"Is that real?" Hawk mused, a sense of profound, miraculous absurdity washing over him as he hung up the phone with Dr. Connors. "It actually succeeded?"
He had been so certain that the regeneration experiment was a dead end. In a world with this version of Spider-Man, a hero forged in personal tragedy and quiet determination, the chaotic, villain-birthing events of the other timelines seemed… unlikely. But here it was. The impossible had happened.
As he walked from his bedroom into the small living area, he replayed the details of their conversation. Dr. Connors had been in a state of manic euphoria, and in his excitement, he had shared the breakthrough. One of the lab mice, the same one with the broken tail that had escaped during the accident last month, had been injected with the latest iteration of the lizard serum. Initially, its life signs had flatlined, another apparent failure. But then, after a few minutes of clinical death, its heart had started beating again. Not only had it revived, but its severed tail had regrown at a visually accelerated rate.
It was the miracle Connors had been searching for his entire life.
Hawk, however, felt a cold, familiar knot in his stomach. He sat down at his folding table and opened the used laptop he'd bought from Skye. He knew exactly which mouse Connors was talking about. And he knew exactly what had made its revival and regeneration possible. Compared to the impending birth of the Lizard, the situation at Quantico seemed far more pressing.
He began to search online, his fingers flying across the keyboard, digging for any mention of the raid. The results were strange, and yet, completely predictable.
There had been no intrusion. Only an "exercise."
A local D.C. newspaper had reported on the alarms and explosions, but the official statement from the base's news spokesperson was a masterclass in bureaucratic denial. It was a routine night-ops training exercise that had gone tragically wrong, resulting in an unfortunate building collapse and the deaths of over a dozen soldiers. Condolences were offered. Medals would be awarded posthumously. The story was sealed.
Hawk leaned back, a cynical smile on his face. Of course. It was Quantico. To admit that a lone operative had breached their fortress, destroyed their property, killed their men, and vanished without a trace was an institutional humiliation they would never allow.
He searched for any mention of the taxi driver, using keywords, police blotters, and missing person reports. Nothing. Either the body hadn't been discovered yet, or, more likely, the death of an unidentified, low-level criminal in a remote area was simply not newsworthy. One more anonymous death in a country that produced them by the thousands every day. It didn't even make a ripple.
With a shake of his head, he closed the laptop, the digital world offering no new threats or insights. He got up and walked back into the bedroom to prepare for sleep.
The next morning, he was woken by the sharp, insistent ringing of his phone.
He opened his eyes, his gaze first falling on the photo frame on his nightstand, a silent, daily ritual. Only then did he reach for the phone.
"Hello."
"Come downstairs." The voice was bright, clear, and left no room for argument.
Hawk was silent for a second, his sleep-fogged brain processing the command. He got up, pulled on a t-shirt, and walked to the living room window. He looked down. Across the street, leaning against her familiar yellow Corolla, was Gwen, waving up at him with a brilliant smile.
Oh. Right. His girlfriend.
The thought was still so new, so unbelievable, that it felt like a line from someone else's story. Let me say that again, he thought, a slow smile spreading across his own face. Gwen Stacy is my girlfriend.
He waved back, then walked to the door. A few moments later, he was crossing the street.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice still a little rough with sleep.
"Are you free tonight?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. "My mom wants you to come over for dinner."
Lemon Perch.
The two words flashed in his mind with the force of a premonition. In the stories of his past life, that particular dish was a well-known harbinger of fatherly disapproval and intense, awkward family dinners. He looked at Gwen's expectant, hopeful face, and despite every survival instinct screaming at him to run, he nodded.
"Okay."
"Then it's settled," she said, beaming. "What are your plans for today?"
"Hmm. I guess I'll go to the library to read."
Gwen fell silent, but the smile on her face was one of profound, knowing amusement. He chuckled. "This time, I'm really going to the library to read."
School started tomorrow. Twelfth grade. His final year. And with it, the final assessments for university scholarships. He had told himself he no longer cared about NYU, that his future was on a grander, more cosmic scale. But that was only half-true. The dream of becoming a lawyer, a prosecutor, maybe even a judge—it was a dream he had worked towards for three long, hard years. He wasn't ready to let it go just yet.
Gwen's brilliant smile returned. "Let's go then."
"Where?"
"To the library, of course," she said, already walking towards the driver's side of her car. "I'm going too. It's perfect. We can study, and then you can take my car home afterward. But first, you have to come with me to Oscorp for a bit."
She opened the door and gestured for him to get in. He didn't hesitate. He really was going to the library. His inner universe was a maelstrom of activity; the Phoenix constellation, now a fully-formed, living entity, was still in the process of absorbing and refining the vast, chaotic energies of the Gammanian. It was a process that required time and stillness. Today was a day for rest, for study, for a fleeting taste of the normal life he was rapidly leaving behind.
They spent the day in a comfortable, productive silence, two brilliant minds working towards two very different futures. He, for NYU. She, for Berkeley. In the afternoon, as they left the library, Hawk saw a man who had just run in to borrow a book screaming in agony at the sight of a fresh parking ticket on his windshield.
As he got into Gwen's car, he asked, "Didn't you get a ticket?"
Gwen shook her head, a mischievous smile on her face as she started the engine. "Dad registered my license plate in the NYPD system. As far as any traffic cop is concerned, this car is invisible."
Hawk suddenly understood. This was a different kind of power, but in this city, it was just as effective.