Chapter 38: Background Process
Inside the safe house, Winter Soldier stared at Lynn, pupils dilated, lips trembling for a long time before squeezing out a hoarse sentence:
"...Howard?"
The photo in Tony's hand drifted to the ground.
He stood up, his eye sockets so red they could drip blood:
"He killed my dad. Now he calls you dad?"
"His brain is scrambled eggs,"
Lynn stepped forward, blocking between Tony and Winter Soldier,
"Don't argue with a madman."
"I'm not arguing!"
Tony punched the console, making the keyboard bounce up,
"I'm asking why he looks at you and calls you Howard Stark!"
Winter Soldier was still struggling, the restraint straps rattling. He grabbed emptily toward Lynn, his dim eyes flickering with the light of a drowning person seeing driftwood:
"Howard... don't leave... Bucky was wrong..."
Natasha flipped down from the ventilation access port, landing silently, her red hair looking like a cluster of fire in the dimness.
She patted the dust off her hands, her gaze sweeping across Lynn's collar:
"Twenty years ago, Howard was in his early forties. Your face now has an overlap rate of over seventy percent with his photos from back then."
Hill walked in from the door, holding a loaded pistol, the muzzle pointing down, her finger resting against the trigger guard.
Her nose twitched slightly as she walked straight up to Lynn:
"There's whiskey on you, and tuberose produced in Sokovia..."
Lynn:
"...Do you two have dog noses?"
"I'm an Agent."
Hill and Natasha said in unison.
The two glanced at each other and simultaneously looked away, as if two blades had clashed in the air.
Tony ignored them.
He squatted in front of Winter Soldier, staring into those dim eyes:
"Say it again. What did you just call him?"
Winter Soldier's gaze shifted to Tony's face, recognizing him for a long time before his lips parted and closed:
"...Tony?"
Tony's shoulders trembled violently.
"You know me?"
His voice was hoarse,
"You fucking killed my dad, and you still know me?"
Winter Soldier tilted his head, as if listening to distant static, and suddenly smiled, extremely distorted:
"...Little Tony. Bucky held you. You pissed all over me."
Tony's face turned pale, and he raised his hand to slap Winter Soldier, but his wrist was caught by Lynn.
Lynn's fingers were like iron pliers, forcefully holding it in mid-air.
"Brother,"
Lynn's voice was very low,
"Hitting him is useless. He's a broken hard drive right now; if you slap him, more data will only be lost."
Tony stared at Lynn for five seconds, then slowly lowered his hand. He turned and walked back to the console, turning his back to everyone, his shoulders taut like steel plates:
"...Hydra's cleanup squad will be downstairs in twelve minutes."
Hill raised her head abruptly:
"How do you know?"
"I hacked into their communication channel,"
Tony's voice drifted out, carrying a reckless coldness,
"The target isn't Winter Soldier, it's you, Lynn. In Fury's files, your DNA matches Howard's to a high degree, and they think you're an illegitimate son hidden by Howard. If they kill you, Stark Industries will fall into chaos, and Tonywill go crazy—"
He paused,
"And then they can regain control of the weapons division."
The air froze.
Natasha felt for the dagger at the small of her back:
"How many people?"
"Twelve. Fully armed. The leader is a survivor of the winter soldier program, and also has a metal arm."
Tony turned around, expressionless except for his still-red eye sockets,
"I notified Fury, but his assault team will take at least twenty minutes to arrive."
"Twelve minutes versus twenty minutes,"
Hill chambered a round in her pistol with a click,
"Enough."
"Not enough."
Lynn took off his suit jacket and threw it on a chair,
"They want me, I'll go out and lure them away."
"You're going out to court death?"
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"I court it, they die."
Lynn rolled his shoulders, his joints cracking,
"You guys guard Tony and Winter Soldier. This squishy guy is rebooting for the second time, my brother can't hold him down alone."
Hill looked at him, suddenly reached out, took a micro-communicator from her pocket, and stuffed it into his ear canal:
"Channel encrypted. Don't disconnect."
Natasha sneered, took off a micro-camera from her neck, and clipped it to his collar:
"Live streaming equipment. Let me see if the streamer is still as passionate today."
Lynn glanced at them, then glanced at Tony. Tony didn't speak, pulling a short-barreled shotgun from under the console and tossing it to him:
"Take it. Don't die outside, I still have to ask you about the DNA thing."
Lynn caught the gun, tucked it into his waist, and turned to walk toward the side door.
Winter Soldier suddenly screamed shrilly:
"Howard! Don't go! They'll kill you!"
Lynn turned back.
Winter Soldier writhed wildly in the chair, one of the restraint straps snapping, his metal left arm reaching toward him, tears mixing with dust to carve a muddy trail.
Lynn walked over, pressing his palm onto Winter Soldier's normal, trembling right hand:
"I'm not leaving, I'm right here. If they come in, I'll make them go out."
The chaos in Winter Soldier's eyes settled into a vague, childlike trust. He nodded, his lips silently repeating:
"...Bucky is obedient."
Lynn got up and walked toward the side door.
The door closed behind him.
The hallway was very dark.
Lynn walked hugging the base of the wall, Spider-Sensestinging gently on the back of his neck, like ants crawling.
Counting to the seventh breath, his sense suddenly exploded—
At the corner ahead, the faint sound of metal clashing, the rustle of a silencer brushing against trouser legs.
Lynn didn't stop. Speeding up his pace, the moment the other person poked their head out, the shotgun was pressed against that person's chin.
Boom.
The muffled sound was like a beating drum.
Blood splattered on the wall.
The gunfire was the signal.
The lights at both ends of the hallway shattered simultaneously, darkness swallowing everything.
Lynn's Spider-Sense wove a net in the darkness: two on the left, with rifles; three on the right, with daggers and suppressed pistols; directly ahead, the one with the metal arm stood in place without moving, like a lump of iron.
Lynn discarded the empty gun and drew a tactical dagger.
The two on the left rushed out holding rifles.
Lynn ducked down half a second early, bullets brushing past his scalp and into the wall. He cut into the first person's inner guard,
stabbing the dagger into the opponent's ribs, smoothly seizing the rifle, and smashing the stock into the second person's face. The crisp sound of nasal bones shattering was like snapping corn.
The three on the right lunged simultaneously. Lynnretreated, his back pressing against the wall, his Spider-Sense mapping out three attack trajectories within fractions of a second.
He suddenly leaped upward, his hands and feet adsorbing onto the ceiling, hanging upside down like a giant black spider.
The three below lunged into empty space, stunned for half a second.
Lynn let go, falling, his knees smashing into the first person's shoulder, forcing them directly to their knees.
The second person's dagger stabbed over; Lynnsidestepped, the blade brushing past his abdominal muscles, and he smoothly twisted the opponent's wrist,
with a snap bending it backward, turning the dagger around to stab into the opponent's own thigh.
The third person raised their gun, but Lynn was already right in front of him, his forehead pressing against the muzzle.
Bang.
The moment the bullet left the barrel, Lynn tilted his head, the scorching airflow brushing past his cheekbone.
He gripped the opponent's gun-holding hand, lifting it upward, and the second shot went into the ceiling.
Then he punched the opponent's Adam's apple, and the man collapsed clutching his throat, like a fish out of water.
One left.
The leader with the metal arm stood at the end of the hallway, not moving.
He looked at Lynn, his dim eyes identical to Winter Soldier's, only colder, like two networked machines.
"Target, Stark,"
he spoke, his voice mechanical,
"Eliminate."
Lynn shook the blood off his hands and picked up a suppressed pistol from the ground:
"Your colleague said the exact same thing just now. Now he's lying over there, what about you?"
The metal-armed man moved instantly.
He was faster and more ruthless than Winter Soldier, without the hesitation of memory confusion.
The metal arm swept out in an arc, the generated wind pressure stinging Lynn's cheeks.
Lynn raised his arm to block, and his entire body was jarred back three steps, crashing into the fire hydrant and denting the iron box.
"You've got some real strength."
Lynn grinned, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
The man didn't waste words, following up with another punch.
Lynn's Spider-Sense exploded, sidestepping in advance, and that punch smashed through the wall behind him, chunks of concrete flying.
Lynn seized the opportunity to cut into his inner guard, pressing the pistol under the opponent's armpit and firing three shots in succession.
Bullets embedded into flesh, but the man only swayed slightly, his metal arm sweeping back in a backhand blow.
Lynn leaned backward, that punch brushing past the tip of his nose and blasting the wooden door beside them into fragments.
"Are you a bot?"
Lynn panted,
"Why is your health bar so thick?"
The man raised his leg and kicked Lynn in the lower abdomen.
Lynn flew backward, knocking over the trash can at the end of the corridor, the metallic clatter exploding in the empty hallway.
He got up, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his accelerated healing repairing the cracks in his ribs with an itchiness that tingled.
"Fine,"
he spat out a mouthful of bloody foam,
"my turn."
He surged forward abruptly, suddenly leaping when two meters away from the man, kicking off the wall with both feet, his body bending at a right angle as he pounced down from the side.
The man raised his metal arm to block upward, but Lynnchanged direction midway—
Spider-Sense predicted his defensive trajectory—
hanging upside down behind him, locking his legs around his neck, and using waist and abdominal strength to flip the man flat onto the ground.
The back of the man's head hit the floor with a muffled thump.
Lynn didn't loosen his legs, threading his arms under the opponent's armpits to grip the shoulder joint of his metal arm, his whole body's muscles taut like two tourniquets exerting force in opposite directions.
The metal arm's hydraulic system made an overburdened squeaking sound.
"This arm of yours,"
Lynn roared lowly,
"the interface is at the third joint of the scapula, right?"
He gave a fierce twist.
Snap.
Sparks burst from the shoulder joint of the metal arm, the entire arm hanging limply down, with only a few data wires still connected, crackling.
The man lay on the ground, pupils dilated, lips mechanically opening and closing:
"...Mission... failed... self-destruct..."
"No such function."
Lynn let go of him, stood up, and stepped on his chest,
"winter soldier program V2.0? Hydra must have cut their budget, can't even afford to install a self-destruct chip."
The man stopped moving. His dim eyes stared at the ceiling, like a powered-down machine.
Lynn leaned against the wall, taking a few breaths, when Hill's voice suddenly exploded in his earpiece:
"Lynn! Side door! One of them leaked through!"
He spun around sharply.
The side door of the safe house was kicked open, and a gun-wielding dark figure rushed in.
From inside came Tony's cursing and Winter Soldier's roar, followed by two gunshots, a muffled grunt, and metallic clashing.
Lynn bolted back.
When he pushed open the door, Natasha was pulling her dagger out from the heart of the last intruder,
blood dripping down the fuller onto the carpet. Hill was half-kneeling behind the console, her pistol still pointing at the door, the muzzle smoking.
Tony was hugging his head and squatting behind a chair; Winter Soldier's restraint straps were completely broken, and he stood in front of Tony, his metal left arm horizontal like a shield, embedded with two bullet heads.
Winter Soldier turned his head, saw Lynn, and the tiny light in his dim eyes brightened again:
"...Howard?"
Lynn walked in, covered in blood, his suit pants covered in dust. He glanced at Hill, then at Natasha, and finally looked at Winter Soldier:
"I'm back."
Winter Soldier nodded, his legs suddenly going weak as he pitched forward. Lynn caught him and propped him back onto the chair.
Winter Soldier grabbed his wrist, his nails sinking into the flesh, his voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz:
"...Red Room. Sokovia. They're still... building more..."
Having said that, he passed out.
The room quieted down.
Tony poked his head out from behind the chair, looking at the blood and corpses all over the floor, and then looking at Lynn, his Adam's apple moving:
"...This blood on your face, is it someone else's or yours?"
"Half and half."
Natasha sheathed her dagger and chuckled:
"Streamer, I looked at the live streaming data. That upside-down ceiling move you just did was very flashy. I suggest applying for intangible cultural heritage."
Hill put away her gun, walked up to Lynn, reached out to wipe the blood off his face, and her fingertips paused on the scratch on his cheekbone:
"Accelerated healing, this cut wasn't here three minutes ago."
"It is now."
"Will it leave a scar?"
"No."
"What a pity then,"
Hill withdrew her hand, her voice as flat as a steel plate,
"A scar could serve as an anti-counterfeiting mark. To save certain shady women from mistaking you for some illegitimate son of Howard Stark again."
Natasha let out a snort of laughter, leaning against the wall and clapping:
"Deputy Commander, those words are so sour my teeth fell out."
Lynn stood between the two women, covered in blood and filth, still gripping Winter Soldier's icy hand.
He opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound, the phone in his pocket vibrated.
Pulling it out to look, it was a text message from Ivy:
[Sokovia's account has moved again.
The payee has been changed to a project called "Red Room". Are you still alive on your end?]
Lynn looked at the screen, then looked up at Hill and Natasha.
Both women raised their eyebrows simultaneously.
"..." Lynn shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering to himself, "We're done for."
Chapter 39 Preparing to Snatch Gwen Stacy"
Lynn pushed open the door. Tony had his back to him, and the welding torch carved a dazzling arc across the armor plate, with his mask pushed up onto his forehead and his hair singed into curls.
"Did you throw the Winter Soldier to Fury?"
Tony didn't turn back.
"Temporarily stored."
Lynn leaned against the doorframe, the wound on his back still itching,
"He said a word, Red Room."
The welding torch stopped.
Tony turned around with a streak of black grease on his face, looking like he had been slapped:
"The one in Sokovia?"
"Mm."
Tony threw the welding torch onto the table, making a loud clanging sound as metal hit metal.
He stared at Lynn, the dark bruises around his eyes not yet faded:
"I checked your DNA."
Lynn didn't move.
"Not Howard's illegitimate child,"
Tony said,
"but you and him share maternal segments. It's very complex, like... artificially spliced."
Lynn met his gaze:
"Bro, I don't have time to decrypt things right now. I have to go to New York."
"What for?"
"Oscorp. Shareholders' meeting."
Lynn pulled a gold-stamped invitation letter out of his pocket and tossed it over,
"I have shares."
Tony caught it, raising an eyebrow:
"Where did you get it?"
"Dad gave it to me."
Tony paused, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, and didn't ask any further.
He lowered his head to pick up a piece of armor plate, and the welding torch reignited, blue-white sparks crackling and bursting:
"Go ahead. Don't get eaten by Norman Osborn; that old guy is so driven he doesn't look like a patient at all."
Oscorp, New York.
The air conditioning in the shareholders' meeting room was cranked up way too high,
Lynn sat at the end of the long table as the youngest shareholder, and no one recognized him.
He spun a pen between his fingertips, listening to Norman Osborn pitch his grand visions.
Norman sat in the primary seat, his illness clearly visible, with sunken eye sockets, but his suit was impeccably ironed, looking like a meticulously dressed mummy.
He was talking about the future applications of cross-species genetics, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper scraping against sheet iron.
Until the laboratory reporting segment.
Gwen Stacy walked in.
Her blonde hair was tied into a ponytail, the cuffs of her lab coat were rolled up to her elbows, and there was a faint scar on her forearm. Holding a tablet in her hands, she didn't look at the shareholders and directly projected the data onto the screen.
"Cross-species expression of spider silk protein,"
her crisp voice sounded like glass beads dropping onto a porcelain plate,
"is currently stuck on the stability of chromosome 7 telomeres. If this is broken through, regenerative medicine can leapfrog three decades."
Lynn's pen stopped moving.
He raised his eyes.
Gwen was turning around to point at the screen, her ponytail brushing across her shoulder, and the hem of her lab coat nipped in sharply at her waist to form a neat line.
Norman smiled and introduced:
"Ms. Stacy, our most outstanding intern."
"And her partner, Mr. Parker."
Peter Parker poked his head out from behind Gwen. He was skinny, his glasses slid down to the tip of his nose, and he nervously nodded at the shareholders.
He was clutching a Petri dish in his hands, his knuckles turning white.
Lynn's gaze lingered on Gwen's face for two extra seconds.
Gwen sensed it.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze, her brow furrowing ever so slightly,
not shyness, but scrutiny.
She didn't know this man, but the seat he occupied was the Class A preferred stock shareholder seat.
"This is,"
Norman looked at Lynn with a probing tone in his voice,
"Mr. Leon Stark."
"An emerging partner of Stark Industries, holding seven percent of our floating shares."
The meeting room fell silent for a beat.
Peter's hand trembled, and the Petri dish almost dropped.
Gwen's brow furrowed deeper, but she quickly relaxed it, resuming her professional expression.
Lynn put down his pen and smiled:
"Don't be nervous. I'm just here to listen and learn."
He paused and looked at Gwen:
"Ms. Stacy, you just mentioned telomere stability."
"What if we use a retrovirus vector to integrate the spider silk protein gene into somatic cells instead of embryonic stem cells?"
Gwen was stunned.
She stared at Lynn, as if she hadn't expected a capitalist to spit out such specific terms.
She opened her mouth, not immediately responding.
Peter chimed in quietly from the side:
"Actually... we've tried retroviral vectors, but the transfection efficiency..."
"Use lentiviral vectors,"
Lynn said,
"add a Tet-On induction system. The expression will be controllable, and telomere loss can be reduced by forty percent."
The meeting room fell into dead silence.
Gwen's eyes lit up, the kind of light a researcher gets when they see a crucial missing piece of the puzzle.
She took half a step forward, the hem of her lab coat brushing past the edge of the table:
"Have you read Dr. Connors' papers?"
"A little bit,"
Lynn leaned back against his chair back,
"since I'm already here, I figured I should do some homework."
Norman's gaze swept back and forth between Lynn and Gwen, his smile unchanged, but the depths of his eyes darkened like well water turning to ice.
After the meeting, Lynn went to the laboratory to inspect.
Gwen led him to see the incubator, with Peter following three steps behind like a vigilant quail, still tightly clutching that Petri dish in his hand.
"You're not an ordinary shareholder,"
Gwen said suddenly. She wasn't looking at him, adjusting the microscope while her fingers twirled the coarse adjustment knob,
"an ordinary shareholder wouldn't be able to say Tet-On."
"And I'm not an ordinary student,"
Lynn stood by her side, looking at the cell staining on the glass slide,
"I'm very interested in this project of yours."
"Which part?"
"All parts."
Gwen finally turned her head to look at him. The distance was very close, and she could smell the scent on him—
not the alcohol smell of the laboratory, but a very faint scent of leather and cold metal, mixed with a hint of improperly cleaned blood scent.
Her eyelashes trembled slightly, but she didn't step back.
"Do you want to invest?"
she asked.
"I want to poach people,"
Lynn said,
"come to Stark Industries after graduation. Name your conditions."
Peter coughed from behind, a loud sound as if he were about to cough his lungs out.
Gwen smiled, not a happy smile, but one with a bit of a sting:
"Stark Industries? The weapon makers?"
"They used to. Now they build battle suits."
Lynn pulled a business card out of his pocket and stuffed it into the pocket of her lab coat, his fingertips brushing past her waistline and pulling away the instant they touched,
"to build something that can protect yourself."
He turned and walked out, pausing at the door to glance at Peter:
"Mr. Parker, your Petri dish is crooked."
Peter lowered his head and scrambled to steady it, his glasses almost falling off.
Lynn walked out of the laboratory and stopped in the corridor. He pulled out his phone; there were three unread messages on the screen:
Hill:
"The satellite imagery of the Red Room has been sent to your encrypted mailbox."
Natasha:
"Boss, Fury is asking about the Winter Soldier's memory recovery progress. Where on earth are you?"
Ivy:
"Sokovia's account has moved again. Norman Osbornwired a sum of money over there last week, with the remark 'medical tourism'."
Lynn looked at Ivy's text message, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Medical tourism.
Norman Osborn was dying and in a rush to find unorthodox remedies.
The Green Goblin was coming.
He raised his head and, through the glass wall, saw Gwenin the laboratory lowering her head to record data, her ponytail hanging by the side of her neck, exposing a section of fair back neck.
Peter crowded next to her, pointing at the screen and saying something. Gwen didn't even raise her head, poking him aside with the cap of her pen.
Lynn stuffed his phone back into his pocket, turned and walked toward the elevator, talking to himself:
"Since I'm already here."
Chapter 40: Hero Saves the Beauty
Lynn came out of Oscorp Tower without calling a cab.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and when he pulled it out to take a look, Natasha's name was flashing.
"Boss,"
Natasha's voice carried static noise,
"An assassin from the Red Room was lost in Downtown New York.
Fury's people lost track of them. You're nearby, go claim them?"
"I'm walking off my meal."
Lynn took off his suit jacket, draped it over his arm, and the night wind blew his shirt against his back,
"I don't have time to pick up trash."
"If Hill's people pick them up,"
Natasha chuckled, "
you'll have to go to the S.H.I.E.L.D. morgue to claim them. They won't be as easy to talk to as me."
"Beep."
The call hung up.
Lynn shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned into a shortcut.
The alley was very narrow, with restaurant back-door trash cans piled on both sides, reeking of rancid cooking fumes.
He frowned and quickened his pace.
His Spider-Sense suddenly pricked.
It wasn't murderous intent; it was trouble.
Thirty meters ahead to the left, someone was crying, and someone was laughing.
Lynn didn't run; he just made a turn and walked over.
At the mouth of the alley, three punks surrounded a woman.
Gwen Stacy had her back against the wall, clutching a document bag tightly in her arms, her ponytail half-undone, and her blonde hair draping over her shoulders.
She wasn't crying, her face was pulled tight, and her lips were pressed into a thin line.
"The money is in the bag,"
her voice was steady, but the end of her sentence shook a little,
"take it and don't touch me."
The blonde-haired leader reached out to pull her hair:
"We want the money, and we want to chat too. College student, still in the lab this late, what are you researching? Tell your big brothers about it?"
Gwen suddenly turned her head to dodge, smashing the document bag into the blonde punk's face. Pages flew out like a flock of white birds.
The blonde punk cursed and raised his hand to slap.
That hand was intercepted mid-air.
Lynn grabbed his wrist as if holding a chopstick.
He didn't look at the blonde punk, looking at Gwen first:
"Are you alright?"
Gwen gasped, her pupils contracting slightly:
"...Why are you here?"
"Taking a walk."
Lynn flung the blonde punk's hand aside, causing the man to stumble two steps and crash into a trash can, making the tin barrel clatter loudly,
"Walking off my meal."
The other two thugs exchanged glances, pulled steel pipes from behind their waists, and closed in from left and right.
Lynn gently placed his suit jacket on the nearby fire hydrant, moving leisurely as if hanging a painting.
Then he turned around, initiating instantly.
The steel pipe on the left swung toward the back of his head, and his Spider-Sense exploded half a second early. Lynn ducked down, and that club grazed his hair tips and smashed into the wall, chipping cement dust all over half his shoulder. He smoothly cut into the opponent's inner guard,
driving an elbow into the stomach. The man bent into a shrimp, and the steel pipe clattered to the ground.
The one on the right seized the opportunity to thrust forward, but Lynn didn't dodge, letting that club smash into his back.
The dull thud sounded like beating a drum.
Lynn didn't even frown. The bone density and muscle tolerance of the 50/50 serum made the feeling of that club roughly equivalent to a masseur pressing a bit too hard.
He grabbed the opponent's wrist in reverse, twisted it, and with a snap, the man screamed and fell to his knees.
The blonde punk crawled out from the trash can, pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and flicked it open, its blade shimmering cyan in the dim light.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The blonde punk panted heavily,
"Don't meddle in other people's business!"
"I'm meddling,"
Lynn walked toward him,
"how about you? Call the police or keep going?"
The blonde punk cursed and lunged forward, the knife tip stabbing straight for his heart.
Lynn sidestepped, the blade grazing past his shirt and tearing a slit.
His left hand gripped the blonde punk's knife-wielding wrist and slammed it against the wall, knocking the switchblade out of his hand and into a wooden board. His right hand clenched into a fist, not hitting the face, but slamming into the blonde punk's lower abdomen.
The blonde punk folded entirely, sliding down against the wall with a gurgling sound in his throat, vomiting a pool of sour water all over the ground.
Lynn shook his hands, bent down to pick up his suit jacket, patted off the dust, and draped it over his arm again. The whole process took less than forty seconds.
He turned to Gwen.
She was still pressed against the wall, document papers scattered all over the ground, her chest heaving violently.
She looked at him, her eyes gradually shifting from lingering fear to scrutiny, and finally into a complex light of a researcher seeing anomalous data.
"You..."
She licked her dry lips,
"Who on earth are you?"
Lynn picked up a piece of paper that had drifted to his feet and handed it to her:
"A shareholder. Remember?"
"A shareholder took a club,"
Gwen didn't take the paper, staring at his back,
"and didn't even bend his back?"
"I train."
"Train what? The Golden Bell Shield?"
"Pretty much."
Lynn stuffed the paper into her arms, looked up at the streetlamp at the mouth of the alley, and asked,
"Where do you live? I'll walk you home."
"No need, I..."
"Either I walk you,"
Lynn interrupted her,
"or we wait for the police, you spend three hours making a statement, and tomorrow you'll be on the front page of the New York Post:
"Oscorp Female Intern Encounters Danger at Night, Mysterious Tycoon Saves the Damsel in Distress". You choose."
Gwen closed her mouth. She squatted down to pick up the documents, her fingers still trembling slightly.
Lynn squatted down beside her to help. When he handed over two pieces of paper, his fingertips brushed against the back of her hand.
Gwen flinched slightly, but didn't pull away.
"That spider," she
suddenly said,
"Peter was on duty tonight and got bitten by an experimental spider. The back of his hand is swollen really high. He said it was an ordinary bite, but looking at that spider's pigment deposition,
it doesn't look like an ordinary species."
Lynn's movements paused for a beat.
The spider of destiny. It was coming soon.
"Take me to see him," Lynn said.
"Now?"
"Now."
Gwen looked at him and nodded.
The two walked out of the alley, and Lynn flagged down a taxi. When Gwen gave the address, her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen, didn't answer, and pressed mute.
Lynn caught a glimpse of the caller ID: Peter.
He didn't ask.
As the taxi started, Lynn's phone vibrated too. Hill's name, a text message:
[Red Room assassin target confirmed: Norman Osborn. Not Winter Soldier data, it's the cross-species serum formula. Where are you?]
Lynn lowered his head and typed: [Walking a future employee home.]
Hill replied very quickly: [Which future employee?]
Lynn glanced at Gwen beside him.
She was gazing out the window, her blonde hair gently ruffled by the car's air conditioning, the lines of her profile flickering in the light and shadow as streetlamps swept past.
He typed:
[One who hasn't been bitten by a spider yet.]
Hill: [?]
Lynn shoved his phone back into his pocket and didn't reply further.
Gwen suddenly turned to look at him:
"What were you smiling at just now?"
"It's nothing,"
Lynn looked ahead,
"thought of a joke."
"What joke?"
"Might as well since we're already here."
Gwen frowned, obviously not understanding. But she didn't press, just hugged the document bag in her arms tighter, shrank deeper into the seat, and moved a little closer to Lynn.
The taxi crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, and the lights of New York flowed outside the window.
Chapter 41: Bite Mark
The taxi stopped at the back door of the Oscorp laboratory.
Gwen pushed the door open and got out, holding the file bag in her arms, her blonde hair blown wild by the night wind.
Lynn followed her down and put on his suit jacket, leaving the buttons unbuttoned.
"He should be in the Section B emergency room,"
Gwen walked briskly, her leather shoe heels clicking sharply against the ground,
"the back of his hand is swollen like a steamed bun, but he stubbornly refuses to go to the hospital."
"Afraid of spending money?"
"Afraid of being caught dozing off on duty."
Lynn let out a chuckle and followed.
The emergency room lights were very bright.
Peter Parker sat on the folding bed, the back of his right hand wrapped in gauze, but bloodstains and an abnormal grayish-black color seeped through the edges of the gauze.
His face was flushed, his forehead was sweating, and his glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose. Seeing Gwenwalk in, his eyes lit up:
"Gwen! I'm fine! Really! It was just an ordinary spider..."
"An ordinary spider wouldn't give you a thirty-nine-degree fever,"
Gwen walked over and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, pulling back slightly from the heat,
"you're running a fever."
"I'm evolving."
Peter pushed up his glasses, his voice as excited as if he had just chugged three shots of espresso,
"I feel... great. My hearing has improved, I can hear the water dispenser bubbling down the hall."
Lynn stood at the door, his gaze falling on the transparent container on the bedside table. The spider had been killed, its eight legs curled up, with an unnatural fluorescent green pattern on its carapace.
"A spider from the cross-species project,"
Lynn said,
"not an ordinary species."
Peter turned to look at him, stunned for a moment:
"Mr. Stark? Why are you..."
"Walking off my food, just passing by."
Lynn walked over, picked up the container, and examined it closely,
"Does Norman know?"
"Know what?"
Peter swallowed,
"Know I was bitten?"
"Know that his spider bit his intern."
The door opened.
Norman Osborn walked in, followed by two bodyguards.
He looked even worse than during the day, with sunken eye sockets and purple lips, but his suit was still impeccably crisp, like a freshly waxed corpse.
His gaze first fell on Peter's hand, then shifted to Gwen's face, and finally stopped on Lynn.
"Mr. Stark,"
Norman smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling into a stiff arc,
"you are more familiar with my laboratory than my shareholders."
"I care about employees,"
Lynn put down the container,
"especially those accidentally injured by their own equipment."
"An accident,"
Norman walked to the bedside, looked down at the back of Peter's hand, his pupils contracting slightly,
"We will handle it. Gwen, take Parker to a regular hospital."
"I've already called a cab,"
Gwen said,
"it'll be here soon."
Peter's ears suddenly twitched. He snapped his head up and looked at the ceiling:
"... Someone's there."
"What?"
"Above,"
Peter's voice changed pitch,
"Four people. Footsteps, very heavy... in the ventilation duct?"
The skin on the back of Lynn's neck suddenly tightened.
Spider-Sense exploded, as if needles were piercing into the back of his head.
Zero-frame startup.
The ceiling collapsed with a roar.
Three black figures dropped down, silenced pistols pointing at Norman Osborn.
The leading woman wore a black form-fitting combat uniform, with red hair, expressionless, like a freshly manufactured home appliance.
Red Room assassin.
Norman's bodyguard drew his gun, but the woman was faster, chopping the first bodyguard's throat with a hand blade, and the man fell to his knees clutching his neck.
The second bodyguard fired, the bullet dodged by her sideways motion, and with a backhanded shot, she hit him right between the eyebrows.
Blood sprayed onto the white wall.
Gwen's scream was choked off in her throat.
Peter sprang from the bed, instinctively shielding Gwen, but his legs were trembling, and the grayish-black veins on the back of his hand throbbed wildly.
"The serum master strain,"
the woman said, pointing her gun at Norman,
"hand it over."
Norman raised both hands, his smile unchanged:
"I don't know what you're talking about..."
The woman didn't waste words and pulled the trigger.
Lynn had already moved.
He didn't go towards Norman, but instead cut across to the woman's side, sweeping a whip kick toward her gun-wielding wrist.
The woman reacted extremely fast, lowering her arm to block, but Lynn's leg strength carried the brute force of the 50-50 serum, numbing her entire arm, causing her muzzle to deflect and a bullet to strike the floor.
The woman turned to look at him, her gray, lifeless eyes devoid of emotion:
"Non-target personnel. Eliminate."
"You guys in the Red Room,"
Lynn landed and assumed a fighting stance,
"only know this one line?"
The woman initiated instantly, throwing a punch straight at Lynn's face.
Lynn tilted his head, the punch brushing past his cheekbone, the generated wind pressure stinging sharply.
He smoothly cut into her inner circle, elbowing her ribs. The woman let out a muffled grunt and drove her knee toward Lynn's lower abdomen.
Lynn pulled in his abdomen as the knee brushed past, grabbed her shoulders, and slammed his forehead hard against her bridge of nose.
Crack.
The woman took two steps back, nosebleed gushing out, but her gaze didn't change, as if she couldn't feel pain.
The two assassins behind her were already closing in on Norman, one of them drawing a syringe from behind their waist containing a fluorescent green liquid.
"Grab him,"
Lynn shouted to Peter,
"don't let them inject Norman!"
Peter froze for half a second, then pounced. His movements were much faster than usual, darting out almost uncontrollably to grab the assassin's wrist.
The assassin struggled once, unable to break free. Peter's knuckles turned white, the veins on the back of his hand bulging, the grayish-black color spreading to his wrist.
"I..."
Peter stared at his own hand,
"why is my strength..."
Another assassin fired at Peter.
Gwen grabbed a tray and hurled it, deflecting the gun muzzle, and the bullet struck the ceiling.
Taking the opportunity to break away from the woman's entanglement, Lynn crossed in two steps and smashed a punch into the gun-wielding assassin's temple. The man flew sideways, knocking over the medicine cabinet, shattering glass bottles all over the floor with a crash.
The woman crept up from behind, stabbing a dagger toward Lynn's lower back.
Spider-Sense exploded, Lynn sidestepped in advance, the blade slicing his shirt and leaving a bloody line across his waist.
He backhanded her wrist, twisted it with a sharp crack, and the dagger fell to the ground. Then with a sweep kick, he brought her down to the floor, pressing his knee onto her chest.
The woman lay in the broken glass, her gray, lifeless eyes staring at him as her lips mechanically opened and closed:
"Mission... failed..."
"No self-destruct program,"
Lynn panted,
"did they cut your budget too?"
He knocked her unconscious, tore off her communicator, and fished a chip out of her collar.
Norman stood in the corner of the room, his face splattered with blood, but still smiling—a smile like a cracking mask.
Peter knelt on the ground, looking at his own hands. The grayish-black color on the back of his hands was fading, but his pulse was beating furiously.
Gwen squatted beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, but her eyes were fixed on Lynn.
She looked at Lynn's blood-seeping shirt at his waist, the unconscious female assassin in the broken glass, and the utter mess all over the floor.
"Who on earth are you?"
She asked. This time it wasn't the curiosity of a researcher, but some heavier, trembling questioning.
Lynn stuffed the chip into his pocket, walked toward her, and casually tore off a roll of bandages from the emergency station, pressing it against the wound on his waist.
Super-speed self-healing had already begun to work, and the bleeding quickly stopped.
"A diner,"
he said,
"didn't quite finish walking off my food earlier, and now I'm hungry again."
Gwen didn't smile. She stood up, suddenly reached out, her fingertips touching the bloodstain on the edge of the bandage at his waist, and then pulled back.
"Peter,"
she whispered,
"we need to get out of here."
"Where to?"
"Stark Tower,"
Lynn said,
"I have a medical department and security there."
"The spider from Oscorp bit you, so it has to take responsibility to the end."
He looked at Norman. Norman was still smiling, but in those sunken eyes, something had sunk down like sludge at the bottom of a well.
"Mr. Norman,"
Lynn said,
"I'll borrow your serum master strain to study. You don't mind, do you?"
Norman raised both hands in an elegant posture:
"Of course. Stark Industries and Oscorp were always meant to... deeply cooperate."
Lynn didn't answer. He helped Peter up, with Gwenfollowing beside them, and the three walked out.
When they reached the door, Lynn glanced back.
Norman stood in the pool of blood, slowly lowering his hand, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the blood off his face. His movements were very slow and meticulous, like removing makeup.
Lynn turned back, and the elevator doors opened in front of them.
Chapter 42: Meeting Gwen Again
A week later. New York, an unlisted underground bar.
Lynn sat on a bar stool at the far end of the bar, with half a glass of bourbon in front of him.
He wasn't wearing a suit, having changed into a dark gray turtleneck sweater. He was waiting for Ivy Blake; that woman said she "might show up," but didn't give a definite answer.
The door opened.
Gwen Stacy walked in.
She wasn't wearing a lab coat, having changed into a black tight-fitting knit sweater. Her blonde hair was loose, and the ends of her hair were still a little damp.
She walked straight to the other end of the bar, threw her bag on the counter, and said to the bartender, "Tequila. Neat. Two glasses."
Lynn held his glass, turned his head, and looked at her for three seconds.
He carried his glass over and sat down next to her.
Gwen was tilting her head back to gulp down the first glass. Her throat bobbed, and a little bit of the liquor spilled from the corner of her mouth, sliding down her chin to the side of her neck.
She put the glass down without even wiping her mouth, looked up, saw him, and froze for a moment.
"Shareholder,"
she said, her voice a little hoarse,
"are you here to digest your food too?"
"I came to eat,"
Lynn said,
"but it seems I came to the wrong place."
Gwen twitched the corner of her mouth—it wasn't a smile. She pushed the second glass of tequila over to him:
"Treat you. Anyway, I'm swiping Osborn's card, and Norman Osborn is paying the bill."
Lynn didn't take it:
"Did you fight with Peter?"
Gwen's hand stopped.
She stared at the glass of wine, her fingers tracing a circle around the rim of the glass, and suddenly tilted her head back and drank it herself.
The liquor burned her so much that her face wrinkled and her eyes turned red.
"He's changed,"
she said,
"ever since he was bitten by that spider. He thinks he hides it very well, but he sneaks out at night, sleeps in class during the day, and when he looks at me... it's like he's looking at a porcelain doll that needs protection."
She turned her head to look at Lynn, her blue eyes shimmering with alcohol-induced haze:
"I am not a porcelain doll. I am his colleague, I am his... forget it."
Lynn beckoned and asked the bartender to get her a glass of warm water:
"So you're here, getting yourself completely drunk to make him worry?"
"He won't worry,"
Gwen sneered,
"he's probably crawling around on some rooftop again tonight..."
Lynn raised an eyebrow.
Peter had already started his nighttime activities, faster than expected.
Gwen drank three more glasses.
Her cheeks turned from white to pink, and then to deep red. Her gaze shifted from sharp to scattered, and finally she collapsed softly against the bar counter, looking at him with her face turned to the side, her lips slightly parted, and her breath carrying the pungent smell of tequila.
"Lynn,"
she called his name, her tongue a little tied,
"what on earth are you?"
"A diner."
"Liar..."
She reached out, her fingertips brushing his chin, and then pulled back as if scalded,
"There's... not a trace of perfume on you. You don't look like someone who came to a bar to pick up women."
"I was waiting for a woman who stood me up."
"Then she... really has no taste."
Gwen slid down completely.
Lynn scooped her up from the bar counter and supported her in the crook of his arm.
Her body was as limp as noodles, her head resting on his shoulder, her blonde hair rubbing against the side of his neck, tickling him.
The bartender glanced at him, and Lynn threw a black card onto the table:
"The bill, charge whatever you want."
He half-supported and half-carried Gwen out of the bar.
The night wind blew over, and Gwen shivered, shrinking into his arms.
She muttered an address, her voice slurred and indistinct. Lynn couldn't hear clearly, so he simply hailed a taxi and gave the address of his own hotel.
The hotel room was on the twentieth floor.
Lynn laid her on the bed and bent down to take off her boots.
Gwen suddenly reached out and grabbed his collar.
Her eyes were half-open, her pupils dilated, and the smell of alcohol mixed with the shampoo in her hair, exuding a clean lemon scent.
"Don't go,"
she said.
"I'm not going,"
Lynn said, "I'll pour you a glass of water."
"No water..."
She exerted strength in her arms, pulling him down.
Lynn lost his footing and knelt on one knee on the edge of the bed.
Gwen raised her head and kissed him.
Her lips were very hot, carrying the bitterness of tequila and a hint of her own lip balm's sweetness.
The kiss was clumsy, her teeth bumping against his lower lip, causing a slight sting.
Lynn stiffened for half a second, then responded.
"Gwen,"
his voice was low and hoarse,
"you'll regret this tomorrow."
"Tomorrow I..."
she gasped,
"...will kill you. But right now... I want you."
Lynn didn't speak again.
He raised his hand, and the desk lamp went out.
When it lit up again, Gwen woke up first.
She didn't open her eyes immediately, staring at the beam of grey light filtering through the crack of the curtains for about ten seconds.
Her head ached as if someone was hammering the back of her head with a hammer. She moved her legs—they were sore, like she had just run a marathon.
Lynn leaned against the head of the bed, his shirt buttons half done, twirling his phone in his hand. He looked down at her:
"Awake?"
Gwen grabbed the quilt and pulled it over her head, muffling herself inside:
"...Is it too late to play dead now?"
"Too late."
"Then can you step outside first?"
"This is my hotel."
A hand stretched out from under the quilt and gave him the middle finger.
Lynn chuckled and put his phone down.
There were three unread messages on the screen:
An encrypted message from Hill:
[The chip has been cracked. Norman Osborn is going to Sokovia next Wednesday for "medical tourism."]
Natasha's text message followed closely:
[Peter Parker stopped a robbery in Queens last night, bare-handed. He hasn't realized he's changed yet.]
Gwen poked her head out from under the quilt, followed his gaze to the screen, and her expression changed:
"...Peter?"
"He's fine,"
Lynn flipped his phone over,
"it's just beginning."
Gwen sat up, the quilt sliding down to her waist. She looked down at herself, then at Lynn, and the tips of her ears slowly turned red.
She grabbed her knit sweater and pulled it over her head with quick movements, as if trying to cover up some traces. She got out of bed to find her boots, put them on, and steadied herself against the wall when she stood up.
"I..."
her voice was extremely hoarse, and she cleared her throat,
"I need to think."
"Sure."
"I'm not asking for your opinion."
She grabbed her bag, walked to the door, grabbed the doorknob, and looked back at him.
"I made the first move last night. But that doesn't mean I..."
She paused,
"doesn't mean I've chosen anything."
Lynn nodded:
"Understood."
Gwen pulled the door open and walked out. The door clicked softly shut.
Lynn picked up his phone, then put it down again.
He looked at the wrinkles on the bedsheets and her hair tie that had fallen on the floor.
He reached out, picked up the hair tie, spun it around in his fingers, and muttered to himself,
"Since it's already come to this."
Chapter 43 Roof
When Gwen woke up, the sunlight had already cut through the gaps in the curtains.
She didn't move immediately, stared at the ceiling for about ten seconds, and then sat up abruptly, the quilt sliding down to her waist.
"Awake?"
Lynn leaned against the headboard, his shirt half-buttoned, spinning his phone in his hand.
Gwen grabbed a cardigan and pulled it over her head, moving quickly, as if trying to cover up some traces.
She got out of bed to find her boots, put them on, and steadied herself against the wall when she stood up.
"I..."
Her voice was terribly hoarse, and she cleared her throat,
"I need to think."
"You can."
"I'm not asking for your opinion."
She grabbed her bag, walked to the door, gripped the doorknob, and looked back at him,
"It was my initiative last night. But that doesn't mean I..."
She paused,
"It doesn't mean I've chosen anything."
Lynn nodded:
"Understood."
Gwen pulled open the door and walked out. The door closed gently.
Lynn put down his phone. Three unread messages on the screen:
Hill:
[Norman changed his itinerary. Six o'clock this morning, private jet, Sokovia.]
Natasha:
[Peter Parker swung around Queens all night. Location tracking just showed that he is downstairs from you.]
Ivy:
[See you at the airport. Business class, window seat.]
Lynn twitched the corner of his mouth, buttoned up his shirt, and got up.
Hotel lobby, revolving door.
Just as Gwen stepped out, someone rushed over from across the street.
Peter Parker, glasses crooked, hair messy, clutching a paper bag in his hand containing two cold bagels.
"Gwen!"
He blocked her way, panting,
"I've been looking for you all night! Where did you go? You didn't answer calls or reply to messages, and the location showed you were here..."
He stopped.
His gaze crossed over Gwen's shoulder, seeing Lynn walk out of the revolving door, adjusting his cuffs.
Peter's expression changed.
Gwen didn't look back.
She looked at Peter, her blue eyes devoid of light, like two thoroughly frozen panes of glass:
"Move aside."
"You and him..."
Peter's voice trembled,
"Were you with him last night?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."
Gwen walked forward, and Peter reached out to grab her wrist, but she shook him off,
"Don't touch me."
"Gwen!"
Peter's voice raised, with a sob,
"What did I do wrong? I became like this... What did I do wrong?"
Gwen stopped in her tracks.
She turned around and looked at him, with no pity in her eyes, only a weary calmness like a researcher examining a failed experiment:
"You did nothing wrong. You just changed. So did I."
She hailed a taxi, climbed in, the door closed, and she didn't look at Peter again.
Peter stood in place, the paper bag dropped from his hand, the bagels rolled out and were flattened by passersby.
He turned around, looking at Lynn, his eye sockets red enough to bleed, fingers clenched into fists, veins bulging on the back of his hands.
"You..."
He took a step forward, his voice sounding like it was squeezed out from between his teeth,
"What did you do to her?"
Lynn looked at him without moving:
"She was drunk. I sent her to rest."
"Rest?"
Peter took another step, raising his fist,
"You think I don't know? You think I'm stupid?"
"You're not stupid."
Lynn said,
"But your fists are clenched too tightly right now, your knuckles turning white. You can't control your strength, right? With this punch down, either I go to the hospital, or you get exposed. Which do you choose?"
Peter's fist froze in mid-air. He looked down at his hand, the veins on the back of his hand still throbbing, as if something was crawling beneath the skin.
He loosened his fingers, clenched them again, and loosened them.
"You'll regret this,"
Peter's voice lowered, carrying a broken ruthlessness like a voice crack during puberty, "I'll make you regret it."
"Fine,"
Lynn walked around him, heading towards the roadside,
"I'll be waiting."
He hailed a taxi and gave the address:
"JFK Airport."
Airport, VIP lounge.
Ivy Blake sat in the sofa, wearing a camel trench coat, swirling a glass of champagne in her hand.
Seeing Lynn walk in, she raised an eyebrow without getting up.
"Yo,"
She took a sip of wine,
"Chef. Was last night's private dish delicious?"
Lynn sat down opposite her, taking a cup of black coffee from a waiter's tray:
"You stood me up, and I went to eat somewhere else. That's fair."
"Fair?"
Ivy let out a chuckle, put down the wine glass, leaned over, and hooked her fingertip on his collar,
"You still have the scent of lemons on you. Gwen Stacy's shampoo, supermarket drugstore brand, cheap, but smells good."
Lynn didn't dodge.
Ivy's fingers slid to the side of his neck, stopped there, and her nails gently scratched:
"I checked her out. Her father is an NYPD captain, her mother is a housewife, all A's, no blemishes. Did you change your taste this time? Like pure ones?"
"I like delicious things."
Lynn grabbed her wrist and gently moved it away,
"What time is Norman's flight?"
"He's already landed."
Ivy withdrew her hand, pulled out a tablet from her bag, and pushed it over,
"Sokovia time, two hours ago. He didn't go to the Red Room, he went to a private clinic. Clinic name: Baron Strucker."
Lynn's fingers stopped on the wall of the cup.
Strucker.
One of the remaining leaders of Hydra.
"So,"
Ivy leaned back against the sofa, crossing her legs,
"Your 'medical tourism' might be a trap. Norman isn't going for medical treatment, he's going to restock. To restock a batch of goods more obedient than the Winter Soldier."
Lynn finished his coffee and stood up:
"What's the gate number?"
"Follow me."
Ivy also stood up, her trench coat belt tied tightly,
"I chartered the whole private jet. Business class is too crowded, not enough room to maneuver."
She walked forward two steps, suddenly turned her head, her red lips curving:
"By the way, don't sleep on the plane. I've been hungry for a week, waiting to turn the tables."
Lynn looked at her and smiled slightly:
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
Ivy turned around, her ponytail sweeping an arc in the air,
"I'd like to see if your Michelin three-star is really as legendary as they say... making people unable to turn back."