Hawk watched Gwen meticulously shred the damning evidence of his superhuman physiology, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. His entire life had been a struggle for control, a relentless effort to forge a destiny that wasn't dictated by the circumstances of his birth. The idea that someone, anyone, could simply take something from him, especially something as fundamental as his blood, was laughable.
Let them try, he thought, the cold fire of the Phoenix stirring within him. Dream on.
If it had been anyone else standing there, anyone other than Gwen, the moment their hand reached for his blood, their head would have already ceased to exist.
But Gwen wasn't thinking about his potential for violence. Her mind was reeling from the scientific impossibility laid bare on the shredded paper. She understood the numbers, the biological markers, and what she understood terrified her.
Every single value on Hawk's report wasn't just high; it was impossible. His white blood cell count was literally off the charts, exceeding the maximum value the state-of-the-art analyzer could even register. It indicated an immune system of godlike efficiency, capable of identifying and annihilating any pathogen, any toxin, almost instantaneously. It explained his astonishing resilience, his uncanny ability to recover from injury. She remembered the accident in the lab, the clear sight of blood on his hand, followed by the impossible, instantaneous healing.
His red blood cell count suggested an oxygen-carrying capacity that would allow him to sprint for miles without tiring. His platelet count indicated a clotting factor that made significant bleeding virtually impossible. Taken together, the data painted a picture not of a human being, but of a biological fortress, a perfectly optimized life form operating at a level far beyond the known limits of biology.
"I've seen Captain America's blood analysis online," Gwen said, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes wide as she looked at him. "Declassified S.H.I.E.L.D. files. Hawk… your numbers are even more exaggerated than his. Did you… did you take the Super Soldier Serum?" It was the only remaining rational explanation.
He met her gaze, saw the desperate hope for a simple, albeit extraordinary, answer. He just shrugged. "Not even close."
"Alright," Gwen said, accepting his denial with a sigh. There were no easy answers here. She decisively finished her cleanup, wiping down the machine, rinsing the test tube repeatedly, ensuring not a single microscopic trace of his blood remained. She balled up the damp shreds of paper and buried them deep within the laboratory's biohazard waste container.
Hawk watched her thorough, almost paranoid, cleansing ritual with a growing amusement. "Is all this really necessary, Gwen?"
"Yes," she replied, turning to face him, her expression deadly serious. "It is absolutely necessary. Hawk, I have no doubt that if this data ever got out, you would end up dissected on a government autopsy table before you even knew what hit you."
He raised an eyebrow. "That depends entirely on whether they could catch me." He let a hint of his true confidence, the cold certainty of his power, show in his eyes. He wouldn't mind turning their 'attempt' into 'suicide'. The killing valve was open now. Restraint was a choice, not a necessity.
But Gwen's expression didn't soften. If anything, her seriousness intensified. "Hawk!" she pleaded, her voice urgent. "Promise me. Never let anyone get a sample of your blood. Never."
He looked at her, truly saw the depth of her fear for him, and the casual amusement faded. He thought for a moment, then gave a slow, solemn nod. "...Alright."
Her small face finally relaxed, the tension leaving her shoulders. They walked out of the silent laboratory together, the shared secret hanging heavy in the air between them.
"So," Gwen said, deliberately changing the subject as they stepped back into the normal bustle of the school hallway. "What do we do next?"
"About what?"
"The Lizard. Dr. Connors."
Hawk shrugged dismissively. "It's none of our business. His transformation wasn't our fault. For all we know, he's already halfway to Mexico by now."
Gwen considered this. It was possible. "Maybe," she conceded. "Okay. Forget him. What classes do you have this afternoon?"
"French."
"Geography."
They fell back into the easy rhythm of discussing schedules, the monstrous implications of Hawk's biology and Connors's transformation temporarily pushed aside as the mundane reality of high school reasserted itself.
Three days passed. The city, ever resilient, moved on. The Lizard of Williamsburg Bridge became yesterday's news, overshadowed by celebrity gossip and political scandals. With no further sightings, the prevailing theory was that the creature had either been quietly captured or had fled the city. Even Peter Parker, New York's newly minted protector, began to relax, his nightly patrols becoming less frantic.
But the Lizard had not fled. Deep beneath the streets, in the humid darkness of the New York sewer system, Dr. Curt Connors had made his lair. On a small, dry platform amidst the flowing filth, surrounded by the stolen equipment from his lab, he had returned, agonizingly, to his human form.
But the transformation had changed him. He had tasted power. He had felt the exhilarating rush of restored wholeness, of strength beyond human limits. The memory of his missing arm, the constant reminder of his perceived weakness, was now unbearable. The initial, noble intention—to sacrifice himself to prevent harm to others—had curdled, twisted by the intoxicating allure of the Lizard's raw, primal power.
He wouldn't go back. He couldn't go back. He decided. He would not remain human. He would embrace the Lizard. Permanently.
But to do that, he needed to understand the miracle. He needed to replicate the result. For three days, he had obsessively reviewed the security footage from his lab, searching for the key, the anomaly.
And then he found it.
Paused on the flickering screen was the image of the small, white mouse with the broken tail, lapping at the dark droplets on the lab floor. He rewound further, his single hand trembling as he controlled the playback. The screen froze again, this time on the moment Hawk had pulled his bleeding hand away from Gwen's sight.
"Hawk!" Connors hissed, his voice a dry, ragged whisper. "It was him! His blood!"
He trembled, not with fear, but with a surge of manic, joyous revelation. He knew Hawk. He liked the boy. Hawk was strong, principled. Surely, if he explained, if he asked, Hawk would willingly provide a sample, help him achieve his glorious apotheosis.
He reached for his phone, his mind already composing the polite, rational request.
But then, a voice. A cold, insidious whisper that seemed to echo both in the damp sewer tunnels and in the deepest recesses of his own fracturing mind.
No... he won't give it to you... Why would someone with such power share it with a cripple like you?
Connors froze, his hand hovering over the phone. The voice was seductive, playing on his deepest insecurities, his oldest wounds. "Yes..." he mumbled, his eyes becoming unfocused. "He won't give it to me. But… but I need it…"
Gwen... the voice whispered, coiling around his thoughts like a serpent. She is his weakness. His attachment. Take the girl. Use her. Force him to give you what you need.
"Yes..." Connors repeated, his gaze now completely vacant, lost in the poisonous logic of the suggestion. "Catch Gwen... force him..."
He turned, his movements jerky, unnatural. He reached for the last three vials of the unstable, experimental serum, his transformation no longer a desperate gamble, but a calculated means to an end. The man was gone. Only the monster remained.