerily calm. His tendrils swirled gently around him, as if testing the air.

Tony approached cautiously. "You want to explain what just happened there? Because those EMPs should have at least slowed you down."

Peter turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "They did. For a moment. Then my strands figured them out. They won't work again."

Tony's helmet retracted, his face a mix of amazement and unease as he stared at Peter. "Okay, I need to hear that again," he said, pointing a gauntleted finger at the viral entity. "You're telling me that your virus, the one literally making up your body, just rewrote itself to make subatomic adjustments?"

Peter tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing in thought. "Yeah," he replied casually. "That's... pretty much what happened."

Tony gawked at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? We're not talking about normal biology here, Parker. This is the subatomic realm. That's not something you just... tweak."

Peter's tendrils rippled slightly, his posture remaining calm as he folded his arms. "Look," he said, gesturing lightly, "I'll make it simple for you. The virus that makes up my body? It's sentient. And it can rearrange its structure all the way down to the subatomic level."

Tony's jaw dropped, but Peter wasn't finished.

"That's how I manipulate my weight and density on the fly," Peter continued, his voice matter-of-fact. "If I didn't, I'd weigh... oh, I don't know, 80 tons? Maybe more."

"Eighty..." Tony trailed off, blinking in disbelief. "Eighty tons?"

Peter shrugged, his tendrils curling and uncurling in an almost playful manner. "Give or take a few tons. Depends on how many extensions I've deployed at the time. You know, like the crows, the cat, the K9. They all factor in."

Tony ran a hand through his hair, his mind clearly racing. "You're telling me you've basically got a constant, adaptive control over your entire mass... all the way down to the subatomic realm?"

Peter gave him a faint smirk. "Yep. That's how I keep from, you know, breaking every floor I step on. Or crushing cars when I jump on them. Or snapping my enemies in half just by bumping into them."

Tony stared at him, clearly unsure whether to be impressed, horrified, or both. "That's... not just biology anymore," he muttered. "That's physics. That's quantum physics."

Peter leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. "And yet, here I am. Viral physics. Go figure."

Tony sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You're like a walking scientific anomaly."

Peter straightened, his smirk fading into a more neutral expression. "I'm aware. Believe me. But this 'anomaly' is why I can adapt to stuff like those EMPs." He gestured to the damaged equipment around them. "It's not just survival, it's... how I'm wired."

Tony rubbed his temples, his brain still working overtime to process everything. "I've got to get this into a lab somehow."

Peter chuckled softly. "Good luck with that. The virus doesn't exactly like to sit still."

As Tony tried to wrap his head around what he'd just learned, Peter turned toward the nearest exit. His tendrils rippled once more before retracting into his body.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Peter said over his shoulder, "I've got some things to clean up before I check in with the other groups."

…

Peter had barely taken a step toward the exit when he suddenly froze mid-stride. His entire form stiffened, his tendrils halting their subtle movements as if every fiber of his being had gone on high alert.

Tony's head snapped up at the change, his eyebrow raiding in alarm. "What is it?"

Peter's crimson eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as his voice dropped into a low, dangerous tone. "The three Weapon-V's."

The room seemed to grow colder as everyone stopped what they were doing, turning to look at him.

"They're here," Peter continued, his head tilting slightly as if listening to something only he could hear. "All three... converging on this location."

"Converging?" Tony echoed, his tone rising in alarm. "Where? How close?"

Peter's gaze shifted, as if he could see through the walls and far into the distance. "Close. Too close. I can see their DNA..." His voice trailed off before sharpening again. "North, east, and southeast sides. They're closing in fast."

Tony's face paled, and he immediately activated his helmet. "Great. Just what we need."

Nearby, She-Hulk growled under her breath, her green fists clenching. "Three? You're sure about that?"

Peter nodded, his glowing eyes never losing their sharp intensity. "Positive. Each of them has Hank McCoy's handiwork all over their genetic markers. And they're not trying to hide it—they want me to know they're coming."

"They're trying to box us in," Tony said, pulling up a holographic map and marking the directions Peter had identified. The markers formed a rough triangle around their location. "Classic pincer formation. They're smart."

Peter's tendrils rippled, his form shifting slightly as if preparing for battle. "Smart's not going to save them." His voice was cold, and for a moment, the viral entity seemed more predator than man.

"What are we dealing with, exactly?" one of the SHIELD agents asked, his voice wavering slightly.

Peter glanced at him, his tone blunt. "Three biological weapons. Clones of Logan. Covered in flexible, non-magnetic adamantium. Faster, stronger, and tougher than the originals."

She-Hulk grimaced. "So, basically walking tanks."

"Walking tanks with claws," Peter corrected. "And they're not here for any of you. They're here for me."

Tony's systems beeped as new readings began lighting up his HUD. "I've got them on thermal," he confirmed. "North and southeast are about two minutes out. The eastern one... is closer."

"Good," Peter said, his tone laced with grim determination. "Then I'll start there."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Tony interrupted, stepping in front of him. "We need to handle this carefully. These things were built to take you down."

Peter's crimson eyes flickered faintly as he processed the situation, his tendrils rippling with restrained energy. "I'll rewrite their brain chemistry," he said flatly, his voice calm but unwavering.

Tony blinked, his HUD scanning Peter for signs of sarcasm and finding none. "Rewrite... their brain chemistry?" he repeated, incredulous. "You're just going to tweak the neural pathways of three highly advanced biological weapons?"

Peter nodded, his expression unreadable. "In theory, I could do it if I could reach their ears. The control mechanisms are in their brains, overriding their frontal lobes. If I can get my tendrils into their auditory canals, I can target the parts of their minds that are still Logan. Start those up, and they'll be free from the programming."

She-Hulk raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound easy."

"It won't be," Peter admitted, his gaze narrowing. "But it's the best shot we've got to neutralize them without killing them."

"Assuming they don't rip us all apart first," Tony muttered.

Peter straightened, his tendrils snapping into position like coiled whips. "Alright," he said, his tone shifting into one of command. "Here's the plan."

The room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to him. Even Tony stopped his grumbling, watching Peter with a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

"We play defense," Peter continued, his voice steady. "Deal with them one at a time. Focus on keeping them contained until I can get close enough to override their programming."

"And if you can't?" She-Hulk asked bluntly.

"I can," Peter said with unwavering certainty. "But I'll need you to keep them off me long enough to work. The moment I make contact, they'll be vulnerable. That's when you hit them with everything you've got."

Tony frowned. "And what happens if one of these things gets past us?"

"They won't," Peter said simply. "But if they do..." He glanced at She-Hulk and Tony. "Your job is to keep the others busy. Don't let them converge on me while I work. The more separated they are, the better our chances."

She-Hulk rolled her shoulders, a grim smile tugging at her lips. "Sounds simple enough."

Tony sighed, activating his repulsors. "Simple isn't the word I'd use, but fine. Let's get to it."

Peter took a deep breath, his glowing eyes locking onto the holographic map. "The eastern one is closest. I'll engage it first. Once it's free, it might even help us take down the others. But I'm going to need you all to hold the line."

"And if they're too far gone?" She-Hulk asked, her tone heavy.

Peter's tendrils coiled tightly, his crimson gaze flashing. "Then we make sure they don't hurt anyone else."

Without another word, Peter turned toward the exit, his tendrils snapping against the floor like whips as he moved. The others exchanged uneasy glances before following him, their weapons and powers at the ready.

…

The Logan clone thrashed wildly, his metallic skin glinting under the dim lights of the warehouse. His andamantium-infused muscles flexed with terrifying strength, making the SHIELD agents holding him down strain against his furious resistance. Two agents per limb grappled with the clone, sweat pouring down their faces as they fought to keep him from breaking free.

Peter's tendrils lashed out, wrapping tightly around the clone's torso like unyielding chains. He positioned himself over the snarling, animalistic figure, his crimson eyes glowing with eerie intensity.

"Hold him still!" Peter commanded, his voice sharp and calm.

"We're trying!" one agent snapped, his face red with exertion. "This guy's got the strength of a freight train!"

Peter ignored the remark, his focus locked on the thrashing clone. His thumbs morphed into thin, writhing tendrils, which he carefully aimed at the clone's ears. The clone snarled, snapping his teeth and bucking harder as Peter's tendrils burrowed deep into his auditory canals.

The reaction was immediate. The clone howled in fury, his entire body convulsing as the invasive tendrils began their work. The agents holding him down gritted their teeth, their muscles straining against his violent movements.

"Almost there," Peter murmured, his voice distant. "Just... a little longer."

The clone's thrashing gradually began to subside. His growls softened into low, guttural noises, and his powerful limbs stopped jerking against his restraints. A few moments later, Peter retracted his tendrils, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied the clone's face.

The andamantium Wolverine blinked slowly, his eyelids clicking faintly as the metallic layers slid over his glowing, dazed eyes. He groaned, his voice hoarse and thick. "What... the hell happened? Feels like someone took a jackhammer to my skull."

Peter straightened, stepping back to give him room. "We just freed you. Your mind was under someone else's control. You're back now."

The clone's glowing eyes flickered with confusion before narrowing in understanding. "I remember... bits and pieces. Couldn't stop myself. Like I was trapped in my own head."

"Now you're not," Peter said simply, turning to the other agents. "We don't have time for a debrief. The second clone is engaging She-Hulk as we speak."

One of the SHIELD agents nodded grimly. "We need to move. She won't be able to hold it on her own for long."

The metallic Wolverine flexed his fingers experimentally, his andamantium claws gleaming as they extended and retracted. "You'll need someone strong to hold it down," he said, his voice rough but steady. "If it's like me... it might help to have someone with andamantium muscles on your side."

Peter's lips quirked in a faint smirk. "Good. You're with me."

The clone nodded, his glowing eyes hardening with determination. "Let's go. I owe whoever's responsible for this some payback."

The second Weapon-V clone was a monstrous sight. Covered in andamantium-infused muscles, his metallic skin glinted as he thrashed against She-Hulk, whose green muscles strained as she held him back. Her feet dug into the ground as she growled through gritted teeth, her hands locked around his wrists to keep his deadly claws at bay.

"Little help here!" She-Hulk barked, glancing toward the team rushing toward her.

The first andamantium Logan clone launched himself into the fray, his claws extended. "On it!" he snarled, ramming into his counterpart with incredible force. The two metallic figures clashed like titans, the sound of their collision reverberating through the warehouse.

The second clone roared, his claws slashing wildly as he grappled with his former counterpart. The first clone grunted, gripping his opponent's arms and holding him in place. "Damn, this one's even stronger than I was!"

"Just keep him steady!" Peter shouted, his tendrils already rippling with purpose.

She-Hulk lunged forward, adding her considerable strength to the effort. She grabbed the clone's legs, anchoring him to the ground as the first Logan clone wrapped his metallic arms around the second's torso in a crushing grip. The second clone snarled and thrashed, but the combined strength of She-Hulk and his counterpart managed to pin him down.

"Hurry up!" She-Hulk growled. "We can't hold this forever!"

Peter stepped forward, his tendrils extending and coiling around the second clone's head like a sinister crown. The clone's glowing eyes widened in fury, and he let out a guttural roar as Peter's thumbs shifted into tendrils and plunged into his ears.

The reaction was immediate. The clone bucked and writhed, his metallic body creaking under the strain of his struggles. She-Hulk and the first Logan clone strained to keep him down, their muscles bulging with effort.

"Stop fighting," Peter muttered, his voice calm but commanding. "You'll thank me in a second."

The second clone's thrashing began to subside, his movements growing sluggish as Peter's tendrils worked their way through his neural pathways. Sparks of crimson and black energy flickered around the point of contact, and the clone's growls turned into low, confused murmurs.

A few tense moments later, Peter retracted his tendrils. The second clone blinked slowly, his metallic eyelids clicking faintly as he stared up at the ceiling, dazed.

She-Hulk stepped back cautiously, her chest heaving from the effort. "He's not thrashing anymore. That's a good sign."

The first clone loosened his grip, stepping back as well. "How do you feel?" he asked his counterpart.

The second clone groaned, rubbing his temples. "Like I just got hit by a train. Twice."

Peter crouched beside him, his crimson eyes glowing faintly. "You're free now. Whatever control they had over you is gone."

The second clone sat up slowly, his movements sluggish but deliberate. He looked at Peter, his expression a mix of gratitude and confusion. "Thanks... I think. That was... weird."

She-Hulk smirked faintly. "Weird doesn't even begin to cover it."

Peter straightened, his tendrils retracting into his body. "Rest later. We've got one more to deal with."

The second clone nodded, his glowing eyes hardening with determination. "Count me in. Let's finish this."

…

The third Weapon-V clone snarled and thrashed wildly as Peter's tendrils pierced into his ears. His metallic body shimmered in the dim light, and every movement caused the ground to tremble beneath his weight. But the combined efforts of the two freed clones, She-Hulk, and Peter's own extensions kept him pinned to the ground.

"Keep him steady!" Peter ordered as he moved into position.

The first clone grunted, his arms wrapped tightly around his counterpart's chest. "He's a fighter, all right."

"Tell me about it," She-Hulk muttered, holding the clone's legs in place with her incredible strength. "He nearly kicked me through a wall earlier."

The second clone tightened his grip on the thrashing clone's arms, his metallic muscles flexing. "Just do your thing, Apex."

Peter's tendrils flared briefly as they burrowed deeper, seeking out the control mechanisms Beast had implanted. The clone's roars turned into muffled groans, and his movements slowed as Peter's tendrils worked their way through his neural pathways. Sparks of crimson and black energy flickered around the points of contact.

Then, the thrashing stopped. The clone's glowing eyes dimmed, and his entire body went slack.

"He's out," Peter said, his voice softer now.

The freed clones eased their grip, and She-Hulk stepped back, brushing dust off her hands. "Well, that was... easier than the last one."

Peter carefully retracted his tendrils, the crimson energy fading as they returned to his body. The third clone groaned faintly, his eyelids fluttering before he slumped forward, completely unconscious.

Peter caught him before he hit the ground, his movements gentle. He lifted the unconscious clone with surprising ease and carried him over to a nearby SHIELD vehicle. Opening the door, Peter carefully set him down on the backseat, his movements deliberate as if handling something fragile.

"He's just exhausted," Peter said, glancing back at the others. "He'll be fine once he wakes up."

The two freed clones exchanged a look, their metallic features softening with relief. She-Hulk crossed her arms, nodding in approval. "Three for three. Not bad, Apex."

Before Peter could respond, his commlink crackled to life. The voice of a SHIELD agent came through, clear and urgent. "We've received confirmation from the other teams. All of Fisk's associates have been apprehended. International allies coordinated on the takedowns. It's over."

Peter digested that bit for a moment before responding. "Good. Make sure they're processed and the weapons are secured."

At that moment, Logan's voice came through the comms, rough and familiar. "We're checking in from Beast's base. We got him. Took some effort, but he's in custody."

Laura's voice followed, sharp and confident. "He was ranting about losing the control signals from all three of his precious clones. I'm guessing you had something to do with that?"

Peter glanced at the unconscious clone in the SHIELD vehicle, then back at the two standing beside him. "Yeah," he said simply. "That was us."

Gabby chimed in, her tone lighter. "Well, good job! Sounds like he's not gonna be making any more of these guys anytime soon."

Daken snorted. "Let's hope not. This whole thing's been a nightmare."

Peter's voice was steady as he replied, "It's over now. Make sure Beast stays in custody. I'll debrief Fury on this end."

Logan's tone softened. "You did good, kid. Really good."

Peter glanced at the sky, his crimson eyes glowing faintly. "We all did."

…

S.H.I.E.L.D. Command Center - Debrief Room

Nick Fury sat at the head of the table, a thick stack of reports spread out in front of him. His one good eye scanned the pages methodically, pausing occasionally to glance at the live feed on the nearby monitors. The room was filled with key figures: Jean Grey, Magneto, Nightcrawler, and several other mutants and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, all discussing the aftermath of the Weapon-V operation.

Jean Grey broke the silence first, her voice calm but focused. "The three Weapon-V clones are stable for now, but they're going to need more than just containment. They've made it clear they want to integrate into daily life."

Magneto, arms crossed, regarded her with a skeptical expression. "Integrating into daily life will be a challenge, to say the least. They're made entirely of non-magnetic adamantium from their bones to their skin cells. That alone makes them an anomaly."

Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler, chimed in, his tail flicking behind him nervously. "But they're not weapons anymore. We helped free them from that control. They have their own thoughts, their own... identities now."

Fury leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "They might be free of Beast's control, but they're still S.H.I.E.L.D.'s responsibility now. We can't just toss them into the world and hope for the best."

Jean nodded. "Agreed. They're vulnerable in their own way. They have Logan's memories, well, most of them, but there are gaps. Missing pieces that make them incomplete."

Magneto's voice was reflective and solemn. "And that incompleteness will set them apart. They'll always be seen as clones first, individuals second. If they're to live normal lives, they'll need protection and structure."

One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives spoke up hesitantly, "The problem isn't just housing. It's ensuring they're monitored without feeling like prisoners. If their adamantium bodies are as durable as reports suggest, they could survive almost anything. But what happens if one of them... snaps?"

"They won't," Jean interjected, her tone sharp. "We freed them. They've shown no signs of aggression outside of their forced programming. We can't treat them like ticking time bombs."

Fury set the report down, steepling his fingers as he addressed the room. "Housing is the immediate issue. They've made it clear they don't want to be lab experiments or prisoners. So, we need to find a place where they can live safely and adapt to life outside of a battlefield."

Jean gestured toward the monitor displaying the clones' profiles. "They've expressed interest in contributing. Helping where they can. That could mean taking part in field operations, mentoring others, or even community work."

Nightcrawler nodded. "They could be an asset. They may not have Logan's full memories, but they have his instincts. His drive to protect."

Fury frowned. "That's a double-edged sword. We integrate them into society, fine. But if they're seen as loose ends, the wrong people might come after them, mutant or human. And if Fisk or another power player gets word that we're housing walking adamantium tanks, they'll see it as an opportunity."

Jean's expression softened. "Then we protect them. Like we've done for others."

Magneto raised a brow. "You suggest putting them in the mutant apartment complexes?"

Jean shook her head. "No. That would make them targets, and it would limit their ability to find their own identities. They need neutral ground."

Storm, who had been silently listening from her seat near the end of the table, finally spoke up. "Then perhaps it's time we consider an option... off-world."

The room turned toward her, confusion etched on some faces, intrigue on others.

"What are you suggesting, Ororo?" Jean asked, her tone cautious.

"I'm suggesting we move them to Arakko," Storm replied, her voice calm but decisive. "Mars is secure, and the Arakki have more than enough space to accommodate them. They'd be far from anyone who might wish them harm, and it would give them the opportunity to live their lives in peace."

Fury arched a brow, leaning forward slightly. "You've already thought this through, haven't you?"

"I have," Storm admitted, her gaze steady. "I spoke with Apocalypse about their situation before this meeting. He's agreed to grant them land if they choose to move there. There's plenty of open terrain on the landmasses—more than enough for them to live without the pressure of the outside world, while still being close enough to maintain contact with us."

Jean tilted her head, considering the suggestion. "Arakko is remote, secure... and far enough from Earth to avoid interference from anyone like Fisk. But would they be willing to live on Mars?"

"That's their choice," Storm said. "But it's an option we should give them. On Arakko, they'd be treated with respect. The Arakki value strength, and these three have it in abundance. They wouldn't be seen as anomalies or weapons—just as individuals."

Magneto tapped a finger on the table, his tone thoughtful. "It's not a bad solution. Mars provides a level of security Earth can't match, and the lack of political entanglements would work in their favor."

Nightcrawler's tail flicked behind him as he spoke. "But how would they stay connected to the rest of us? They're new to this... life. They'll need guidance."

Storm nodded. "We can establish a system to maintain contact. Gateways can allow easy travel between Earth and Arakko when needed. And they wouldn't be isolated—Arakko has its own thriving mutant population."

Fury leaned back, his expression unreadable as he mulled over the suggestion. "Mars, huh? It's certainly out of the way. And if Apocalypse is on board, it means they'll have plenty of protection."

Jean looked at the monitor showing the clones, her expression softening. "They've been through enough. If Arakko gives them the space to heal and grow, it might be exactly what they need."

Fury exhaled sharply, nodding. "Alright. Storm, if you're confident this will work, I'll back it. But they need to agree to it first. This can't be forced."

"Agreed," Storm said, "I'll speak with them personally and explain the option. Whatever they decide, we'll honor it."

…

The courtroom was silent, save for the faint hum of lights above. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Hank McCoy, Beast, who stood in the defendant's chair, his expression devoid of remorse. His unrepentant demeanor filled the room with a suffocating tension, as though every breath drawn carried the weight of his crimes. Logan sat across from him, his claws subtly tapping on the armrest, while Jean and Bobby sat nearby, their expressions a mixture of anger and heartbreak.

Logan's voice was a low growl. "You really gonna sit there and act like none of this was wrong? All the lives you ruined—our friends, innocent people, hell, even me. You're just gonna shrug it off?"

Beast's lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. "Shrug it off? Oh no, Logan. I cherish every single moment of it. Do you have any idea how satisfying it is to operate without the chains of morality? To play the game without pretense?" He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I'm not some broken idealist. I'm what you all could never become, pragmatic."

Sage's hands clenched into fists, her usual composure slipping. "Pragmatic? You turned into a monster long before Krakoa, Hank. You cloned Logan and used him like a machine. You didn't just cross the line; you erased it."

Beast chuckled, a deep, unsettling sound. "And yet, here we are. Krakoa may be in ruins, but you still try to cling to your hollow morals. I made Krakoa what it was. I ensured its survival. And if I had to sacrifice a few-" he glanced at Logan with a sneer, "-or a few dozen, to do it, so be it."

Logan's claws extended slightly, his anger barely contained. "You don't get to play god, Hank. Not with me, not with anyone."

Beast tilted his head, his grin widening. "Oh, but Logan, I've been playing god for a long time. Longer than you realize." He turned his gaze to Jean, his tone dripping with mockery. "Ever since that time when my younger counterpart, oh, do you remember him, Jean? So full of hope and naivety, was displaced into the future?"

Jean's breath hitched, her body stiffening as memories of the time-displaced X-Men resurfaced.

"Yes," Beast continued, relishing her discomfort. "Your little group, Scott, Warren, Bobby, tried so hard to preserve the past while grappling with the future. And when my younger self died, oh, don't look so shocked, Bobby, you were there, it left me with such... freedom."

Jean's voice trembled with barely contained fury. "What are you talking about?"

Beast's eyes glinted, and a diamond-like structure began to form on his forehead, faint lines etching across his fur like fractures. His laughter filled the room, dark and triumphant. "Do you really think all those moments of sympathy, all those acts of compassion, were truly mine? Oh no. That wasn't Hank McCoy."

Jean's face paled as realization dawned.

Beast leaned back, his voice a sinister melody. "Sinister got to him, my younger self. Long before you sent us back to the past, Sinister had already tainted everything. Every action, every feeling, every shred of morality my younger self held? It was a farce. The real Hank McCoy was gone the moment Sinister laid his hands on my DNA."

Logan shot to his feet, claws fully extended. "You're lyin'. Tell me you're lyin'."

Beast's laughter erupted again, cruel and unchecked. "Oh, Logan. Do you think Sinister didn't have plans? Every move Krakoa made, every decision its council deliberated on—it was all shaped by me. By him. By us. And you played right into it."

Jean's hands trembled as she stood, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. "You, you let him manipulate everything? Even before Krakoa?"

The room was suffocating with tension, every eye locked onto the man they thought they knew. Hank McCoy—no, the creature pretending to be him—sat with a sinister grin etched across his face, his diamond-shaped emblem shimmering faintly on his forehead.

Beast's—no, Sinister's—voice slithered through the room like a snake. "Oh, you poor, naive fools," he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. "Did you really believe that the Hank McCoy you knew, your cherished 'Beast,' was still here? That he was the same man who walked into Charles Xavier's mansion all those years ago?"

Jean stepped forward, her fists clenched, her voice quaking with fury. "What are you saying? You're trying to tell us that Hank—our Hank—hasn't been here at all?"

Sinister—still wearing Hank's body—gave a slow, deliberate clap, his grin widening. "Oh, bravo, Jean. Yes, your Hank hasn't been here. Not for a very, very long time. Shall I tell you when it started? When your 'friend' ceased to exist?"

Logan's claws twitched, his rage barely contained. "Spit it out, bub."

Sinister leaned back in his chair, his eyes glittering with malice. "The early days of Xavier's dream. That's when I made my move. You see, I didn't just tamper with your DNA here and there. No, I took it all. I made a little copy of your sweet, moral Hank McCoy and kept it for myself. And when the time was right—when the stars aligned and Krakoa provided the perfect playground—I slipped into his skin."

The room erupted with shocked gasps and horrified whispers. Magneto's hands curled into fists, the metal around him groaning under the strain. Jean's face twisted with grief and fury, and even Logan took a step back, his claws retracting slightly.

Sinister's laugh was chilling, echoing through the chamber. "Oh, the things I've done with his name. The atrocities I've committed in his guise. How delicious it's been, watching you all turn against the idea of Beast, eroding the very foundation of the respect you once had for him. Every act of cruelty, every morally gray decision—it's all been me. Hank McCoy, the real one, hasn't been in control since before some of you even learned to use your powers."

Jean's voice cracked as she shouted, "You monster! You've ruined his name, his legacy!"

"Exactly!" Sinister hissed, standing abruptly. "Ruining him has been the sweetest revenge of all. Every ounce of sympathy you had for him, every shred of trust—it's gone. His name is synonymous with betrayal now, and it's all because of me." His lips curled into a twisted smirk. "And to think, I didn't even have to work that hard. Hank's brilliance, his ego—it was fertile soil for manipulation."

Logan slammed his fists on the table, his claws extending fully. "You're lyin'. Hank wouldn't let this happen."

Sinister's laughter deepened, his diamond forehead gleaming like a wicked beacon. "Oh, Logan. You think the Hank McCoy you knew could have stopped me? He was too weak, too naive. I've been wearing his skin for decades, shaping Krakoa, manipulating all of you. And now, here we are."

Jean's trembling voice cut through the noise. "Where is he?" she demanded, tears streaking her cheeks. "Where's the real Hank?"

…

The courtroom's suffocating tension deepened as Sinister, wearing Beast's form, rose, his smile widening to a cruel, gleaming crescent. He spoke, his voice venomous, calculated, and dripping with mockery.

"Oh, Jean," Sinister cooed, "your passion for the truth is as predictable as ever. But let me give you what you crave, a truth so bitter it'll curdle your idealistic little soul."

He turned to the room, spreading his arms as though addressing an audience. "You all remember Hank's younger self, don't you? Dragged forward in time by his own naive curiosity, paraded before all of you as if preserving the timeline was still possible." His diamond emblem gleamed maliciously under the fluorescent lights. "And when his younger self perished, an accident, of course, you all didn't think twice before resurrecting him. How noble. How... consistent."

Jean froze, her eyes narrowing. "What are you saying?"

Sinister's voice deepened, his words deliberate and cutting. "I'm saying that when the past Hank McCoy died and you brought him back, oh, you called it 'resurrection,' but let's not mince words, you cloned him. And when you cloned him, dear mutants, you handed me the perfect opportunity."

The realization hit the room like a thunderclap. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Sinister relished their reactions.

"You resurrected a blank slate," he continued, savoring every word. "A body built from data I'd already... edited. You reassembled a Hank McCoy you thought you knew. But he wasn't him. Oh no." Sinister's grin turned razor-sharp. "He was mine."

Jean stumbled back, her face ashen, her lips trembling. "No... that's not possible..."

"But it is, my dear Jean," Sinister purred. "All this time, every decision, every 'calculated risk' Hank ever took to protect Krakoa, every morally ambiguous experiment, it was me. Pulling the strings. And when your council debated whether to keep resurrecting people like me, it was already too late. You didn't just resurrect Hank McCoy; you resurrected me."

Logan's claws extended, his voice a hoarse snarl. "You're lyin', bub. Say it again, and I'll gut ya where ya stand."

Sinister turned, his grin unflinching. "I don't need to lie. Your precious Krakoan protocols handed me the keys. You let me in. And here we are."

Jean's fury snapped, her voice shaking the walls as she screamed, "Where's Hank?!"

Sinister's expression turned mockingly solemn. "Oh, Jean." His tone was a cruel mockery of empathy. "Hank has been gone since the past was fractured, since the boy you knew died on Krakoa before being sent back. You all-" he gestured dramatically to the courtroom, "-sealed his fate. Hank McCoy has been dead for years."

The room erupted into chaos. Jean crumbled into a chair, burying her face in trembling hands, while Logan, his claws trembling, stopped short of lunging, overcome by the weight of Sinister's words.

For the first time in years, Logan felt a pang he hadn't allowed himself to feel, grief. A deep, agonizing grief for a friend whose name had been dragged through the mud, who had been lost long before anyone had the chance to save him.

And they helped in ruining his memory.

Jean bolted from the room, tears streaming as she shoved past the crowd, her sobs echoing down the hall. Logan didn't follow. He simply stood there, his rage extinguished, staring at Sinister's smug face.

"You didn't just destroy him," Logan growled, his voice filled with a rare grief. "You made us do it."

Sinister chuckled, his laughter a symphony of cruelty. "And that, Logan, is what makes it art."

…

The soft wind of Arakko swept across the crimson-hued plains, rustling the tall, otherworldly grasses that glowed faintly under the sunlight. The three Logan clones stood near a cluster of small transport pods, their figures backlit against the alien sky. Each of them carried the burden of their shared memories differently, stoic in their silence, yet united by the weight of Logan's words.

One of the clones, the one the others had started calling Steelclaw, crouched by the edge of the field, running his hand through the dark, nutrient-rich soil. His claws, still sheathed, glinted faintly as he stared into the distance. His voice broke the quiet, rough and tinged with something like regret.

"So… it wasn't even him," Steelclaw muttered, shaking his head. "All that time… the commands, the missions, the betrayals. And it wasn't him pulling the strings."

The second clone, Blackthorn, leaned against the transport pod, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw worked like he was chewing over Logan's revelation. His adamantium claws extended and retracted in a rhythmic pattern, a subconscious habit. "Doesn't change what happened," he said, his tone flat. "We still got his memories. We still got his face. Even if it wasn't him, we wore the guilt of it all."

The third, Shard, stood apart from the others, perched atop a weathered rock formation. His claws, unlike the others, were jagged and uneven, bearing scars from the battles they'd fought as Sinister's pawns. He gazed out over the expanse of Arakko's horizon, his voice quiet and reflective. "It changes everything," he said, the words falling like stones in the silence. "He wasn't the monster we thought he was. We hated him for nothing."

Steelclaw snorted, rising to his feet. "Yeah? And what about all the hell we've been through? The missions that tore us apart? The memories, his memories, of the man he became on Krakoa?" His voice cracked slightly, the frustration boiling to the surface. "It's hard to just forget all that."

Shard glanced over his shoulder, his crimson-tinted eyes catching the sunlight. the weight of them settling between the three Logan clones as the Arakko wind brushed past, carrying with it the alien scent of flora and the faint metallic tang of the planet's soil.

Steelclaw, Shard, and Blackthorn stood in a loose circle, their gazes drifting across the horizon. The towering peaks of Arakko's distant mountains framed the crimson sky, and somewhere far off, faint streaks of lightning danced through swirling storms, an echo of the planet's untamed beauty. But in this moment, none of them spoke.

For a time, there was only the wind.

Steelclaw lowered his gaze, his hand brushing against the soil he had touched earlier. "We chose this," he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear. "We didn't ask for it, but we chose it."

Blackthorn leaned back against the pod again, this time less in defiance and more in thought. He crossed his arms, his claws glinting faintly in the waning light. "Yeah," he finally said, his tone quieter, less bitter. "We did. Apocalypse, Storm… they didn't have to take us in. They could've treated us like weapons, the way Sinister did."

Shard, who had been silent the longest, took a step closer to the others. His jagged claws clicked faintly as he flexed them, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to shake. "They didn't treat us like we were weapons. They treated us like people. Hell, like family." His voice wavered slightly. "It's been a long time since we had that."

Steelclaw looked up, meeting Shard's gaze. "And now we've got a chance to live like that. Like people. That's what Logan meant, isn't it? It's not about planting crops or running a farm. It's about choosing who we are."

Blackthorn's lips curled into a faint smirk, but there was no malice behind it. "A couple of killers trying to find peace on an alien farm. Sounds like the start of a bad joke."

Shard's laugh was soft, almost wistful. "Maybe. But it's our joke now."

The three of them fell into silence again, the air between them heavy with unspoken understanding. Slowly, as if drawn together by some unseen force, they turned their gazes toward the horizon, their eyes reflecting the twin suns of Arakko.

"We don't owe Sinister anything," Steelclaw said after a long pause, his voice steady. "But Hank… the real Hank… we owe him this. To live. To prove he wasn't what Sinister turned him into."

Blackthorn uncrossed his arms, his expression pensive. "We owe him more than that. We owe him this moment."

Shard stepped forward, planting his feet firmly in the soil. He closed his eyes, letting the alien wind wash over him. "A moment for Hank McCoy. Not Sinister. Not the lies or the manipulation. Just the man."

Steelclaw and Blackthorn followed suit, their expressions softening as they let the weight of the moment settle over them. Together, they stood there, heads slightly bowed, their silence a quiet tribute to the friend they had all lost, someone whose memories they carried, and whose name they now hoped to honor.

The wind shifted again, carrying with it the faint crackle of thunder from the distant storms. The three clones said nothing, but in that stillness, they shared an unspoken promise. A promise to Hank. A promise to Logan. And, perhaps most importantly, a promise to themselves.

When the moment passed, Blackthorn straightened, rolling his shoulders as though shedding a heavy weight. "Alright," he said, his tone lighter but still somber. "Let's get to it. We've got a farm to run."

Steelclaw nodded, glancing once more at the horizon. "And a life to live."

Shard smirked faintly, the faintest edge of hope in his voice as he echoed, "A life to live."

Together, they turned toward the transport pods, ready to take their first steps toward the future. The horizon of Arakko stretched wide before them, untamed and full of possibility. For the first time, they felt something stirring beneath the weight of their past, a flicker of freedom, and the hope that maybe, they could leave the shadows behind.

…

The courtroom was filled with murmurs and the rustling of papers, but all Wilson Fisk could hear was the slow, deliberate beating of his own heart. He sat at the defense table, his massive frame making the chair beneath him look laughably small. His face was a mask of stoic calm, but his mind was a hurricane, processing the events of the past weeks.

The judge's gavel struck wood, silencing the room. "After reviewing the evidence presented, this court finds no definitive proof linking Mr. Fisk to the creation or distribution of the DNA-masking aerosol or the viral-EMP devices. While the disruption to your facilities is noted, the prosecution has failed to provide direct ties to the defendant. As such, Mr. Fisk, this court will issue you a formal warning. However, let me make one thing clear, any future evidence of illegal activity will be pursued to the fullest extent of the law. You are dismissed."

A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Fisk's lips. He rose slowly, his towering presence commanding attention even in the victorious quiet that followed. The courtroom buzzed with whispers as he adjusted his jacket and strode out, his steps deliberate, his expression unreadable.

In the back of his armored limousine, Fisk allowed himself a moment of reflection. The past few weeks had been chaotic—a storm that even his empire had barely weathered. SHIELD raids, international sanctions, and targeted operations had dismantled several of his smaller facilities. The DNA-masking aerosol and viral-EMP bombs, once his aces in the hole, had been neutralized or flagged for scrutiny.

And Apex.

The very mention of that entity sent a cold shiver through the criminal underworld. The viral monstrosity had adapted to the EMP bombs after just two uses, rendering the devices almost laughably ineffective. Fisk still remembered the footage, the first time the EMP worked, Apex had faltered, his body convulsing as the bio-electrical disruption forced his tendrils to writhe chaotically. But the second time? Apex had barely flinched, his body regenerating mid-battle as if mocking the attempt to subdue him.

Fisk gritted his teeth. The loss of those tools was a setback, yes. But it hadn't been his undoing. The real victory was in how he'd shielded himself. Every operation, every transaction, had been scrubbed clean of his name. Shell companies, intermediaries, and layers of plausible deniability had insulated him from any direct fallout. The court's decision today was proof of that.

Still, his empire bore the scars of this war. Revenue streams had slowed, key players had been arrested or fled, and his reputation, unshakable for decades, had taken a hit. But at its core, his empire stood tall. Weakened, yes, but still standing.

Back in his penthouse office, Fisk stood at the window, gazing out over the city that had been his battlefield for so many years. The skyline glimmered in the evening light, but his eyes were drawn to the faint scars visible even from here—burnt-out buildings, construction scaffolding replacing shattered facades, and distant flickers of chaos that hinted at Apex's ongoing rampage.

His phone buzzed on the desk. He turned, picking it up and pressing it to his ear.

"Status," he said curtly.

A voice crackled on the other end, nervous but professional. "The remaining facilities have been cleared out as you ordered, sir. Anything potentially incriminating is gone. The international heat is cooling down, but SHIELD's still watching closely."

Fisk grunted. "Let them watch. They'll find nothing."

"And the assets we lost?" the voice hesitated.

Fisk's tone turned sharp. "Replaceable. We focus on what remains."

The voice stammered slightly but continued, "Understood, sir. And… Apex?"

Fisk's grip tightened on the phone. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze hardening as he looked out over the city. "He's a wild card. No weapon, no strategy can contain him for long. For now, we let him play his games. Every predator slips eventually. When he does… we'll be ready."

He ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate precision. Turning back to the window, Fisk allowed himself a rare moment of pride. The past weeks had been a trial by fire, and while he hadn't emerged unscathed, he had emerged. His empire was intact. His rivals were either diminished or eradicated by Apex's chaos. And most importantly, he remained untouchable.

In the end, it wasn't the decisive, crushing victory Fisk had envisioned. But it was still a victory. His hands were clean, legally, at least, and his empire, battered though it was, still stood atop the ashes of the competition.

Wilson Fisk smiled faintly, his reflection in the glass a silent testament to his resilience.

"A win," he murmured to himself, his deep voice cutting through the silence of the penthouse. "Even if only a partial one… it's still a win."

…

Apex, Peter Parker, stood amidst the noise and bustle of construction workers hammering, welding, and shouting instructions to one another. The old school was coming together faster than anticipated, its restored framework standing tall against the backdrop of the city. Once a dilapidated relic, the building now symbolized something far more vital: a haven for mutants, a place to grow, learn, and find purpose. Peter's hoodie, slightly tattered at the edges, rippled faintly in the breeze as he nodded to a foreman explaining the final stages of the project.

"The plumbing's set," the man said, gesturing toward a line of freshly dug trenches. "We're finishing the main wiring today, and the classrooms should be ready to move in furniture by next week. We're ahead of schedule."

Peter gave him a small nod. His crimson-tinted eyes, faintly glowing beneath his hood, flicked over the worksite. "Good. Keep pushing ahead, but don't rush it. If we cut corners, it'll show, and I'm not doing this halfway."

The foreman nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "Understood, Mr. Parker."

"Just Peter," he corrected, "I'm no 'mister.'"

The foreman gave a nervous chuckle before walking off to relay instructions. Peter lingered for a moment, letting his gaze wander across the nearly finished building. The school wasn't the only project nearing completion. Across the block, centers attached to the mutant apartment complexes were also taking shape, places where residents could train, learn, and gain skills to re-enter the workforce, should they choose. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

From behind, Nightcrawler and Pixie approached, their voices soft as they spoke. Wanda Maximoff followed close behind, her eyes reflecting quiet understanding.

"He's focused," Nightcrawler said, his tone laced with both admiration and concern.

"Too focused," Pixie replied, folding her arms. "He's throwing himself into all of this. You'd think Fisk's court ruling didn't even phase him."

Wanda tilted her head, observing Peter as he moved to speak with another group of workers. "He's keeping himself busy," she said. "Trying to make the most of it. Fisk getting a slap on the wrist… that kind of injustice eats at you. But Peter's doing what he can to channel it."

Nightcrawler's tail flicked thoughtfully. "Even so, he's carrying too much. He always does."

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the worksite began to quiet, workers packing up tools and exchanging handshakes. Peter finished his final conversation with one of the project leads, ensuring timelines were set for the next phase. With a nod of approval, he stepped back, surveying the progress one last time before turning toward the apartment complexes.

Inside, the atmosphere was lively. Mutants of all ages milled about, talking, laughing, or simply relaxing. A few greeted Peter as he walked through, their voices tinged with gratitude. He nodded in response, offering faint smiles where he could. His crow extensions—dark, writhing creatures made of his viral biomass—moved silently along the edges of the ceilings and walls, their glowing red eyes scanning every corner. They were his unseen guardians, ever watchful for signs of trouble.

Peter stopped in the main community area, where a group of young mutants were gathered. One of them, a boy with shimmering blue skin and faintly glowing eyes, hesitated before approaching.

"Mr. Parker," the boy began, his voice timid. "Uh… Peter. I just wanted to say thanks. For all of this." He gestured around the room, his expression sincere. "It… it means a lot."

Peter crouched slightly to meet the boy's gaze, his voice steady and kind. "You don't need to thank me," he said. "This place belongs to you, to all of you. I'm just making sure it's ready."

The boy nodded, a small smile spreading across his face before he scampered back to his friends. Peter straightened, his gaze lingering on the group for a moment. He could hear their laughter, their cautious hope. It wasn't much, but it was something.

…

Later that evening, Peter walked the halls of the complex, his crow extensions flowing silently behind him. The faint glow of their eyes illuminated the darkened corridors, feeding him information from every corner of the building. Security cameras couldn't catch everything, but his crows could. If Fisk, or anyone else, tried to make a move, Peter would know.

Wanda found him near the rooftop garden, where he stood silently, watching the city lights in the distance. She approached quietly, standing beside him without speaking for a moment.

"You're doing everything you can," she said softly. "Don't let this weigh on you."

Peter's jaw tightened, but he didn't turn to face her. "It doesn't weigh on me," he replied, "I don't have time for that."

Wanda frowned but didn't press further. "Fisk may have escaped this time," she said, "but he's on notice. He won't be able to hide forever."

He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the city. The crows around him shifted slightly, their glowing eyes scanning the horizon. He wasn't sure what Fisk's next move would be, but for now, he was ready, and more importantly, he had something to fight for. Something to build.

…

The apartment was quiet when Apex, Peter Parker, stepped inside, the weight of the day evident in the way he moved. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as his crimson eyes dimmed to a faint glow. The space was modest compared to the billions he had amassed in his accounts, but that suited him fine. It wasn't about luxury or excess; it was about focus, utility, and purpose.

He sank into a chair at his desk, his viral tendrils retreating beneath his hoodie. The dual monitors on the desk hummed faintly, displaying a string of recent transactions, each representing a monumental step toward solving problems others deemed insurmountable. Peter sifted through the reports, his fingers brushing lightly across the keyboard as he reviewed the impact of his actions.

Amazon Rainforest Preservation Fund
Amount: $250 Million
Apex had directed funds toward a coalition of indigenous tribes and international organizations working to combat illegal logging and preserve the Amazon's biodiversity. The money was already being used to purchase drones for monitoring, fund legal battles against encroaching corporations, and support reforestation projects spearheaded by local communities.

Cultural Heritage Exchange in South America
Amount: $100 Million
A significant portion of this donation was allocated to preserving cultural sites in countries like Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia. Apex's funds helped restore ancient ruins, support local artisans, and establish cultural exchange programs for younger generations to learn and share their heritage. Word of his generosity had spread, and messages of gratitude from local leaders had poured in.

Global Hunger Relief Initiative
Amount: $500 Million
Apex had worked through several international organizations to combat food insecurity. Funds were being used to distribute food supplies in famine-stricken regions across Africa and Asia and to support sustainable agricultural programs to prevent future crises.

Disaster Relief and Rebuilding Fund
Amount: $300 Million
For communities devastated by natural disasters, from tsunamis to earthquakes, Apex's donations had facilitated rebuilding homes, schools, and hospitals. In particular, his funding had supported relief efforts in Turkey and some other areas with responsible oversight, following recent earthquakes, providing shelter and medical aid to thousands.

Refugee Education Initiative
Amount: $150 Million
Focused on providing education to displaced children in refugee camps across the Middle East and Europe, this initiative was already showing results. Schools were being built, and teachers were being trained to provide consistent education despite the turmoil.

Peter leaned back in his chair, staring at the list. Despite the overwhelming good that these contributions were achieving, he felt no satisfaction. The world's problems were endless, and even with all his power, he couldn't fix everything. But he could make a dent. That was enough for now.

He scrolled through a series of messages and reports, including one from a preservation group in South America. Attached was a video, a group of children standing at the foot of a newly restored cultural site, holding a banner that read: Gracias, Señor Apex. They waved and laughed, their smiles genuine and infectious.

Peter's lips twitched upward in the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn't much, but moments like this reminded him why he kept going.

Over the past few weeks, the world had begun to notice his efforts. News outlets were running stories about the "viral benefactor," though most stopped short of calling him a hero. Commentators debated his motivations, some accusing him of trying to buy redemption for his violent reputation. Others, however, praised his altruism, noting that he hadn't taken credit for a single donation.

The debate didn't matter to Peter. He wasn't doing it for recognition. The money he'd amassed—trillions from bounties, confiscated criminal wealth, and his viral ingenuity—had no value to him beyond what it could accomplish for others.

He closed the laptop and glanced around his apartment, his mind drifting to the people he had seen that day. The workers at the school. The young mutants who were starting to believe they had a future. The communities around the world that were slowly rebuilding with the funds he had sent.

For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a moment to breathe.

"It's not enough," he murmured to himself, "But it's a start."

A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Racheal's voice called through. "Peter? You've been at it all day. Come out and get some air. You've earned it."

He stood, glancing once more at the video of the children. "Yeah," he said softly, moving toward the door. "Maybe I have."

…

The group of six Spider-Man variants stood in a secluded industrial yard on the city's outskirts, their figures cloaked in shadow as they exchanged hushed, urgent words. Each variant brought a unique energy to the group, but a shared unease lingered over them as they reviewed the fragmented data they had pieced together.

Spider-Man 2099 (Miguel O'Hara) paced back and forth, his blue and red suit catching the faint glow of the city lights. His talons flexed in agitation as he reviewed a holographic display projected from his gauntlet. "This doesn't make sense," he muttered, his tone clipped. "Miles's report cut out mid-transmission. He was supposed to confirm if the anomaly was dangerous, but instead, we're left with… this." He gestured at the fragmented data before them.

Spider-Punk (Hobie Brown) leaned against a rusted beam, his guitar slung across his back. His mask tilted slightly as he crossed his arms. "From what I've heard, this isn't just any anomaly. It's got the folks in the Multiversal Council rattled. A virus that can think? That can be Spider-Man? Mate, that's a whole new level of messed up."

Spider-Woman (Jessica Drew) raised an eyebrow "We need to focus. Miles mentioned a fixed point in his last message. Something to do with a virus. If it's tied to this world's Peter Parker, then whatever happened to him could be critical."

Spider-Man Noir, standing slightly apart from the group, adjusted his hat, his voice low and gravelly. "From the little I've read, this Peter Parker didn't just die—he was devoured. That's the word they're using. The virus consumed his body down to the last cell, and then… rebuilt him. Only, it's not really him, is it? It's a swarm pretending to be Peter."

"Pretending?" Spider-Ham squeaked, his cartoonish form stiffening as he stood on a crate. "That's not creepy at all. Next thing you're going to tell me is that it's planning to infect the rest of the multiverse with a wave of zombie Spideys."

"Not funny, Ham," Miguel snapped, rubbing his temples. "This isn't just some random glitch in the multiverse. There's something about this virus that makes it… different."

Miguel O'Hara clenched his jaw, his red-glowing eyes flicking through the holographic data floating before him. His talons twitched at his sides, reflecting his growing frustration. This wasn't a typical non-canon event. Something about it felt… wrong. The deeper they dug, the more the details refused to line up with anything they'd seen before.

"Not funny, Ham," Miguel snapped, rubbing his temples. "This isn't just some random glitch in the multiverse. There's something about this virus that makes it… different."

Pavitr Prabhakar (Spider-Man India), arms crossed, leaned in closer to inspect the data. His sharp, discerning gaze moved across the floating projections as his fingers drummed against his bicep. "You're right," he admitted, his normally lighthearted demeanor absent. "Most anomalies follow predictable patterns. We see a canon event disrupted, and we know what happens next. This?" He exhaled sharply. "This isn't a broken thread—it's something new entirely."

Ben Reilly (Scarlet Spider) let out a low whistle, the red hood of his suit pulled over his head. He stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sleeveless hoodie, shoulders tense. "A virus that ate Peter Parker?" His voice carried an edge of disbelief. "Man, that's a whole different kind of body horror. And now it's just… wearing him?"

Miguel nodded, his expression dark. "From what little we've recovered, that's exactly it. He was killed, burned, impaled, pronounced dead in the ER. Then, a few hours later, nothing left but…" He hesitated before continuing. "…a swarm."

Pavitr's eyebrow raised, as he read through some of the reports Miles had managed to send before going dark. "Apex." He said the name like it carried weight. "It calls itself Peter Parker, but… it's not human anymore, is it?"

Mayday Parker (Spider-Girl) had been silent up until now, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the others. Her mask's lenses narrowed as she finally spoke. "If it's got his memories, his emotions, if it still thinks like Peter… how much of him is really gone?"

Scarlet Spider let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "You're not seriously trying to say this thing is still Peter Parker, are you?" He shook his head, gesturing sharply toward the holographic display. "I've been through some clone existential crises, but this? This is something else. It's not him. It's a viral organism that thinks it's Peter."

Mayday turned to face him fully, standing firm. "And that's all we are too, aren't we? Copies of the same person, just with different circumstances? You and me, we both have Peter's memories, Peter's instincts, but we're not him either. Doesn't mean we aren't real."

Scarlet Spider stiffened at that, his mouth forming a hard line, but he didn't argue.

Pavitr nodded, his voice thoughtful. "It's a hive-mind, right? If every strand of it is connected, then Apex isn't just one being—it's an entire swarm of itself. If that's true, then it doesn't just think it's Peter… it is Peter. Or at least, what's left of him."

Miguel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The problem is, we don't know what that means. We don't know if he's dangerous, or if he's stable, or if he's waiting for the right moment to spread beyond this world."

Mayday's expression hardened. "We need to talk to him."

Scarlet Spider scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Let's just knock on his door, maybe bring him a fruit basket, and have a nice chat about how he died and got turned into a biological nightmare. I'm sure that'll go well."

Pavitr ignored the sarcasm, instead turning back to the data. "We still don't know what the 'fixed point' Miles mentioned is." His fingers traced the glowing screen, flipping through the files. "If it's connected to Apex, and we interfere the wrong way, we could make things worse."

Miguel stared at the holograms, his mind working through every scenario. "That's why we wait for Miles's confirmation before making a move. Until we know what we're dealing with, no one engages."

The dimly lit industrial yard had grown eerily quiet as the six Spider-Man variants combed through the fragments of data still pouring into Miguel's holographic interface. They had all seen horrors across the multiverse—broken worlds, ruined timelines, and the worst versions of themselves—but the more they unraveled about Apex, the deeper the silence became.

Miguel swiped through more files, each motion of his gauntlet-fed system pulling in another redacted document, another obscured report. SHIELD, the UN, even global intelligence networks had tried to classify this thing, but buried beneath all the secrecy, one file stood out. A single video feed, retrieved from an underground intelligence network, loaded onto Miguel's screen.

"Playback," he ordered.

The grainy footage flickered to life. A ruined city street, night vision and thermal imaging distorting the outlines of burning wreckage. The timestamp was weeks old. Smoke filled the air, rising from a cratered apartment complex—one that had clearly been hit by a missile strike. Sirens wailed in the background, but what captured their attention was the movement in the center of the screen.

A red-and-black mass hunched over something in the rubble. The shape twisted, shifting from tendrils to a humanoid form, crimson eyes burning like embers in the dark.

Then came the screaming.

A figure, Hellion, was still alive, barely. His suit was torn, his face bloodied, but his hands still glowed with unstable telekinetic energy as he tried to push himself backward, scrambling away from the looming entity. His voice, ragged and desperate, barely came through the muffled mic of the hidden camera.

"No, nonono, don't-!"

Apex didn't respond with words.

The next moment, a black tendril shot forward, wrapping around Hellion's throat. His scream cut off into a gagging choke as Apex lifted him off the ground, his movements eerily calm, deliberate, like this was routine.

Then, Apex spoke.

"You almost killed my aunt."

The words were quiet, devoid of emotion. No anger. No hate. Just fact.

Hellion thrashed, his hands clawing at the tendril around his throat, but Apex wasn't finished.

"You fired a missile into her apartment."

The tendril slammed him into the pavement.

"You made a choice."

Another slam.

"Now I'm making mine."

The third crack of bone hitting concrete made a sickening crunch.

The struggling stopped.

The footage zoomed in as Apex's tendrils began to move. They slithered and wrapped around Hellion's broken body, pulsing with a faint, eerie bioluminescent glow.

And then…

They began to consume.

Hellion's form distorted, his skin dissolving in waves of black tendrils, breaking apart as if his entire molecular structure was unraveling. His shape collapsed into Apex, absorbed cell by cell, nerve by nerve, strand by strand.

The process lasted seconds.

When Apex stood again, he exhaled sharply—like someone waking from a deep sleep.

His eyes burned brighter, and for a moment, his posture shifted, like his muscles were adjusting to something new. He flexed his fingers, and for a split second, a faint telekinetic glow flickered at his fingertips.

Then, it was gone.

And so was Hellion.

The video ended.

The Spider-Men stood frozen, each of them processing what they had just seen.

Scarlet Spider was the first to react. "What. The hell. Was that?"

Pavitr swallowed, his face paler than usual. "That wasn't just… killing him. That was…" He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Mayday's hands clenched into fists. "He absorbed him. Took his body, his powers—his memories."

Miguel exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "It wasn't just Hellion."

More files flickered into view. Confirmed Missing or Killed Targets: 40.

Carlos "El Víbora" Sanz – cartel enforcer – vanished.

Yuri "The Scythe" Morozov – hitman – consumed.

Frank "Steel Jaws" Mallory – weapons dealer – erased.

The Graves Brothers – twin assassins – absorbed.

Kenta "The Hammer" Kobayashi – Yakuza lieutenant – devoured.

Nico "The Pitbull" Rivera – underworld enforcer – vanished.

The list went on. At least 40 names. Murderers, mercenaries, assassins. Some of them had simply disappeared, because they were inside Apex now.

Scarlet Spider let out a sharp breath, backing up slightly. "No. Nope. This is—this is beyond canon anomalies. This is full-on predator behavior."

Spider-Ham's voice was eerily quiet. "He eats people."

Miguel shook his head. "Not people." He gestured toward the list. "He's been targeting criminals, high-priority threats. The worst of the worst."

Mayday's expression darkened. "That doesn't make it better."

Pavitr pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wait, wait, hold on. If he was doing this at first, why did it stop? He's clearly not consuming people now, right?"

Miguel pulled up another file. "Because he figured out something else."

A new document displayed bounty records, transactions flooding international bank accounts. Apex had been taking down criminals and mercenaries, but instead of consuming them, he had started turning them in.

"He realized if he handed them over, he could collect the bounties on their heads."

Pavitr's face twisted in disgust. "You're telling me he switched tactics because it paid better?"

Miguel's voice was grim. "No. I'm telling you he evolved."

A heavy pause filled the air, every Spider-Man processing what this meant.

Apex had learned. He had adapted.

He wasn't just a viral entity running on instincts.

He was calculating.

He was intelligent.

And worst of all, he still thought he was Peter Parker.

The Spider-Man variants hovered around Miguel's holographic interface as it flickered to life, revealing a series of grainy, unsettling photos of Apex, gathered from scattered surveillance and hidden cameras over the past two months. Each image painted a vivid and horrifying picture of a being that barely resembled Peter Parker anymore.

The first image was taken from a drone camera, its resolution marred by smoke and debris. Apex stood at the epicenter of destruction, his armored, chitinous form reflecting the fiery glow of wreckage around him. Tendrils of red and black biomass writhed from his back like spindly, organic limbs, their ends tipped with sharp, claw-like appendages. His crimson-tinged eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood, locking onto the drone as if he were aware he was being watched. In the background, several black, crow-like constructs perched atop the ruins, their glowing red eyes eerily mirroring his.

Miguel's voice was grim. "This was from shortly after the Hellion incident. The footage matches."

The second image came from a distant rooftop camera, capturing Apex perched on the edge of a skyscraper. His form was leaner here, optimized for stealth, with elongated limbs and sharp edges on his biomorphic armor. His tendrils curled tightly around him, almost like a cloak, but a few extended outward like coiled snakes, scanning the surroundings. Behind him, a flock of black crows hovered mid-air, their wings a chaotic blend of organic and viral matter. The crows seemed to form a protective perimeter, each one glinting with the same faint, predatory intelligence.

Pavitr shuddered. "It's not just him. It's… everything around him. Those crows aren't just watching, they're alive."

The third photo was a horrifying close-up taken by a body camera. Apex was mid-transformation, his face twisting into a grotesque, gaping maw, jagged rows of teeth spiraling deep into his flesh like a nightmare made real. Tendrils lashed out from his torso, impaling an unknown target in a motion too fast for the camera to capture clearly. Blood splattered across the lens, obscuring part of the image, but Apex's monstrous form was unmistakable.

Jessica's voice was tight. "He's not just fighting. He's…" She hesitated. "…consuming."

Scarlet Spider grimaced. "That's what happens when you're built to win. No hesitation. No restraint."

The fourth image showed Apex in silhouette, his tendrils unfurling against the glow of a distant explosion. He stood in the middle of what appeared to be a clandestine weapons facility, his stance unnervingly calm. The red veins of his biomass armor pulsed faintly, as though alive. Around him, discarded weapons and the remnants of destroyed machines lay in pieces. Several of the crow-like extensions perched on nearby debris, watching silently.

Mayday spoke softly. "He's been targeting the worst kinds of people, hasn't he? Criminals, mercenaries, assassins. This isn't random."

The final image showed Apex from above, taken by a high-altitude drone. He stood in the middle of an abandoned street, his head tilted slightly upward as though aware of the camera. Surrounding him was an enormous flock of his crow-like extensions, swirling in a chaotic but deliberate pattern. Each crow glowed faintly with the same bioluminescent energy, their forms blending seamlessly into the darkened landscape. Apex's tendrils reached out into the ground beneath him, burrowing into the pavement, as if tethering him to the environment.

Pavitr's voice was sounding uneasy now. "He's everywhere. Those crows… they're him. Every single one of them."

Miguel's hand tightened into a fist as he swiped away the final image. "He's not just an anomaly. He's a force of nature. Adaptable. Intelligent. And worst of all…" His voice dropped to a grim whisper. "…he's methodical."

The group exchanged uneasy glances. Apex wasn't just an anomaly, it was a predator, a hive-mind that extended far beyond Peter Parker's form. And somehow, it still thought it was him.

No one spoke, but the horror was apparent. They weren't just dealing with a multiversal disturbance. They were dealing with something far more dangerous.

Miguel's fingers twitched as he navigated through the remaining files on his holographic interface, his expression growing darker with each new piece of information. The others stood in tense silence, watching the flickering images and scattered documents as they scrolled by. Each fragment of data seemed more unsettling than the last.

"This can't be right…" Miguel muttered under his breath, his glowing eyes narrowing. The screen finally stabilized, displaying a heavily redacted report with Norman Osborn's name stamped in bold at the top. "The virus… it wasn't an accident. It was made. Engineered."

"What?" Scarlet Spider straightened, his voice sharp. "Are you telling me someone actually built that thing?"

Miguel nodded grimly. "Yeah. And guess who."

The screen shifted to display an image of Norman Osborn, standing at a lab bench with a vile, manic grin on his face. His eyes were wide with madness, his posture radiating the unhinged energy of someone utterly consumed by their own twisted genius.

"Norman Osborn," Jessica said, her voice hardening. "Of course it had to be him."

"No," Miguel corrected, shaking his head. "Not Osborn. Not entirely."

He tapped on the interface, pulling up a video file embedded in the report. The footage was grainy, clearly old, and showed Norman Osborn talking to himself in a darkened lab. But something was off. His tone was different, higher, raspier, laced with a venomous glee that didn't match the measured arrogance of the Norman Osborn they all knew.

"It wasn't Norman," Miguel said quietly, his voice low and heavy. "It was… the Goblin."

The group froze, the weight of those words sinking in.

The video continued, showing Osborn, or rather, the Goblin persona, holding up a single vial of what looked like liquid fire. It pulsed faintly, glowing in a way that seemed almost alive. The Goblin cackled, the sound sending a chill through everyone watching.

"Perfection," the Goblin hissed, his eyes gleaming. "A living, breathing masterpiece. No more drones. No more failures. This… this is pure evolution." He spun the vial in his fingers, watching it shimmer. "A virus that can think, adapt, and become whatever it touches. But only one dose. My magnum opus! And no notes… wouldn't want anyone stealing my genius." He cackled again, the sound echoing off the lab walls.

The video abruptly cut out.

Pavitr's voice was the first to break the silence. "No notes? You're telling me this thing was created by the Goblin, and not even Norman Osborn knows how he did it?"

Miguel exhaled sharply, his frustration boiling just below the surface. "That's exactly what I'm saying. According to this, the Goblin persona was in control when the virus was made. And since the Goblin is gone from this world's Norman Osborn, there's no one alive who knows how it was done."

Jessica frowned, crossing her arms. "So this thing is not just a fluke, it's an accident waiting to happen again if anyone figures out how to replicate it."

Miguel shook his head. "That's the thing. No one can. Without the Goblin, there's no formula, no data, no records. Just the virus."

"And now it's Apex," Mayday said, her voice cold. "It's alive, it's learning, and it's Peter Parker."

The group fell silent, the weight of the revelation hanging heavy in the air. Miguel stared at the screen for a moment longer before his jaw clenched. With a sharp motion, he swiped his hand through the hologram, cutting the display off entirely.

"I've seen enough," he said, his voice hard. "This thing… Apex… it's bigger than any of us realized. It's not just a threat to this world, it's a fixed point tied to something we don't fully understand."

Jessica stepped forward, her tone cautious.

"So what's the plan, Miguel? We can't just sit here and do nothing. If that virus is spreading, if it's evolving…"

Miguel turned to face the group, his eyes glowing faintly. "We don't move until we know more. If we jump in now without understanding the fixed point Miles mentioned, we could destabilize the entire timeline. We need to find him, and we need answers."

Scarlet Spider let out a low, frustrated growl. "And what if there are no answers? What if this thing keeps spreading while we're sitting around waiting for breadcrumbs?"

Miguel's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Then we'll stop it. One way or another. But until we know exactly what we're dealing with, no one engages. Not with Apex. Not with this world. Got it?"

The group exchanged uneasy glances, but no one argued. Miguel turned back toward the darkened cityscape, his thoughts racing. They were chasing a ghost, a virus created by a monster who no longer existed, and now it wore the face of Peter Parker.

And whatever it was planning next, it wasn't going to wait for them to catch up.

…

The flickering candlelight bathed the small apartment in a soft, warm glow. Peter sat across from Rachel Summers at the modest table, a quiet smile playing on his lips. The dinner had been simple but heartfelt, homemade pasta that Peter had surprisingly managed not to ruin, paired with a bottle of wine Rachel had brought. Her laughter still echoed in his ears as they shared stories about their pasts, skirting around the chaos of the world outside, focusing instead on the moment they had carved out just for themselves.

Rachel swirled her wine glass, her fiery red hair catching the light as she tilted her head. "You know," she said, her voice teasing but affectionate, "for a guy who can disassemble mercenaries and build schools, I didn't expect you to be this terrible at cooking."

Peter feigned a dramatic wince, placing a hand over his chest. "Ouch. That hurts, Summers. I poured my heart into this, literally risked my life against boiling water."

She laughed, a genuine, melodic sound that made the tension in his shoulders ease. "Don't worry, Webhead. You get points for effort."

Peter leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "Points? How many? Enough to make up for the pasta incident?"

Rachel smirked, leaning closer to match his posture. "Maybe. I might need convincing, though."

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the playful banter faded, replaced by the quiet intensity that had been building between them for weeks. Peter's usually restless mind stilled as he took her in, the way her lips curved, the faint blush on her cheeks, the light in her eyes. He didn't realize how much he had needed this, needed her, until now.

Rachel broke the silence first, leaning back with a small, almost shy smile. "You're staring," she said softly.

Peter's grin widened, and he shrugged. "Can you blame me?"

Later, as the dishes were set aside and the evening wound down, Rachel moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric. She hesitated, glancing back at Peter, who stood by the table, watching her with an expression that was equal parts adoration and uncertainty.

"Peter," she began, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "This… us… it feels… real."

"It is," he said without hesitation, taking a step toward her. "More real than anything I've had in a long time."

Her lips parted, but whatever she was about to say faltered as their eyes locked again. The distance between them suddenly felt like too much. Peter crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate, until he was standing in front of her. Rachel tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her breath catching as his hand brushed against hers.

Without a word, Peter leaned down, their faces drawing closer until their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't the first time they'd kissed, but something about this moment felt different. More certain. More electric.

When the kiss broke, Rachel didn't pull away. Instead, she placed her hands gently on his shoulders and leaned forward again, her lips finding his. This time, the kiss deepened, and Peter let himself get lost in the sensation, in her.

Without thinking, he let himself fall back onto the bed, pulling her with him. Rachel gasped softly in surprise, then giggled as she adjusted herself, now straddling him. Her laughter was infectious, and Peter couldn't help but smile up at her as his hands rested lightly on her waist.

"You okay down there?" she teased, her voice breathy but full of warmth.

"Never better," he replied, his tone playful but laced with sincerity.

Rachel leaned down, her hair falling around them like a curtain as she captured his lips again. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and his hands slid up her back as they kissed with an intensity that sent Peter's heart racing.

As the world outside faded into insignificance, they moved together, their passion consuming the quiet moments between them. For the first time in a long while, Peter allowed himself to let go of the burdens he carried, to simply be with her.