"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the latest generation of exoskeleton technology from Osborn Enterprises."
Harry Osborn stood at the center of the yacht's demonstration deck, the Pacific sun catching the sleek lines of the powered armor behind him. Cameras flashed. Investors leaned forward in their seats. This was his moment—the culmination of months of work that had pulled his family's company back from the brink of extinction.
"The EXO-Miner Friend." He gestured toward the industrial exoskeleton being worn by one of their technicians. "An engineering-grade power frame designed for the most demanding environments on Earth. Enhanced arm strength. Superior balance compensation. Whether you're working three hundred feet underwater or half a mile into a coal seam, this system keeps you safe and makes you stronger."
The technician flexed, lifting a steel beam that would've required a crane. The crowd murmured appreciatively.
"Depending on operational requirements, we can fit diving armor for deep-sea work, or dust-proof environmental seals for mining operations. Your people go home at the end of their shifts. That's not a selling point—that's a promise."
Harry allowed himself a small smile. He'd practiced this pitch a hundred times in the mirror, but delivering it to a crowd of billionaires and military brass was something else entirely.
"Now, let's push the envelope a little." He nodded to the control team. "The current world record for equipped diving sits at three hundred thirty-two meters. Let's see how our friend handles that depth."
The technician was lowered into the ship's testing tank—a reinforced cylinder that could simulate crushing ocean pressures. Through the reinforced glass, they watched him descend, the pressure gauge climbing steadily.
Three hundred meters. Three twenty. Three thirty-two.
The technician waved at the camera, giving a thumbs up. His vitals remained steady on the overhead display.
Several investors gasped. Harry caught the reaction and filed it away. These weren't people who impressed easily—old money, defense contractors, sovereign wealth fund managers. If they were gasping, he was winning.
"This isn't the limit," Harry said. "We're just getting started."
From across the deck, Norman Osborn watched his son work the crowd. Pride swelled in his chest, mixing with something that might have been relief. Six months ago, he'd nearly destroyed everything—nearly destroyed himself—chasing the ghost of superhuman enhancement. The serum had been so close to working. So close to making him something more.
Instead, it had almost made him a monster.
"You have a good son," General Thaddeus Ross said, swirling bourbon in a crystal glass.
Norman turned to face him. Ross was military through and through—ramrod posture, iron-gray mustache, eyes that had seen too many classified briefings to ever fully relax. He ran the Pentagon's EXO program, which meant he controlled a budget larger than some countries' GDPs.
More importantly, he'd been a quiet supporter of Osborn's Human Enhancement Program. The failure of that project had nearly cost them everything—the company, Norman's sanity, maybe his life. Ross had lost his investment too, but he wasn't the type to hold grudges when there was money to be made.
"I won't deny it," Norman said, clinking his glass against the General's. They walked toward the demonstration area together. "Harry's taken to this faster than I expected."
"Youth and ambition. Dangerous combination." Ross's eyes tracked Harry as he moved through the crowd. "Or a profitable one."
"General Ross." Harry extended his hand as his father approached with the military man. "I've heard a lot about you."
Understatement of the century, Harry thought. Who hadn't heard about Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross? The man's obsession with recreating the super soldier program was legendary in certain circles. His connection to the Hulk—to Bruce Banner and the disaster that had followed—wasn't public knowledge yet, but Harry knew. He knew a lot of things he shouldn't.
Because Harry Osborn wasn't really Harry Osborn. Not entirely.
His name had been Litton, once. Another life, another world—one where Marvel was fiction and billionaires didn't build power armor in their basements. He'd died there, though the details were fuzzy now. Car accident? Heart attack? It didn't matter. What mattered was waking up in this body, in this world, just in time to watch his new father inject himself with an unstable enhancement serum.
The system had awakened then. Some cosmic joke or genuine gift—Harry still wasn't sure which. But it had given him the knowledge to stabilize the serum, to pull Norman back from the edge of transformation, to pivot the company toward exoskeleton technology before the Human Enhancement Program dragged them all into bankruptcy.
Now here he was, shaking hands with a general who'd one day hunt the Hulk across continents, selling weapons to a military that didn't know how badly it needed them.
"Shall we proceed to the main event?" Harry asked.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our civilian demonstration. Please enjoy the refreshments—we'll be departing for the weapons testing site within the hour."
The investors dispersed toward the ship's lounge without complaint. Looking at products was only half the reason they were here; the other half was networking, deal-making, the quiet exchange of favors that kept the world's economy spinning.
Harry led Ross and Norman toward the helicopter pad where three Ospreys waited. The weapons demonstration would take place on a private island three hundred miles out—far enough from prying eyes that they could showcase the military applications without worrying about leaks.
"The EXO-E1 heavy combat frame," Harry announced as they touched down on the island. A row of powered armor suits stood waiting, each one seven feet of ceramic-metal composite and bleeding-edge engineering. "Designed for frontline deployment. Full environmental sealing. Integrated communications. And armor that can take a beating."
He walked toward one of the suits, his heart beating faster. This was the part he'd been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
Norman's frown was immediate. "Harry, what are you doing?"
"To verify reliability, I'll be demonstrating the defensive capabilities personally." Harry began strapping himself into the frame, servos whirring as the suit calibrated to his movements. "Trust me, Father."
Norman hesitated. The last time someone in their family had tested experimental technology on themselves, it had nearly ended in disaster. But Ross gave a subtle nod—the General understood the value of conviction, of putting your own skin in the game.
"The E1's armor system uses our proprietary cermet composite," Harry continued, his voice now amplified through the suit's external speakers. "Ceramic-metallic bonding at the molecular level. As a heavy frame designed for direct combat, it's built to take hits that would destroy conventional armor."
A technician approached carrying a bundle of fragmentation grenades.
"Let's start small," Harry said.
The grenades hit the ground at his feet. He didn't flinch.
BOOM.
Fire and shrapnel engulfed him. The suit's balance systems kicked in, compensating for the blast wave—Harry took two steps back, more from reflex than necessity. Through the suit's heads-up display, he could see his vitals holding steady. No damage. No adverse effects.
"Anti-personnel mine, next."
He stepped onto the pressure plate without hesitation. The mine detonated, lifting his foot maybe an inch. The suit absorbed the impact like it was nothing.
Ross was watching with genuine interest now. Norman's hands had stopped shaking.
"Anti-tank mine."
Harry paused. Not because he doubted the system—the simulations had been conclusive—but because anti-tank ordnance hit hard. Even with perfect armor, the kinetic transfer would be ugly.
His hesitation was visible. Norman stepped forward, Ross opened his mouth to speak—
Harry stepped on the mine anyway.
BOOM.
The world became fire and noise and force. The suit went airborne, tumbling, and Harry felt his stomach lurch as the ground disappeared. He hit the dirt hard, systems screaming warnings that faded as quickly as they appeared.
Structural integrity: 97%. Pilot status: nominal. Combat capability: unaffected.
He coughed, pushing himself up. "Okay, that one was a little rough."
Through the clearing smoke, he could see Ross's expression had shifted from interest to genuine fascination. Norman looked like he might have a heart attack.
Harry jumped a few times, demonstrating that the suit's mobility remained intact. The feet were scorched black, but everything worked.
"Final test," he announced.
The technicians wheeled out an artillery piece. An actual field gun, the kind that sat on the back of military vehicles and punched holes through buildings.
Ross's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. He glanced at Norman, who simply nodded.
"This cannon simulates the main gun of a modern battle tank," Harry explained, dropping to one knee. He reached back and detached a steel plate from the suit's spine—a shield, essentially, though calling it that undersold the engineering. "I'll spare you the technical specifications. You know what tank shells do to things."
He raised the shield, bracing himself.
"Reactive armor system engaged. The principle is simple, but the execution took us three years to perfect."
The cannon fired.
The shell crossed the distance in a fraction of a second. It struck the shield and the reactive armor detonated, channeling the explosive force outward while auxiliary systems in the suit's arms shoved against the projectile's mass—
The shell deflected. It screamed past Harry's shoulder, close enough that he felt the heat through the suit's sensors, and buried itself in the hillside behind him.
Silence.
Then Ross started laughing.
"Good," the General said. "Good, good, good."
[MISSION: Reach a strategic partnership with General Ross][COMPLETED][REWARD: Technology—Neural Implant Systems, Mechanical Prosthetic Technology]
Harry smiled behind his helmet. The system notification glowed in his peripheral vision, confirming what he already knew. This deal was done. All that remained was negotiating a fair price—and that was Norman's specialty.
Seven Days Later.
"Cheers."
Harry clinked his glass against his father's. They were back in the penthouse, Manhattan sprawling beneath them, the tension of the past week finally bleeding away.
"So," Harry asked, settling into the leather couch, "what's Ross willing to pay?"
Norman swirled his scotch, looking more relaxed than Harry had seen him in months. "Two million per unit for the armor. Initial order of four thousand."
Harry whistled. Eight billion dollars. Not bad for a company that had been circling the drain six months ago.
"Batteries are separate. Three million for every ten power cells."
"Smart. Lock them into our supply chain." Harry did the math in his head. "That's a good deal. Especially with how hot things are getting overseas."
"Indeed." Norman's expression turned thoughtful. "If we'd been in the weapons business originally, we could probably move twice the volume. Missiles, drones, the whole package."
"Dad, trust me—that's a trap." Harry shook his head. "Pure weapons manufacturing is a different beast. Too much competition, too many regulations, too many opportunities for things to go sideways."
He was thinking of Stark Industries. Tony Stark would be heading to Afghanistan soon, probably within the next few weeks. That trip would change everything—for Tony, for the world, for the entire balance of power in the tech-military sector.
Harry intended to be ready when the dust settled.
"By the way," Norman said, his tone shifting to something almost casual, "the shareholders have been handled. The board approved the restructuring this morning."
"Good. What's the final split?"
"You are now the Chairman of Osborn Enterprises."
[MISSION: Jointly hold more than 51% of Osborn Group shares with Norman Osborn][MISSION COMPLETED—Shares held: 79%][MISSION REWARD: Item—Global Energy Grid Design Outline]
Harry blinked, processing the system notification and his father's words simultaneously. Something wasn't adding up.
"Wait." He sat up straight. "Dad, who did you say is the Chairman?"
Norman smiled—a genuine smile, warm and proud and slightly mischievous. "You, son. I've decided to hand the company over to you now. I'll stay on as CEO for a few years, if you'll have me." He raised his glass. "After all, I'm just working for my boy now."
Harry stared at his father for a long moment. The man who'd nearly become a monster. The man who'd built an empire and almost lost it to his own ambition. Now he was stepping aside, trusting his son—trusting a stranger wearing his son's face—with everything.
"I..." Harry started, then stopped. What could he say? Thanks for the company, Dad. By the way, I'm actually a transmigrator from another dimension who knows your future involves spider-themed superheroes and goblin-themed breakdowns?
Instead, he just smiled and raised his glass.
"To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," Norman echoed.
They drank, and outside the window, the sun set over a world that had no idea how much it was about to change.
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