"Alright, I'll see you this afternoon. For now, you need to get back. I have corporate affairs to attend to." Aaron gave Kate's head a final, affectionate ruffle, thoroughly mussing her hair.
Amidst her half-hearted protests and attempts to smooth it back down, he ushered Felicia out the door.
He wasn't concerned for Kate's safety. Whenever she left the Bishop residence, she was shadowed by a discreet, two-woman security detail, both former special forces operators sourced through Eleanor's company. In a city of costumed chaos, a billionaire's daughter warranted serious protection.
"Your driving has improved significantly, Felicia," Aaron remarked as they pulled into traffic.
"Mmm? Ah!" Felicia gasped, her focus divided. "It's… it's all due to the boss's… attentive tutelage. I'll continue to study diligently!"
She fumbled with the gear shift of the Rolls-Royce, a vehicle whose luxurious bulk and manual transmission mode felt alien under her hands. Operating it required her full concentration, both hands often occupied. The accelerator, however, was exquisitely sensitive. The slightest pressure sent a surge of power through the chassis, a sensation akin to a controlled launch.
On uneven pavement, the ride became a series of thrilling, weightless moments that left her heart pounding. It was terrifying and exhilarating.
Am I even qualified to handle a machine like this? she wondered, equal parts intimidated and addicted.
Aaron kept one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other occasionally resting on her head in a silent command to focus. The journey was a blur of cityscapes, the powerful car cutting through traffic with ease, never needing to exit the elevated expressways that ribboned through the metropolis.
By the time they arrived at Osborn Tower, Felicia's composure needed reassembly. She quickly straightened Aaron's jacket, then attended to her own appearance. The rush-hour crawl had been stressful; her light makeup was slightly smudged, and her lips looked conspicuously swollen.
"Boss, all the preparatory tasks you assigned are complete," Norman reported, meeting them in the executive garage. His eyes remained fixed on a point just above Aaron's shoulder, giving no indication he noticed Felicia's disheveled state. His expression was a mask of strained professionalism, but beneath it thrummed a current of excitement he couldn't fully suppress. "The interested parties have agreed in principle. Upon successful demonstration of the telomere stabilizer—the 'anti-aging' agent—they are prepared for significant capital commitments."
Aaron gave a curt nod. "And the items I requested for personal review?"
"All assembled and secured in the designated holding area. I can take you there now." Norman fell into step beside him. "Additionally, Dr. Octavius and Professor Connors have been installed in their assigned laboratories. Both are in the final calibration phase. Experiments can commence at your word. Professor Connors is particularly… eager to speak with you again."
"Inform him his patience will be rewarded shortly."
Norman nodded, the ghost of a triumphant smile finally breaking through. The external chaos was meaningless. Let the pundits prophesy doom. Let rivals circle like vultures. Let the stock ticker hemorrhage value.
Inside the tower, a different reality was solidifying.
It had started with a single, unauthorized image leaked to the internal corporate network: a selfie of Curt Connors, beaming, giving a double thumbs-up. The shock hadn't been the gesture, but the fact that both hands in the picture were his, whole and functional. Everyone knew Connors. The brilliant herpetologist with the empty right sleeve. There was no sign of prosthetics, no digital artifice. The implications were seismic.
No official announcement had been made, but a hushed, electrifying certainty had spread through the research divisions: the new chairman wasn't just a corporate raider. He was a peer to Stark. A generator of miracles. The limb regeneration serum was real, and Connors was the living proof.
The current external pressure, the deafening negativity, was now seen not as a threat, but as a springboard. The greater the fall being predicted, the higher their eventual ascent would be. A grim, collective amusement had replaced anxiety.
Let them mock, the sentiment went. Let them posture. We're watching a monkey show, and we have the only seat with a view of the trapdoor.
Norman, more than anyone, vibrated with this fervent anticipation. The healing accelerant. The limb regeneration catalyst. The imminent telomere stabilizer. Aaron's promised trinity of biomedical revolution was materializing at a pace that left him breathless. His only regret was that Osborn didn't have more top-tier biologists to accelerate the reverse-engineering. The future was arriving too fast for even his considerable resources to fully embrace.
They moved through the corridors, a procession met with a new kind of deference from the staff—less fear, more a kind of awed, speculative respect.
At the secure storage room, Felicia and Norman took up positions on either side of the door like sentinels, their gazes sweeping the empty hall. Aaron entered alone.
The sight within was a catalog of potential. He surveyed the arranged items with the eye of a connoisseur.
The Mechanical: A deactivated set of Doctor Octopus's quadruple mechanical actuators, their alloy arms folded neatly, the neural interface harness coiled beside them like a technological serpent.
The Biochemical: A refrigerated case holding ten vials of the unstable, emerald-green Goblin Serum, its volatility almost palpable. Nearby, two large aquariums bubbled gently, one housing several sleek electric eels, the other containing turtles and hard-shelled clams.
The Biological: Ten transparent biocontainers, each holding a live naked mole-rat—a creature renowned for its cancer resistance and extraordinary lifespan. Next to them, a small, humid terrarium held several unassuming, leaf-green sea slugs.
The Technological: An array of optical devices: standard binoculars, high-powered spotting scopes, a compact solar telescope. These were the readily available, commercial-grade instruments. The truly massive, observatory-grade telescopes would require time and specialized procurement—a task well within Osborn's reach, but not an immediate concern.
The Computational: One top-tier desktop workstation and one equivalent laptop, their cases sleek and dark.
Aaron's attention lingered on the sea slugs. Elysia chlorotica. A biological marvel. They consumed algae, but didn't just digest it; they hijacked its chloroplasts, incorporating them into their own cells to perform photosynthesis.
More astonishingly, they permanently incorporated algal genes into their own genome, allowing them to produce the proteins necessary to maintain the stolen cellular machinery. In a crude, limited sense, they were a primitive analogue to the Primal Furnace—able to assimilate and utilize functional traits from other lifeforms. He'd discovered them during a data dive and had Norman acquire them. They represented a fascinating biological principle.
Now, the moment of integration had arrived. The Furnace hummed in his palm, a sympathetic resonance to the feast of concepts laid out before him.
He didn't speak. He simply began.
He reached for the nearest item, and the process, now familiar, commenced. One by one, the objects in the room—the mechanical, the biological, the technological—were consumed by the darkness in his hand.
Streams of multifaceted energy, each unique in hue and texture, erupted from the singularity and flowed into him, seeking their places in the ever-evolving tapestry of his being. Cool, precise currents for the machinery. Vibrant, complex strands for the living creatures. Sharp, data-dense light for the computers and lenses.
The synthesis had begun.