The two men who entered the executive conference room were studies in contrasting desperation.
Curt Connors moved with the nervous, forward-leaning energy of a man whose life's work hung by a thread. Otto Octavius carried himself with the heavier, more contained intensity of a visionary shackled by skepticism and funding shortfalls. Both wore the uniform of academia—tweed and glasses—over hearts pounding with ambition.
"Mr. Aaron, a pleasure.""Dr. Curt Connors.""Dr. Otto Octavius."
Aaron remained seated at the head of the vast, polished table, arms loosely crossed. He offered a faint, benign smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Gentlemen. Please."
He noted Connors' fleeting glance around the room, likely for the absent secretary. Good. Felicia was occupied elsewhere, her newfound abilities requiring… acclimation.
"Dr. Connors," Aaron began, skipping preamble. "Your previous association with Osborn was centered on a reptilian-based regenerative serum. The project was terminated due to a lack of viable progress, correct?"
Connors leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "Terminated prematurely, sir! The foundational theory is sound! We're on the cusp of a breakthrough—a true limb regeneration catalyst! It would not just restore lost tissue but fortify the entire human physiology towards a more resilient paradigm!"
Aaron listened with the detached patience of a coroner. A more resilient paradigm. He could picture it: not a city of perfected humans, but a metropolis of scaly, hive-minded lizard-people, led by a giant, lab-coated iguana. A blockbuster in the making, perhaps, but not the product line he envisioned.
"I believe my assistant requested a sample of your most advanced formulation," Aaron stated, his tone implying the request was an immutable fact.
"Of course! Right here." Connors produced a small, refrigerated case with the reverence of a priest handling a relic. Inside, nestled in foam, was a vial of viscous, chartreuse-green liquid. It glowed with a sinister, biological luminescence. To the uninitiated, it looked less like medicine and more like something that would dissolve a xenomorph.
Aaron reached out and took it, holding it up to the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I understand the current iteration has… stability issues."
"Challenges with the cellular decay-rate algorithm," Connors admitted, his enthusiasm undimmed. "But the solution is within reach! Once we recalibrate the—"
"So, it remains theoretical," Aaron interrupted. "And even if you solved the decay rate, Dr. Connors, how do you propose to regulate the expression of the foreign genetic material? What prevents the recipient from developing dermal chromatophores, keratinous scales, a forked tongue… or a cognitive shift where reptilian limbic dominance overrides human prefrontal function?"
Connors opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. The question was a spear through the heart of his unspoken hopes. He was mired in the 'how' of integration, not the 'what' of the result.
"I… I am confident my expertise in herpetology can mitigate those risks," he finally managed, his voice losing some of its conviction.
Otto, who had been watching quietly, gave a soft, sympathetic grunt. "Curt is a brilliant man. If anyone can solve it, he can."
Aaron offered a noncommittal hum. He placed the lurid green vial on the table, then closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if in thought. When he opened them, he reached into a drawer of the conference table—a drawer that had been empty moments before—and withdrew another vial.
This one held a liquid of a much subtler hue: a soft, sea-glass green, clear and calm.
"And this," Aaron said, placing it beside the first, "is what you have been striving to create. A true, stable limb regeneration serum."
Connors stared, his mind refusing to process the claim. "That's… impossible. The research, the trials… if Osborn had this, the world would know. The stock would be…"
He trailed off, the absurdity of the situation dawning. Osborn's stock was in freefall because of the mysterious new chairman. The markets believed chaos, not miracle cures.
"Precisely," Aaron said, as if reading his thoughts. "Which is why you are looking at the first and only sample. A theoretical proof, made tangible."
He picked up the serene green vial. "It is, as of this moment, untested on human subjects. The theoretical models are flawless. The practical application… requires a volunteer."
Otto Octavius's face hardened. "Curt, no. This is insanity. You cannot be the test subject for an unknown compound from a man we met five minutes ago!"
Connors didn't hear him. His eyes were locked on the vial in Aaron's hand, then drifted to his own empty right sleeve, pinned neatly to his jacket. A lifetime of longing, of phantom itch and social awkwardness, crystallized in that moment.
"You are correct, Dr. Octavius," Connors said softly, his voice suddenly calm. "Mr. Aaron controls an empire worth hundreds of billions. The cost of my death here, in scandal, would be catastrophic. The risk-to-reward ratio for him is astronomically poor. This isn't malice. It's… an offer." He looked at Aaron. "Administered how?"
"Intravenous or oral. The delivery system is irrelevant; the agent will find its target."
Otto made a sound of sheer disbelief. "Oral? The gastrointestinal tract will—!"
Connors had already taken the vial. With a final glance at his friend's horrified face, he uncorked it and drank the contents in one swift gulp.
Silence.
He swallowed, waiting. "It tastes… mildly sweet. Like fortified water." He held out his hands, turning them over. "I feel… nothing."
A flicker of doubt, then crushing disappointment, began to cloud his features.
Then, it began.
A fierce, deep itch, not on the skin, but within the space where his arm should be. A pressure, a pushing, a breaking. Connors cried out, stumbling back, clutching at his shoulder. Otto leaped to his feet.
Under the pinned fabric of his sleeve, something moved. The empty cloth began to fill. From the scarred stump, pale, new flesh ballooned outward in a rapid, grotesque, beautiful bloom of cellular mitosis. Bone extended with faint, crackling pops, sheathed in rushing veins, weaving nerves, and layers of muscle and dermis. In less than thirty seconds, where there had been absence, there was a complete, functional, human arm. Pale, slick with biological fluids, but undeniably his.
Connors stared, his face a mask of shock, tears cutting tracks through his stubbled cheeks. He flexed the fingers, rotated the wrist. The motor control was instinctive, perfect.
Otto stood frozen, his scientific mind grappling with a violation of every known law of regenerative medicine.
"A… a miracle," Connors breathed, the words a prayer. "This is… divine. The Nobel is a trinket. This… this rewrites history."
"What you ingested," Aaron said, his voice cutting through the emotional storm, "was the sole existing sample. The only one of its kind in the world."
The color drained from Connors' new face. He looked from his perfect hand to the empty vial on the table. The cost of the miracle suddenly had horrifying weight. He had consumed a universe of potential in one gulp.
Aaron leaned forward, his expression now one of cool, compelling business. "Now, Dr. Connors. The question is not one of belief, but of replication. Are you prepared to join Osborn Industries—to work under my direction—and help us reverse-engineer, purify, and mass-produce what you have just experienced? To build the foundation for that miracle to be replicated, not just for you, but for the world?"
Connors didn't hesitate. The choice was no choice at all. He had been offered not just an arm, but a purpose that dwarfed his previous life's work.
"Where do I sign?" he said, his voice thick with emotion, his new hand already forming a fist of determination. "Salary is irrelevant. To be part of this… it is the only honor that matters."
Otto watched his friend, the fervent light in Curt's eyes, and then looked at Aaron. The young chairman sat back, the architect of miracles who treated them as industrial processes. A deep, unsettling awe settled in Octavius's gut, mingling with his own desperate hope. If this man could do this for Connors… what might he do for a stable, miniature star?