The musty air of the warehouse hung thick with dust motes dancing in the pale afternoon light filtering through grimy windows. Norman Osborn's eyelids fluttered open, his pupils dilating as consciousness crept back. The rough hemp fibers of the rope bit into his wrists, the chair creaking ominously beneath him as he tested his bonds. His expensive suit was wrinkled and disheveled, his usually perfect hair mussed.
"What's going on?" The words escaped his lips in a raspy whisper, his throat dry as sandpaper. His steel-gray eyes swept the room, taking in the concrete walls stained with years of neglect, before landing on the two familiar figures standing in the shadows. "Harry? John? What is this?"
The sound of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears as a cold dread settled in his stomach. Harry stood twenty feet away, his young face a mask of barely contained anguish, hands trembling at his sides. The distance between them felt like a chasm.
"Harry?" Norman's voice cracked with desperate hope, the single word echoing off the bare walls.
John stepped forward, his expression grim and resolute. The warehouse seemed to hold its breath.
"Transform!"
The word rang out like a battle cry. Brilliant white light erupted around John's form, forcing Norman to squint against the blazing radiance. The air itself seemed to vibrate with otherworldly energy, crackling and humming like a live wire. The light coalesced, reshaping, until where John had stood now loomed an imposing figure clad in crimson and black armor that seemed to drink in the warehouse's shadows.
Norman's mouth fell open, a strangled gasp escaping his throat. The chair legs scraped against concrete as he instinctively tried to push himself away from the transformed figure. "What is that? What are you going to do?" His voice pitched higher with each word, panic threading through every syllable.
Harry's heart clenched at the fear in his father's voice. He took a half-step forward, his sneakers scuffing against the dusty floor. "Dad, it's okay," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his hands shook. The words felt hollow in the cavernous space.
"What are you doing?! Harry, help me!" Norman's desperate plea bounced off the walls, his struggle against the ropes causing the chair to creak and groan. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the warehouse's chill.
Kamen Rider Kuuga's armored boots clicked against the concrete with measured steps, each footfall echoing like a countdown. The red compound eyes of his helmet fixed on Norman with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through to his soul. John reached out with senses beyond the physical, probing, searching.
Hmm, no trace of the Goblin's malice. This is Norman.
"Mr. Osborn, do you remember what happened?" The metallic voice reverberated from within the helmet, distorted but carrying an undertone of genuine concern.
Norman's breath came in short, sharp bursts. He shook his head slowly, strands of graying hair falling across his furrowed brow. "I... I don't remember." The admission tasted bitter on his tongue.
Harry's shoulders sagged with the weight of what he had to say. His voice came out barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the warehouse, it might as well have been a shout. "Dad, you almost killed Dr. Stromm."
The color drained from Norman's face, leaving him pale as winter frost. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he found his voice. "I'm sorry, I don't remember any of it." The words were heavy with genuine horror and guilt that seemed to age him years in seconds.
Dr. Stromm emerged from the shadows where he'd been standing silent witness, his lab coat wrinkled and a nasty bruise blooming purple across his throat. His voice was hoarse, damaged vocal cords making each word an effort. "Norman, you injected yourself with the incomplete performance enhancer. Your heart stopped." He paused, unconsciously touching the bruises on his neck. "When I went to perform first aid, you revived... but you were wild, violent. You choked me and threw me across the room. You almost killed me."
The memory of those moments flashed behind Stromm's eyes – Norman's hands around his throat, pupils dilated with madness, strength far beyond human norm. The scientist suppressed a shudder.
Harry's voice joined in, each word carefully measured but trembling with barely suppressed emotion. "You fought with John after that. You were laughing like a maniac and said you were going to kill him. Luckily, John has his own powers and was able to subdue you."
Norman's head hung low, the weight of their words crushing down on him like a physical force. The rope burns on his wrists suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the burning shame in his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, then louder, more desperately, "I'm so sorry. And John... thank you."
His brilliant mind was already racing, cataloging questions about John's incredible transformation, but the gravity of the situation kept those curiosities locked away for now.
Kuuga's helmet tilted slightly, the red eyes never leaving Norman's face. "Mr. Osborn, you need to understand how serious this is." The metallic voice carried an edge of steel. "There is another consciousness in your mind, one that calls itself the Green Goblin. Besides me, no one else can tell if they're talking to you or to him. And they can't stop him."
The warehouse fell silent except for the distant hum of city traffic and Norman's ragged breathing. He lifted his head, meeting those crimson eyes with his own gray ones, now clear with understanding and terrible acceptance.
"I understand," Norman said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Tying me up was the right thing to do."
"Your condition can't be fixed overnight," John continued, his armored form imposing in the filtered light. "I'm going to release you now, and you will come with us to transfer executive authority of Oscorp to Harry. Until this is resolved, you are not to act on your own."
Norman frowned, confusion creasing his features. Aside from the gaping holes in his memory, he felt remarkably well – stronger than he'd felt in years, his mind sharper than ever. "Is my situation really that severe?"
John's helmet turned toward Dr. Stromm, who had been listening with growing unease. "Dr. Stromm, could you please step outside for a moment?"
The scientist nodded quickly, his footsteps echoing as he made his way to the warehouse exit, grateful to put some distance between himself and the conversation that was clearly about to take a dangerous turn.
When the heavy door clanged shut, John's voice dropped to a more intimate register, though the metallic distortion remained. "Mr. Osborn, I have a kind of precognitive ability. I brought Harry to the lab because I saw a possible future. In it, I saw you, wearing green armor and riding a glider, terrorizing the city with pumpkin bombs. I saw you die, impaled on the blades of your own glider. And I saw Harry, trying to avenge you, die on that same glider."
Harry's blood turned to ice in his veins. "What? I died too?" The words burst from his lips, his face going white with shock. The warehouse suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
John's helmet turned toward the young Osborn, and though his expression was hidden, his voice carried infinite sadness. "You died protecting Peter."
Norman stared at the armored figure before him, his genius intellect already working through the implications. His gaze fell to the strange watch-like device embedded in John's belt, pieces of an impossible puzzle clicking into place. The weight of temporal power, the burden of knowing futures that might come to pass.
"I see," he said quietly, his voice filled with newfound respect and terrible understanding. "The power of time." He looked at his son, this young man he'd raised but perhaps never truly known. "Harry, you've made an extraordinary friend. Release me."
But even as he spoke, a new worry clouded his features, his businessman's mind already calculating obstacles and challenges. "But Oscorp's current problems... can you and John truly solve them?"
"We already have a plan for the military and for your cure," John stated with unwavering confidence, his armored stance radiating certainty. "In one of the visions, I saw Peter creating an antidote for you. As for the military, they want super-soldiers. We'll give them two: me, and Peter. He has superpowers now, too. In fact, his raw strength is already far greater than yours."
Norman's eyebrows shot up, genuine amazement replacing worry. Peter Parker – shy, brilliant Peter – with superhuman abilities? The implications were staggering. "Amazing," he breathed, and for the first time since waking up, a smile ghosted across his lips. "You are far more capable than I ever imagined, John."
The sound of rope hitting concrete echoed through the warehouse as John's gauntleted hands made quick work of Norman's bonds. "Let's go. Transfer the authority. We have a lot of work to do."
The late afternoon sun glinted off Oscorp Tower's glass and steel facade as Norman led them through the gleaming lobby. His footsteps echoed confidently on the polished marble floor, every inch the corporate titan despite his disheveled appearance. The elevator's quiet hum filled the silence as they ascended to the executive level.
Norman's office was a testament to power and wealth – floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Manhattan, leather furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars, and walls lined with awards and accolades. But it was the massive holographic display that materialized in the center of the room that caught John's attention.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Osborn," came a synthetic but remarkably lifelike voice as a translucent blue figure appeared in the air. "How may I assist you today?"
This world's tech is so weird, John thought, watching the AI's holographic form gesture naturally while delivering complex corporate data. Flip phones are barely a thing, but a biotech company has a full-fledged AI and holographic interfaces.
The transfer process was surprisingly swift – Norman's voice commands, biometric scans, and legal protocols all handled with technological efficiency that felt decades ahead of its time. Harry's hands trembled slightly as he placed his palm on the scanner that would make him the youngest CEO in Oscorp's history.
Before they left, John triggered his transformation one final time. The familiar light bathed the office, reflecting off every glass surface until the room blazed like a star. When it faded, Kuuga stood before Norman, who remained seated behind his massive desk.
John leaned forward, placing his gauntleted hands on the polished wood surface. The compound eyes of his helmet fixed on Norman's face with laser intensity. "Green Goblin," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "Don't make trouble."
Norman met his gaze unflinchingly, but somewhere deep in his mind, something stirred and snarled.
Later, in the abandoned laboratory where it all began, shadows stretched long across broken equipment and scattered papers. The air still smelled faintly of ozone and fear. But in the depths of Norman Osborn's psyche, another presence raged against invisible chains.
"Damn it! Damn you!" The Goblin's voice was a psychic shriek that only Norman could hear, filled with impotent fury and promises of future violence. "The power of time... how can such a disgusting ability exist?!"
The internal war was invisible to the outside world, but within Norman's mind, it was a tempest that would not be easily calmed.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Queens as John and Harry walked up the familiar path to the Parker residence. The suburban street was quiet except for the distant sound of children playing and the rhythmic thunk of a basketball against garage doors. Harry's hands were steady now, the bulletproof vest tucked securely under his arm.
"Let's go, Harry," John had said as they left Oscorp Tower, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant he was following threads of possibility only he could see. "Time to start solving your dad's problem. And bring that medium-large bulletproof vest."
"Okay," Harry had replied without question. He'd learned to trust John's mysterious insights, even when they made no immediate sense.
Now, standing before the modest Parker home with its white picket fence and carefully tended garden, Harry felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. The vest seemed to grow heavier with each step.
The door opened before they could knock, as if Aunt May had been watching for them through the lace curtains. "Oh, look who it is!" Her voice was warm honey, wrapping around them like a grandmother's hug. "John, Harry, come on in."
The Parker house smelled like home – fresh-baked bread, coffee, and that indefinable scent of a place where love lived. Family photos lined the hallway walls, chronicling Peter's growth from gap-toothed child to gangly teenager. The hardwood floors creaked familiarly under their feet.
"Peter! John and Harry are here to see you!" May's voice carried up the narrow staircase, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor above.
Uncle Ben sat at the dining room table, afternoon light streaming through sheer curtains to illuminate his graying hair as he peered at them over his reading glasses. The newspaper rustled as he folded it carefully, his weathered hands steady despite his age.
"Hi, Uncle Ben," they both said in unison, the greeting automatic and comfortable.
"Hello, boys," Ben replied, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man who'd raised a good kid despite life's challenges. His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes and deepening the laugh lines that spoke of a life well-lived.
A thunderous series of thumps echoed from upstairs, like someone taking the steps three at a time. Peter appeared at the landing, then bounded down with surprising grace, his dark hair mussed and his t-shirt slightly askew.
"John? Harry? What are you guys doing here? Don't we have school?" Peter's voice carried that particular mix of confusion and concern that came from unexpected visits during school hours.
"Something more important came up," John said, his tone brooking no argument. "Peter, you need to come with us."
"What?" Peter's brown eyes widened behind his glasses, darting between his friends' serious faces. The easy afternoon atmosphere suddenly felt charged with tension.
John nodded at Harry, a subtle communication that spoke of plans already made and roles already assigned. Harry stepped forward, his movement casual but purposeful. "Let's go, Peter. It's important."
"Wait a minute, what happened?" Peter asked, taking an instinctive step back as Harry reached for his shoulder. But when Harry's hand made contact and pushed, something extraordinary happened.
Harry expected Peter to stumble, to be guided toward the door like any normal teenager. Instead, it was like pushing against a granite statue. Peter didn't budge an inch, didn't even sway. The resistance wasn't aggressive or showy – Peter simply stood there, immovable, as if he weighed a thousand pounds.
So it's true, Harry thought, his eyes widening with amazement and a touch of fear. He really does have powers.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Peter said, completely oblivious to what had just occurred. To him, Harry's push had felt weak, ineffectual – the sort of gentle nudge that wouldn't move a child, let alone a teenager. He followed Harry outside, confusion written across his features.
The afternoon air was crisp with the promise of evening, carrying the scents of autumn leaves and distant dinners being prepared. Harry's car sat at the curb, its engine ticking as it cooled.
"Aren't we waiting for John?" Peter asked, settling into the passenger seat and looking back at the house where warm light glowed in the windows.
"He'll be out in a second," Harry replied, his voice carefully neutral even as his mind raced with the implications of what he'd just experienced.
Inside the Parker house, John stood in the living room holding the bulletproof vest like it was made of lead instead of Kevlar. Uncle Ben had remained seated at the dining table, but his posture had changed – straighter, more alert, the instincts of an old soldier recognizing the gravity in a young man's voice.
"You need to wear this whenever you go out, especially in the evening," John said, his voice carrying a weight of absolute certainty that made the air in the room feel thick and heavy. "You only take it off when you go to bed. I am absolutely not joking about this."
Ben's weathered hands accepted the vest, feeling its weight, running experienced fingers over the familiar texture of ballistic fabric. His blue eyes, still sharp despite his years, searched John's face with the intensity of a man who'd seen enough of life to recognize when death was lurking nearby.
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding and terrible possibility. Ben's mind was already working through implications, calculating risks, remembering other times when a young man's warning had meant the difference between life and death.
"Ben, Peter broke the faucet again!" May's voice called from the kitchen, bright and cheerful and completely unaware of the gravity of the conversation happening just rooms away. The domestic interruption felt jarring against the backdrop of life-and-death warnings.
Uncle Ben set the vest down on the polished wood of the dining table, his movements careful and deliberate. He rose from his chair with the slow grace of a man who'd learned to live with old bones and older memories, but his eyes never left John's face.
"I'll be right there, May," he called back, then stepped closer to John, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Son, I don't know how you know what you know, but I've lived long enough to trust my gut about people. And my gut says you're trying to save an old man's life."
The kitchen faucet's persistent drip seemed to grow louder in the silence that followed, each drop marking time like a countdown to some unknown catastrophe.
John nodded once, sharp and definitive. "Just wear it, Uncle Ben. Please."
With that, he turned and walked toward the door, leaving Ben standing in the living room with a bulletproof vest and the terrible certainty that his world was about to change forever.