Dr. Curt Connors sat alone in the sterile silence of his laboratory office, the setting sun casting long, distorted shadows across the room. His face was a mask of calm, but beneath the surface, a war raged within his soul.
On one hand, the burning desire that had fueled his entire scientific career screamed at him to proceed. Human trials. The final, terrifying leap. It was the only way to prove his theories, to bring his miracle cure to the world, to finally free humanity from the prison of physical disability. It was the culmination of his life's work, the chance to restore not just his own missing arm, but the shattered limbs and lives of millions.
But the scientist in him, the man bound by ethics and the rigorous discipline of medicine, recoiled in horror. The current serum was unstable. Unpredictable. Yes, one mouse had achieved perfect regeneration, a Lazarus rodent returned from the dead with its severed tail regrown. But why? They couldn't replicate the result. They didn't understand the mechanism. It was a miracle born of chaos, not controlled science. To inject this volatile compound into a human being, especially under the guise of a harmless vaccine trial, was not just reckless; it was monstrous. It was playing God with dice loaded with unknown variables.
An angel and a demon materialized in the theater of his mind. The angel pleaded for caution, for adherence to the oaths he had sworn, warning of the unforgivable consequences of failure. The demon, however, whispered seductive promises of glory, arguing that true progress always demanded sacrifice. If you succeed, it hissed, even God himself will have to make room for you at his right hand.
He sat motionless as the sunlight faded, the interplay of light and shadow on his face mirroring the conflict within. Hours passed. Night fell.
Ding-dong.
The sudden chime of his phone shattered the silence, jolting him from his internal paralysis. He fumbled for the device, his heart pounding. A text message glowed on the screen. It was from the executive, the corporate snake who had delivered the ultimatum.
Doctor, I'm already en route to the military hospital. The subjects are prepped. We believe in you.
The casual, callous finality of the message broke something within him. They weren't waiting for his approval. They were proceeding, with or without his consent, using his life's work for their own ruthless ends. They would take his research, twist it, pervert it, and if it failed, they would bury him under the blame.
A surge of desperate, defiant energy flooded through him. With a sudden, guttural cry, Connors leaped from his chair. His eyes, moments before clouded with doubt, now burned with a fanatic's certainty. He strode out of his office and into the main lab, his movements sharp and purposeful.
The laboratory's security cameras, silent, unblinking eyes in the corners, recorded his every move.
Ding. The bio-engineering mixer, a complex machine designed for cross-species gene splicing, whirred to life. Connors carefully extracted a vial of viscous, glowing green liquid—a new, highly concentrated fusion of the mutated mouse serum and his original lizard DNA compound.
"I may not be an angel," he murmured, his voice hoarse, clutching the vial like a holy relic, "but I will not be a demon."
He sat down at a lab station, his single hand trembling slightly as he prepared a syringe. He looked at the needle, then at the empty space where his right arm should have been. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the final breath of Dr. Curt Connors, the cautious scientist. Then, with a surge of desperate resolve, he plunged the needle into the stump of his missing limb and pushed the plunger all the way down.
The effect was instantaneous. A wave of vertigo slammed into him, black spots dancing before his eyes. The world tilted violently. With a choked gasp, he collapsed forward, his head hitting the lab bench with a dull thud.
Unseen beneath the sleeve of his lab coat, the flesh at the end of his severed arm began to writhe and contort, something alien and powerful fighting its way into existence.
Miles away, in Gwen Stacy's bedroom, the sound was not of monstrous transformation, but of lighthearted laughter.
"…and then Simon screamed and jumped onto the chair!" Gwen recounted, giggling into her phone. "It was just a tiny little lizard that crawled in from the window, but you'd think it was a dinosaur!"
On the other end of the line, Hawk listened, a smile in his own voice. "Aren't you afraid of them?"
"Hawk," Gwen replied, her tone mock-serious, "you forget. The inspiration for Dr. Connors's research is lizards. Our lab has tanks full of them, bigger than the one that scared Simon. Not to mention the hundreds of mice." She wasn't some damsel in distress; she was a scientist who could coolly dissect a specimen without batting an eye.
Hawk chuckled, conceding the point.
"What about you?" Gwen asked, changing the subject. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"
"Not yet," Hawk replied. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at the bucket of fried chicken he'd picked up on his way home. "Going to head up to the rooftop for my workout first, then eat." The old gym was gone, transformed into a swimming pool complex over the summer. The new gym was always crowded, especially now with the influx of freshmen. The rooftop had become his new, solitary training ground.
Gwen was silent for a moment. Then, her voice took on a softer, more serious tone. "Hawk… can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why do you still do it? The boxing. Every single day. You're already… strong enough, aren't you?"
The image of the inverted waterfall flashed in her mind, a sight so impossible she still wasn't sure she hadn't hallucinated it. But she hadn't hallucinated the other thing. The memory was vivid, terrifying, and awe-inspiring: deep in the Maryland woods, on their trek back to civilization, they had stumbled upon a massive black bear. It had reared up, roaring, ready to charge. And Hawk, moving faster than her eye could follow, had met its charge with a single, devastating punch that had sent the creature flying, its neck snapping like a twig. He could kill a bear with one punch. Why did he still need to train?
Hawk was silent on his end, considering her question. Why did he still practice? It was no longer about gaining power, not primarily. It was about control. About discipline. About remembering the cost of that power. He thought of the photo on his nightstand, the smiling faces from a life cut short. He thought of Gwen, her impossible journey through the wilderness just to find him.
"To protect myself," he finally answered, his voice quiet but firm. "And the people I care about."
A beat of silence hung between them. Then, Gwen's voice, clear and unwavering, came through the phone.
"Am I included?"
Her directness caught him off guard. He remembered her boldness in the car, her finding the 'correct' way to talk to him by simply stating her terms. He couldn't help but laugh, a warm, genuine sound. He leaned back against his pillow, looking up at the ceiling.
"Of course," he said, the simple word carrying the weight of a profound, newly acknowledged truth.