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The elevator doors whispered open with a soft pneumatic hiss, releasing Harry and Dr. Stromm back into the opulent conference room where the assembled group waited in a silence thick with anticipation. The mahogany table seemed to absorb the ambient light, its polished surface reflecting the faces of men whose worlds were about to be fundamentally altered.
Dr. Stromm's weathered shoes clicked against the imported marble as he quietly assessed the assembled group, his experienced eyes cataloging each potential team member like a general surveying his troops. Dr. Connors is a professional in the right field, he mused, noting how the one-armed scientist sat with the rigid posture of a man accustomed to proving himself despite physical limitations. Dr. Octavius? He's a nuclear physicist; this is hardly his area of expertise. His gaze shifted to the slightly rotund academic, whose wire-rimmed glasses caught the recessed lighting as he fidgeted with a pen. And then there's a high school student... His eyes found Peter, still looking utterly bewildered, brown hair mussed and glasses slightly askew. Is this really the team?
The older scientist's internal skepticism warred with pragmatism as he settled into his leather chair with a soft creak. Then again, this situation is so sensitive, a smaller group is probably for the best.
Harry slid into the seat next to Peter with practiced grace, the expensive fabric of his clothes whispering against the chair's surface. Dr. Stromm had barely settled when John's voice cut through the room's hushed atmosphere like a blade.
"Dr. Stromm, please bring everyone up to speed on Mr. Osborn's condition."
The command carried such natural authority that Dr. Stromm found himself rising immediately, his body responding before his mind could process the strangeness of taking orders from a teenager. "Of course," he said, his voice steady despite the surreal circumstances.
Having already witnessed John's impossible transformation in the laboratory, Dr. Stromm understood with crystalline clarity that this young man was in charge, regardless of conventional hierarchies or social expectations. The memory of that blazing light and emerging armor had fundamentally shifted his understanding of what was possible in their increasingly strange world.
For Dr. Octavius and Dr. Connors, however, the dynamic was jarring. They exchanged a look heavy with unspoken questions, their academic minds struggling to process the power structure unfolding before them. The silent communication was clear: for reasons they couldn't fathom, this seemingly ordinary teenager was the most important person in the room, not Harry Osborn with his family name and corporate inheritance.
Dr. Stromm cleared his throat, the sound echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "Mr. Osborn used an incomplete human performance enhancer on himself, which has resulted in an extreme psychological break." His voice took on the clinical precision of a medical professional delivering a difficult diagnosis. "The enhancer was part of a project funded by the United States Military. In our initial animal trials, we used gas inhalation on rats, which increased their strength by eight hundred percent."
The room's atmosphere grew heavier as he continued, each word adding weight to an already crushing situation. "However, one subject developed side effects: it became violent, aggressive, and uncontrollably insane. Mr. Osborn's condition is remarkably similar to that subject's, though he has periods of seeming normalcy."
Dr. Stromm's hands trembled slightly as he recalled the terrifying moment when Norman had nearly killed him, those enhanced fingers wrapped around his throat with inhuman strength. "My medical tests show that his physical fitness is now far beyond human limits, but all other data appears normal. Currently, his condition most closely resembles dissociative identity disorder."
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the subtle hum of the villa's climate control system and the distant tick of an expensive clock somewhere in the house's depths. Dr. Stromm sank back into his chair, the leather sighing beneath his weight.
All eyes in the room turned to John with the inevitability of compass needles finding magnetic north—all except Peter's, which remained wide with complete bewilderment, his mouth slightly open as he tried to process information that seemed to come from a completely different reality than the one he'd woken up in that morning.
John's fingers drummed once, twice against the polished mahogany, the sound sharp and decisive in the hushed room. "Let me add one thing." His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty, each word carefully chosen and perfectly placed. "Mr. Osborn's situation is simple, if not easy to solve: he has an extra consciousness in his mind that calls itself the Green Goblin. At times, this consciousness will take control of his body. Your job is to find a way to eliminate it."
The statement hung in the air like a physical presence, challenging everything the assembled scientists thought they knew about the boundaries between psychology and the supernatural.
Dr. Octavius leaned forward, his academic curiosity overriding his confusion. While his primary expertise lay in the realm of nuclear physics, he'd always maintained a deep fascination with neurology and the mysteries of consciousness. His mind was already racing through possibilities, theoretical frameworks that might explain what sounded like science fiction. Perhaps quantum consciousness, neural pathway disruption, some form of electromagnetic interference... He felt the familiar thrill of a complex problem demanding solution.
Dr. Connors shifted in his seat, his remaining hand unconsciously clenching and unclenching as he processed the information through the lens of his own expertise. Genetic modification, cellular regeneration, the delicate interplay between chemistry and biology – this fell squarely within his wheelhouse, even if the presentation was unlike anything he'd encountered in peer-reviewed literature. His pale eyes lit up with the fire of scientific challenge. Cross-species genetics, neural chemistry, regenerative therapy – the principles are all here, just applied in ways we've never considered.
Only Dr. Stromm remained pessimistic, his shoulders sagging with the weight of hard experience. He understood better than the others just how monumentally difficult this challenge would be. If the side effects were easily removable, we would have solved this after the initial rat experiment, and Norman would never have been forced to take such a desperate risk. The memory of countless failed experiments and dead-end research paths weighed heavily on his mind.
John's gaze swept across the three scientists, reading their expressions like an open book, cataloging their reactions and calculating probabilities with the cold precision of a master strategist. Otto and Norman are geniuses on the same level – theoretical brilliance combined with practical application. His eyes lingered on Dr. Octavius, noting the spark of intellectual hunger. Connors and Stromm are a step below – competent, experienced, but lacking that final spark of true innovation.
His gaze shifted to Peter, still looking like a deer caught in headlights, and John suppressed a sigh. And Peter... Peter's potential is a notch higher than all of them combined. His ability to create antidotes and solve biological puzzles is absolutely astonishing, but he's too busy playing friendly neighborhood hero to focus on his real potential. The waste of such brilliant minds on relatively mundane heroics was almost physically painful to contemplate.
The cold mathematics of the situation crystallized in John's mind with uncomfortable clarity. With just these three scientists, finding a cure could take years – time he didn't have, time Norman didn't have, time the world couldn't afford with the Green Goblin lurking in the shadows of a brilliant man's fractured psyche.
He needed to show them exactly what kind of world they were now dealing with, needed to shatter their comfortable assumptions about the boundaries of the possible.
"Dr. Stromm, I believe this villa has a facility for testing the physical fitness of enhanced individuals." John's voice cut through their contemplation like a scalpel. "Please take us there."
Dr. Stromm blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in direction. "Uh, of course," he replied, his voice carrying the uncertainty of a man still trying to understand the rules of a game that kept changing around him.
The transition from theoretical discussion to practical demonstration left everyone except Harry looking at John with expressions ranging from confusion to concern. The conversational whiplash was deliberate and unsettling – one moment they were discussing complex psychological disorders, the next they were apparently heading to some kind of gymnasium.
Harry and Dr. Stromm exchanged meaningful glances, both men carrying pieces of a puzzle the others hadn't yet begun to comprehend. But only Harry knew the full extent of what was about to unfold, his pulse quickening with anticipation and a touch of nervousness for his friend.
The "facility" was Norman Osborn's private laboratory made manifest in steel and concrete – a high-end gymnasium that spoke of unlimited resources and obsessive attention to detail. The space was vast and professionally lit, with reinforced weightlifting equipment that looked like it belonged in an Olympic training center rather than a private home. The air carried the faint scent of rubber mats and metal polish, underscored by the subtle ozone smell that lingered around high-end electronic monitoring equipment.
Specialized testing apparatus lined the walls like instruments of measurement rather than torture, each piece of equipment bearing the kind of precision engineering that suggested serious scientific purpose rather than mere vanity. The floors were covered in industrial-grade rubber that would absorb the impact of dropped weights that could crush a normal person.
Upon arrival, the assembled group instinctively turned to look at John, expectation written across their faces like a question mark. He said nothing, his expression unreadable as he walked with measured steps toward a Olympic-standard barbell resting in a specialized rack. The metallic clink of plates being selected and loaded echoed through the space with methodical precision.
Harry and Dr. Stromm watched with barely contained fascination, their previous exposure to John's abilities making them hungry to understand the full scope of his capabilities. The others remained confused, their scientific minds struggling to connect psychological discussion with physical demonstration.
But as John began to lift, their confusion evaporated like morning mist, replaced by shock so profound it was almost physical.
100 kilograms (220 lbs)... Dr. Octavius's mental voice was barely a whisper as he watched the teenager handle weight that would challenge an adult athlete. Are teenagers really this strong?
150 kilograms (330 lbs)... Dr. Connors's remaining hand unconsciously gripped the edge of a nearby bench as he watched the barbell rise and fall with fluid control. Is this real?
200 kilograms (440 lbs)... The weight that would represent a personal record for world-class powerlifters was being handled like a warm-up set. The impossible was becoming routine before their eyes.
250 kilograms (550 lbs)... Now John was beginning to show signs of actual effort, his breathing deeper, muscles straining against fabric as physics and biology were forced into uncomfortable negotiation.
Finally, with a grunt that spoke of genuine physical exertion, John lifted 300 kilograms (661 lbs) – a weight that defied human possibility – and set it back down with a resounding crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of their understanding of what was achievable by the human form.
"Incredible!" Dr. Connors exclaimed, his scientific fascination overriding social protocol as he hurried forward, his remaining hand reaching out to touch John's bicep with the wonder of a researcher discovering a new species. The muscle felt surprisingly normal under his fingers – dense but not impossibly so, warm with recent exertion but lacking the supernatural heat he might have expected. "It doesn't even feel particularly dense."
Dr. Octavius, his academic skepticism warring with the evidence before his eyes, approached the barbell like it might be an elaborate hoax. He gripped one end with both hands, his face reddening with effort as he attempted to lift even a portion of the weight John had just managed with apparent ease. It didn't budge – might as well have been welded to the floor.
Stepping back, he selected a single 25-kilogram plate, grunting with the effort required to lift what represented less than one-twelfth of John's total lift. The plate hit the rubber floor with a dull thud as he dropped it, his hands shaking slightly from the exertion. "It's... it's actually real?" The words came out as barely more than a whisper, his scientific worldview cracking under the pressure of impossible evidence.
Harry and Dr. Stromm shared in the amazement, despite their previous exposure to John's transformed state. The revelation that his base human strength was already beyond the bounds of normal possibility added another layer to an already complex picture. If this is what he can do without his armor...
But it was Peter's reaction that cut through the room's atmosphere like a lightning strike. He stood frozen in place, his mouth hanging open in an expression of absolute shock that transcended mere surprise and entered the realm of existential crisis. The revelation of John's strength wasn't just impressive – it was personally devastating.
All those moments of worry about Flash Thompson, all that anxiety about being physically overwhelmed by a school bully, suddenly felt not just foolish but almost cosmically absurd. Here was his friend – his friend – casually demonstrating strength that made professional athletes look like children, and Peter had been concerned about teenage bullies.
The full scope of his own ignorance crashed down on him like a physical weight, leaving him feeling small and stupid and utterly unprepared for a world that was apparently far stranger and more dangerous than he'd ever imagined.
John caught Peter's stunned expression and rolled his eyes with the long-suffering patience of someone dealing with particularly slow students. Without ceremony, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the Knight Watch – that impossible device that seemed to drink in light and reflect it back as liquid silver and pristine white.
The room fell completely silent as John's thumb found the activation button, the small click seeming to echo with the finality of a key turning in a lock that could never be undone.
"Transform!"
Reality bent.
A device materialized at John's waist as if summoned from another dimension entirely – sleek black and white surfaces marked with technological precision that belonged to no earthly manufacturer. The transformation belt was a thing of impossible beauty, its surfaces seeming to shift and flow like liquid metal frozen at the perfect moment.
Black straps erupted from the device with snake-like speed, wrapping around John's torso and snapping into place with mechanical precision that spoke of engineering beyond current human capability. The sound of the connection was sharp and final, like the closing of a circuit that completed something far greater than the sum of its parts.
John inserted the Knight Watch into the right-hand slot with ceremonial precision, and immediately a wave of energy pulsed across the device's small screen. The display came alive with symbols and patterns that seemed to write themselves in languages that predated human civilization.
An ethereal voice filled the air around them, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, carrying harmonics that resonated in their bones and made their teeth ache:
"TRANSFORM! KAMEN RIDER... KUUGA! GROWING FORM!"
A phantom clock face materialized behind John, growing from pinpoint to towering presence in the space of a heartbeat. The ethereal timepiece expanded until it stood nearly two meters tall, its hands spinning with purpose that transcended mere chronometry. This wasn't just marking time – it was reshaping it, bending the fundamental laws of reality around a single point of transformation.
Streams of pale white and gold energy erupted from the spinning clock face like solar flares made manifest, ribbons of pure power that wrapped around John's entire body with the tenderness of a lover's embrace and the intensity of stellar fire. The light was beautiful and terrible, forcing the observers to squint even as they found themselves unable to look away.
The radiance built to a crescendo that seemed to press against the very walls of the gymnasium, then faded with the gradual inevitability of sunset, leaving behind something that challenged every assumption they'd held about the boundaries between possible and impossible.
Where John had stood, now towered Kamen Rider Kuuga in his Growing Form – golden horns catching the gymnasium's lights like a crown, compound red eyes glowing with inner fire that seemed to peer directly into their souls, sleek black and white armor that managed to appear both ancient and impossibly futuristic simultaneously.
The silence that followed was the silence of minds struggling to process input that exceeded their capacity for rational explanation. In the space of seconds, they had witnessed the birth of something that belonged more to legend than laboratory, more to myth than medical science.