Times Square, New York
A veil of dust, thick and acrid, slowly thinned to reveal a scene of destruction comparable to footage from a disaster movie. The famous Times Square, which only moments ago sparkled with the neon madness of advertisements and echoed with the chatter of the celebrating Unification Festival, now lay in ruins. Shattered storefronts gaped like the dark sockets of a dead man's teeth. The mangled husks of police cruisers and civilian cars smoked, tossed about by shockwaves like dolls ripped from a child's hands during an earthquake. The asphalt was scarred with trenches and craters, generously littered with broken glass, chunks of concrete, and scraps of bright festival banners now soaked in something dark. The smell of burning, ozone, and scorched plastic stung the eyes and forced a cough. Looming over it all was the damaged but still standing Oscorp Tower, looking like a fallen titan; black smoke billowed from its windows, and a section of the facade tilted precariously, ready to collapse at any moment.
In the epicenter of this chaos, on the cracked asphalt, lay the one who just moments ago had been the embodiment of a mad threat—the Green Goblin. His armor, once considered a pinnacle of engineering, was now a heap of mangled metal covered in dents, through-holes from Pod's laser fire, and deep cracks from our joint strikes. A shattered, smoking helmet lay nearby.
Norman Osborn lay unconscious, his face covered in soot and blood clotted on his split lips and torn wounds. His right leg was twisted unnaturally, with mangled flesh visible beneath the armor fragments at the knee. Even in stillness, his body seemed like one continuous hematoma, a testament to the superhuman strength of the blows that had rained down on him. The rage that fueled his madness had flickered out, leaving only a mask of suffering on his distorted features.
My voice through Pod's internal communicator was calm but firm. Still hidden behind the guise created by Metamorph—a man in dark clothes and a simple black ski mask—I quickly scanned the square. The Quicksilver assimilation allowed me to move faster than the average eye could track, but right now, assessing the situation and minimizing our presence was more important.
Peter's voice in the earpiece was full of mixed emotions: the shock of realizing the Goblin's identity, residual adrenaline, and the weight of what had happened. His breathing was fast and ragged.
Peter's voice wavered when he mentioned Harry. The realization that his best friend's father was the monster who created this hell was a heavy blow.
This should have been a triumph. Instead, it became a nightmare. Harry's father. Dammit, Peter thought. His first serious opponent, his first real victory—all of it was overshadowed by this horrific discovery. In truth, John had hinted to him about Osborn, but Pete hadn't wanted to believe it.
Spider-Man, still on edge after the fight but moving with visible determination, was already working his web-shooters. Methodically, layer by layer, he wrapped Osborn's motionless hands in thick, sticky webbing, turning them into an immobile cocoon. There was more than just the necessity to neutralize an enemy in his movements; there was a bitter rage mixed with confusion.
2B, silent and deadly, stood a short distance away. Her Virtuous Treaty was lowered, but her hand never left the hilt. Her sensors, beneath her tactical blindfold, continuously scanned the surrounding space for any sign of danger. She was like a taut string, ready for action. She saw the panic in the eyes of the fleeing people and heard their screams—a chaos so foreign to her programming.
And yet, watching Peter, she couldn't help but note: "And yet, he is human. Fragile. Stubborn. A hero."
Sirens wailed closer. The first police officers, overcoming their fear, were beginning to form a cordon, pushing back the few brave civilians who, despite the horror, tried to get closer. Tense anticipation hung in the air.
There was curiosity and a bit of awe in his voice at the mention of 2B. Her non-human efficiency and aura of danger couldn't fail to impress.
I walked up to 2B. Her combat suit was flawless—not a speck of dust or a scratch. The contrast with the surrounding ruin was striking.
I didn't waste time on ceremonies. Moving to her side and picking her up in my arms, I activated the full power of Quicksilver. It was the fastest and least conspicuous way to leave the square, giving no one a chance to examine the android in her combat form too closely. A split-second blue flash—and we were gone, leaving behind stunned police officers and a buzzing hive of reporters. Spider-Man, seeing our maneuver, didn't linger either. Shooting a line of web, he made a spectacular leap that would surely make every news broadcast and disappeared between the skyscrapers.
When the first officials and tactical teams arrived on the scene, they were left to witness the unbelievable: the Green Goblin, the terrorist who nearly destroyed Times Square, was neutralized and lying before them, bound in webbing. And beneath the shattered mask was Norman Osborn, in critical condition. This news would explode across the media. The Osborn empire would tremble. The city would buzz for weeks.
And Gwen Stacy, pale, with smudges of dust on her cheeks but eyes burning with determination, was already pushing through the crowd, searching for us. Seeing me emerge from a side alley, dusting myself off and already in civilian clothes (Metamorph worked perfectly), followed moments later by Peter—who had also managed to swap his red-and-blue suit for regular jeans and a jacket—she rushed toward us.
"John! Peter! You're okay!" Her voice was a mix of relief and horror. "God, I was so scared for you! That psychopath turned out to be Harry's father?! My God…"
"Easy, Gwen, everything's okay," I tried to make my voice sound soothing, though my heart was still pounding from the ordeal. "We were… helping the wounded, away from the epicenter. We just happened to be nearby. The important thing is that it's over. Let's get out of here before the crowd sweeps us away. We all need to recover."
Peter, still pale but with a feverish glint in his eyes, nodded. His thoughts were clearly occupied not only by the battle he'd survived but by Harry's fate.
"Yeah, John's right. Let's go. I think I'm only just starting to realize what happened…"
The three of us, trying not to attract attention, blended into the flow of people leaving Times Square. The city was only beginning to grasp the scale of the tragedy and the incredible rescue. And above it, a new, uneasy dawn was breaking.
Aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier
"Director," the voice of Maria Hill, his loyal deputy, sounded nearby. As always, composed in her sharp suit, she held a tablet glowing with new data. Her face was serious, but her eyes held a professional spark—the situation in New York was clearly moving beyond the realm of ordinary incidents.
"Urgent update on the Times Square incident. The identification of the subject known as the Green Goblin is confirmed. And it's… Norman Osborn. In the flesh."
Fury turned slowly, very slowly. His single eye locked onto Hill, then slid to the tablet where a clear image of Osborn was displayed. For a moment, something like icy surprise flashed in his gaze, quickly replaced by grim determination and a barely noticeable shadow of… satisfaction? Or was it the anticipation of a long and dirty job?
"Osborn…" he pronounced the name as if tasting an old poison he couldn't get rid of. His voice was quiet, but it held the steel that could cut glass.
"So, our brilliant industrialist, philanthropist, and pillar of society decided that costume parties were too boring and preferred the role of a city terrorist with a messiah complex. Well, that explains a lot. His obsession with the 'OZ' serum, his limitless ambition, his contempt for any rules but his own… I always knew this man was capable of much, but to lose touch with reality to this extent… The scale of his madness is impressive. And repulsive. This isn't just corporate espionage or illegal experiments, Hill. This is a declaration of war. Open and arrogant. What about the three unknowns who, shall we say, calmed him down? Our new 'friendly neighbors'? Or another headache wrapped in a shiny package of superpowers?"
Hill nodded, switching the image on the tablet. Blurry but distinguishable silhouettes of three figures frozen in the dynamics of battle appeared on the screen.
"'Spider-Man', as the media and ecstatic witnesses have already dubbed him," Hill began, her voice dispassionate, like an announcer reading a casualty report.
"Based on movement analysis, acrobatics, and fragmentary comments, he is likely a teenager, possibly a student. He demonstrates superhuman strength, incredible agility, and reflexes, as well as the ability to fire a high-strength adhesive substance of organic or synthetic origin. He appeared out of nowhere; no prior data in our systems, which in itself raises questions. The second figure is a woman, no code name assigned yet, though analysts are already suggesting options from 'Angel of Death' to 'White Fury'. The latter, by the way, is quite popular among those who saw her in action. A supreme level of combat training; her movements are honed to perfection, every strike calibrated with mathematical precision. Presumably a cyborg or the result of advanced genetic experimentation. Armed with a high-tech sword capable, according to preliminary data, of slicing through Osborn's reinforced glider armor like butter. The third is the 'Speeder', as you aptly named him, sir. Moves at speeds exceeding the capture capabilities of most of our systems, leaving behind a characteristic blue energy trail. His abilities resemble certain theoretical developments in spatial manipulation or exotic particles, but so far, these are just guesses. It's important to note, Director, their interaction was clearly coordinated. This doesn't look like an accidental alliance. They acted as a cohesive team; each knew their role as if they'd been practicing this scenario for weeks."
"A team…" Fury rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his lone eye scrutinizing the blurry figures. He ran through dozens of possibilities. A new threat? New allies? Or just more freaks they'd have to hunt down across the city?
"Osborn in a cage is certainly a positive result. One less psycho with access to advanced tech. But these three… They could be an unexpected solution to some of our problems, or a new, much more complex headache. Uncontrolled elements with those kinds of abilities are always a risk, Hill. A huge risk. I need to know everything about them. Names, origins, motives, the sources of their powers. Pull every archive, utilize all resources—satellites, the asset network, the analytics department. Scour every database, including the most classified. Contact our people in New York. Have them ensure a 'constructive conversation' with Osborn as soon as the local authorities finish playing at justice and take the first bite out of him. I want full access to his labs, all his research on the 'OZ' serum. That crap must not fall into the wrong hands. Or any hands but ours. We need to understand what we're dealing with and prevent any new 'Goblins' from appearing. Or anything worse."
His gaze returned to the screen, where the Hulk continued to rage, turning the desert into a lunar landscape. The world was changing rapidly; old rules no longer worked, and new ones were being written in blood and destruction. And he, Nick Fury, desperately needed soldiers for the coming wars. Soldiers who could be controlled. And these new ones… for now, they were wild cards in a very complicated game.
"And Hill," he added just as the agent was about to give orders, her face remaining impenetrable though Fury knew she was already calculating options.
"Check all recent anomalous energy spikes in the New York area over the last few months. Perhaps that will give us a key to the origin of our 'Speeder' or 'White Fury'. And double the surveillance on known individuals with potential. It seems the hunting season for anomalies is officially open. And we must be the first to skim the cream. Or get punched in the teeth. Time will tell."
Malibu. Stark's Lab
The California sun generously flooded Tony Stark's spacious, ultra-modern workshop, which looked more like the laboratory of a mad genius from a sci-fi movie than a billionaire's garage. The genius, billionaire, playboy, and—depending on his mood—philanthropist himself, with an expression of extreme self-satisfaction, was finishing a fine calibration of the repulsor stabilizers on his latest creation—the Mark II armor. Silvery, polished to a mirror shine, with smooth, predatory curves, it looked like a living dream, a work of high-tech art ready to conquer the skies and hearts. Tony lovingly patted the cold, polished metal.
"Well, handsome, almost ready for your first date with the sky? I'm sure you'll make a splash. At least a bigger one than my last date at the charity gala who tried to prove astrology is an exact science. Dead bore."
"Sir," came the flawless, slightly ironic voice of J.A.R.V.I.S., his loyal AI butler, seemingly emanating from the very air of the lab, which was saturated with the smell of machine oil and ozone.
"With all due respect to your design talents and the anticipation of yet another triumph that will undoubtedly be widely covered in the press, I recommend you familiarize yourself with the latest news from the East Coast. A very… telling demonstration of alternative approaches to solving urban problems. And perhaps a reason to consider expanding the market for your… less lethal developments. Or the emergence of serious competition in the world-saving business."
On one of the giant holographic displays, which had previously shown complex aerodynamic diagrams and energy consumption calculations, footage from Times Square instantly appeared: smoking ruins, scurrying police, and in the center—a figure. Then the camera gave a close-up—an enlarged, blood-and-soot-stained face. Then, on another display, video captured by Stark Industries satellites began to play.
"Whoa!" Tony Stark gave a theatrical whistle, setting aside his high-precision laser solder and gracefully landing in a soft leather chair. He leaned closer to the screen, a glass of expensive whiskey with ice habitually appearing in his hand.
"And what kind of freak show is this? Old Normie Osborn decided to have an early Halloween with pumpkin bombs and flights on an unlicensed glider? It's been a while since I've seen him so… active. Usually, he prefers destroying other people's lives through more conservative methods, like hostile takeovers and market manipulation. And who's this guy in the red-and-blue leotard? Looks… frankly budget. Definitely not my design; too much spandex, not enough titanium. And the lady with the sword, so graceful and deadly, and that blue discharge flashing for a fraction of a second? Jarvis, my dear electronic friend, don't keep me in suspense; enlighten old Tony on what fun my modest genius missed while I was here creating another masterpiece?"
"Norman Osborn, sir, has been identified as the subject known under the operational pseudonym 'Green Goblin'," J.A.R.V.I.S. reported dispassionately, bringing up additional information on the screen, including a brief biographical sketch of Osborn and a list of his recent questionable patents.
"He was neutralized as a result of the coordinated actions of three unknown individuals possessing extraordinary abilities. Preliminary data on them is extremely limited and is in the stage of active collection and analysis. However, some conclusions can already be drawn."
Tony took a large sip, his eyes carefully studying every pixel on the screen. A cunning, slightly mocking smirk played on his face, portending some caustic joke or a brilliant plan. Or both at once.
"Osborn… I always knew he was a piece of work, rotten inside with a messiah complex the size of Texas, but to flip his lid this hard… That's not just eccentricity anymore; it's a diagnosis requiring immediate hospitalization. In a very well-guarded ward. And these three? New players on the board? Interesting, very interesting. 'Spider-Man,' you say? Cute, almost touching. 'Sword Lady'? Elegant and, by all appearances, effective. I'd call her the 'Steel Lily'—sounds more poetic and captures the essence: beauty and lethality. And 'Blue Flash'? Sounds like the name of a cheap energy drink or a special effect from a B-movie. Jarvis, full analysis on all three. I want to know everything: where they came from, what they breathe, what their shoe size is, favorite color, and whether they need financial or technological… consultation. From me, of course. With a subsequent signing of an exclusive merchandising contract."
J.A.R.V.I.S. paused for a moment, processing the request, then continued, displaying new data and graphs:
"Analysis of available video materials and witness testimonies, sir. Subject 'Spider-Man': estimated age 16-19. Physical indicators significantly exceed human norms. Ability to adhere to surfaces, phenomenal agility, and reflexes. Web-shooters appear to be his own development—the chemical composition of the webbing is unique, with high tensile strength and elasticity. Psychological profile: prone to bravado, uses humor as a defense mechanism, but demonstrates clear selflessness and a desire to protect civilians."
"Subject 'Steel Lily,' as you were pleased to name her, sir. Movement analysis indicates superhuman speed and precision, possibly an augmented skeleton and muscular system. Combat skills match elite special forces levels but with elements uncharacteristic of standard training. The sword is presumably made of an unknown alloy, possessing enhanced penetration capabilities. Psychological profile: extremely reserved, focused, acts with cold efficiency. Emotional displays are absent. Possibly a high-generation android or cyborg."
"Subject 'Blue Flash.' The most mysterious of the three. Movement speed falls outside known technology. The energy trail indicates manipulation of an unknown form of energy or a localized disruption of the space-time continuum. Motives and origin are completely unclear. His appearance and disappearance were nearly instantaneous."
Tony listened, tapping his fingers on the armrest of the chair.
"An android… interesting. And a guy with speed exceeding the speed of sound... Looks like someone decided my toys were too boring and threw a few really interesting puzzles into this world. Maybe I should fly to New York, see how our old 'friend' Norman is doing. I'm sure he's not laughing now, but I certainly am. And you know, Jarvis, keep an eye out for a couple of new… exhibits for the collection. Or potential competitors. This city is getting more fun by the minute. Time for me to stretch my legs too; I've been sitting in my sandbox for too long, creating perfect machines for an imperfect world."
He chuckled, his eyes flashing with excitement. The chaos at Times Square, strangely enough, had awakened in him not only the professional curiosity of an engineer and the tactical interest of a strategist but also a kind of boyish thrill. The world was clearly becoming more complex, and Tony Stark definitely liked that. It was a challenge. And Tony Stark loved challenges. Especially those he could turn into his next show.
"Jarvis," he added after a short pause, his voice becoming a bit more serious, though it didn't lose its usual bravado.
"Start some modeling… just in case. Let's develop a few protocols for interacting with such… 'gifted' individuals. And for their neutralization, if required. If these guys decide to continue their games, or, more likely, if new 'performers' appear in this freak circus, we need to be not just ready, but a step ahead. And maybe we should think about a little… rebranding for some of them. Especially for this kid in the pajamas. He has potential, no doubt, but the design… is frankly lacking. He urgently needs my stylist. Or at least a few tips from a man with impeccable taste. That would be me. Though, who am I to judge fashion, right? I'm just the genius who creates it. And Jarvis, set a reminder: check the Oscorp stocks. I think they're very attractive for a buy right now. Time to make money on someone else's madness. It's a classic."
Less than half an hour had passed since the heart of New York, Times Square, had shuddered from a series of monstrous explosions and the insane attack of the Green Goblin. The city, a vast, ever-rushing anthill, had not yet had the chance to fully realize the scale of the tragedy. The first fragmentary news was only just beginning to seep through the dense information barrier of official departments, instantly growing with the most incredible rumors and panic-filled conjectures on the nascent internet forums and chat rooms of that time. Sirens were still roaring deafeningly, their polyphonic wail echoing off the skyscrapers, but their sound no longer held that initial, choking panic—it was now the methodical, almost business-like hum of emergency services working at their limit.
The square and its surrounding streets had turned into a giant disaster zone. Bright red fire trucks, among the first to arrive, were already deploying hydrants; powerful jets of water struck the smoking debris and building facades where fires were still smoldering. The air was heavy, saturated with the smell of burning, red-hot metal, and the acrid chemical suspension left by the Goblin's bombs. Medics in bright orange vests hurried between the victims, providing first aid: bandaging wounds, applying splints, setting up IVs. Those in more serious condition were loaded onto stretchers into ambulances, which struggled to maneuver through the rubble and the cluster of special equipment.
The NYPD, cordoning off the perimeter, was trying to bring some kind of order to the chaos, but it was not easy. Representatives of various federal agencies were already converging on the scene—the FBI, ATF, and even a few men in sharp, unremarkable suits who radiated coldness and authority, clearly from some more clandestine structures. A subtle but palpable tension immediately arose between them and the local police. The feds tried to take the initiative, citing the scale of the terrorist attack and the possible threat to national security, while the New York cops, who knew their city like the back of their hand, were not about to give up control of "their" territory so easily. Heated arguments, demands for identification, and coordination of actions broke out here and there, hindering the already difficult work.
At the doors of one of the ambulances parked a short distance from the main center of destruction sat Harry Osborn. Pale, with an ice pack pressed to his temple, he looked lost and completely shattered. His expensive clothes were stained with dust and something dark, his hair matted. Standing beside him, steadfast and with an expression of deep sorrow on his face, was Bernard, the loyal butler of the Osborn family. He held a glass of water ready and quietly, almost inaudibly, tried to calm the young master. Bernard's face, usually flawlessly imperturbable, was now distorted with anxiety and poorly concealed horror at what had occurred.
Two men in sharp business suits, identifying themselves as FBI agents, were questioning Harry. Their voices were level, almost emotionless, but their eyes held professional tenacity.
"Mr. Osborn, we understand you've suffered a shock," one of them began, the taller and broader one.
"But any detail you can remember could be critically important. Your father, Norman Osborn… Have you noticed anything unusual in his behavior lately? Any mood changes, strange statements, unusual projects he was working on at Oscorp?"
Harry slowly raised a dull, blank gaze to them. The ice slid slightly, revealing a bruise that was beginning to turn purple.
"Father?.." his voice was quiet, hoarse. He seemed to not fully understand what he was being asked, or perhaps he didn't want to.
"He… he worked a lot. As always. Talked about… a breakthrough. About a new stage for the company. I… I don't know…"
He fell silent, his gaze returning to the void. The shock and the realization that his father was a monster who had destroyed part of the city and nearly killed him were paralyzing his mind.
"Mr. Osborn, we know your father was a genius," the second agent, younger with sharp features, continued softly but insistently.
"His developments in weaponry, energy, bioengineering… The glider the terrorist was using, his armor, those… pumpkin bombs. Are these all Oscorp technologies? Do you have any idea how he could have gained access to them? Or… did he create them himself?"
Harry flinched at the mention of the bombs. The memories of the explosion, the collapsing balcony, and the chilling laughter of the Goblin were too fresh.
"I… I don't know…" he repeated, his voice wavering. "Father… he was always very secretive about his work. He had his own private lab… only he had access. I… I knew nothing about this… about this nightmare."
He looked at the agents with desperation.
"You don't… you don't think that I?.."
"We aren't accusing anyone, Mr. Osborn," the senior agent hurried to reassure him, though there was no particular warmth in his voice.
"We are simply trying to gather facts. Any information about your father's activities, his contacts, or his psychological state in recent weeks or months could help us understand the motive behind this… this madness."
Bernard, who had been standing silently nearby, allowed himself to intervene. His voice, usually quiet and respectful, now sounded firm, though controlled.
"Gentlemen," he began, addressing the agents, "young Mr. Osborn has just endured a terrifying ordeal. He himself nearly became a victim of this… this monstrous attack. I ask you, show some compassion. He needs qualified medical attention and, above all, rest. I am certain that as soon as he recovers slightly, he will provide you with all possible assistance. But now… now any interrogation can only worsen his condition."
The agents glanced at each other. They understood the butler was right and that they wouldn't get much out of Harry Osborn at this moment. But they also knew he was a key witness, and his testimony, as well as the testimony of this loyal servant, would be of great importance to the investigation.
Meanwhile, breaking through the police cordons, journalists were already rushing to the scene. Representatives of all major television channels, newspapers, and news agencies, armed with cameras, microphones, and recorders, were trying to snatch any kind of exclusive. Among them, the photographers from the Daily Bugle stood out particularly, known for their persistence and ability to be in the hottest spots. Their flashes periodically lit up the ruined square, creating an almost surreal picture.
Not far from the group of reporters, trying not to attract undue attention but closely observing everything that was happening, stood a middle-aged man in a perfectly pressed black suit. It was Phil Coulson. Calm, methodical, with a barely noticeable, tired smile on his lips, he would occasionally approach police officers or witnesses, briefly show an FBI ID, and ask quiet but precise questions. His manner of conduct stood in sharp contrast to the general commotion and nervousness. He didn't rush, he didn't raise his voice, but not a single detail escaped his attentive gaze. He collected information like an experienced jeweler collects scattered precious stones—patiently and thoroughly.
John, Peter, and Gwen were just finishing their improvised account to a police officer named Mitchell—a sturdy man in his mid-forties, an old acquaintance and colleague of Captain Stacy. Mitchell listened to them attentively, occasionally making notes in his notepad.
"…and then this Spider-Man, he moved incredibly, you know?" Peter told him heatedly, trying not to get too carried away with details that might give him away. "He saved Mary Jane from the balcony, and then… then he fought that Goblin! It was something!"
Gwen, however, quickly took the initiative. Her scientific mind and natural observation wouldn't let her rest.
"Officer Mitchell," she began, her voice sounding confident, almost like an investigator's.
"Tell me, what exact technologies was this Goblin using? His glider: was it jet propulsion or something anti-gravitational? And his armor? What material was it made of? It looked incredibly strong. And those bombs… what was their principle of operation? Ordinary explosives or something more complex, perhaps with a chemical component, judging by the smell? And what about that woman with the sword, the 'Steel Lily'? Do you have any data on her weapon? It glowed; that's clearly not simple steel. And her physical capabilities… Have you identified her yet? And that third one, who moved with incredible speed, leaving a blue trail? Are there any leads on his origin? Have you questioned other witnesses who might have seen them up close? What are their statements?"
Officer Mitchell blinked, slightly taken aback by such an onslaught. He even hesitated for a second, involuntarily thinking that he wasn't the one questioning witnesses, but was himself being interrogated by some very thorough young detective.
"Um… Miss Stacy," he began, clearing his throat, "we've only just begun gathering information. Everything happened too quickly. The Goblin's technologies certainly raise many questions. It looks like some Oscorp developments, but there's no precise data yet. As for these… uh… heroes, there's even less information about them. They appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as suddenly. We are questioning everyone who might have seen something. Your testimony, like the testimony of Mr. Parker and Mr…," he looked at the notepad, "…Smith, is very important."
John gave a subtle smirk. Gwen was in her element. Her curiosity was truly boundless.
"We just want to help, Officer," John intervened gently. "If we remember anything else, we'll be sure to let you know."
After Officer Mitchell recorded their contact details and thanked them for their cooperation, Gwen said she needed to...
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