In my opinion, the original Norman Osborn's biggest mistake was losing control of his own company. Though he had founded Oscorp Industries and once owned it entirely, that was no longer the case. To expand the company, he had needed new investments, and in exchange, investors had gained a significant share. Over the years, hundreds of millions of dollars had been spent searching for a cure for his illness, and that money had to come from somewhere—so he gradually sold off his shares. Now, only 14 percent of the company remained in his—and now my—possession.
In other words, I was no longer the true owner of my own company or its primary beneficiary. I was merely the CEO—a hired employee making money for others. Worse, due to his illness, the original Norman had focused almost entirely on scientific research and the development of the "Oz Serum," neglecting the company's management. Combined with the recent string of failures plaguing Oscorp, this had generated strong resentment toward me from the board of directors.
The original Norman had been deeply anxious about today's visit from the Defense Department commission, but I wasn't. My main goal was to ensure the "Oz Serum" project wasn't shut down in the next few weeks—or better yet, months. Even if it was, I had enough funds in my accounts to continue the research independently.
When I entered the demonstration hall, I saw that the Defense Department commission, accompanied by several board members (most of whom also sat on the board of major shareholders), had already begun without me. They were examining the glider, and their decision not to wait for me was a bad sign.
"Greetings, General Slocum," I said to the man in charge. "I see you've already started the inspection."
"Balkan, Fargas," I nodded to my "close friends" on the board, receiving only curt nods in return.
"You took your time, Osborn," General Slocum said, scowling. "While you were absent, they showed me your glider and suit again. I've seen them before, and there's nothing new here."
"That's not true," Dr. Stromm began pedantically. "Horizontal thrust has increased by 28 percent, and with the new G-force compensator—"
"I said nothing new," the general interrupted, clearly uninterested in technical improvements.
"What I want to know is how the work on the Oz Serum is progressing. The ministry has been pouring tens of millions into this project for years with no results," Slocum said, his irritation growing.
"We're currently testing various serum formulations and experimenting with delivery methods," I informed him. "For example, our recent rat trials increased their strength by at least eightfold."
"And the side effects?" the general asked, now more engaged.
"Violence, aggression, and ultimately madness," Dr. Stromm bluntly admitted. Sometimes I wondered if we should lock him in the lab and never let him near people. How could he say such a thing to a general here to evaluate us?
"What do you recommend?" Slocum asked, taken aback by his honesty.
"I recommend returning to the initial phase of the experiment," Stromm said, digging the hole deeper.
"I, along with most of the staff, believe we need further testing to determine the project's future potential. That will take time," I interjected. I did need time—but not to figure out how to make a working serum for the military.
"Can we speak frankly?" the general suddenly asked.
"Of course, General," I replied. What else could I say?
"The truth is, I'm not a fan of your serum. Many have tried to replicate Abraham Erskine's formula, and as far as I know, no one has succeeded. I believe in something more practical. I've approved funding for Quest Aerospace to develop an exoskeleton, and they've promised initial results in two weeks. If your serum doesn't show real progress by then, government funding will be redirected to them," Slocum declared before leaving the demonstration hall without waiting for my response.
After exchanging "warm" farewells with Balkan and Fargas, I headed to my office, lost in thought.
The conversation felt strangely familiar. Searching my memories, I realized it closely resembled a scene from Sam Raimi's Spider-Man. One might think this was that exact universe, but it wasn't—the Norman Osborn of that world was perfectly healthy. The existence of figures like Charles Xavier and Tony Stark in this world suggested otherwise. I was leaning toward the idea that this was some uncharted variant of the Marvel Universe, and I hoped it wasn't the early stages of a Marvel Zombies scenario. Given how terrible I looked, I'd fit right in.
Entering my office, I winced at the pain coursing through my body. I immediately went to the water decanter, swallowed another dose of painkillers, and pressed the intercom button.
"Wanda, send Arthur up to me—if he's not busy with anything urgent," I told my secretary, who assured me she'd handle it.
Ten minutes later, a prematurely graying fifty-year-old man entered—my friend and Oscorp's head of security, Arthur Stacy.
"You look like hell," he stated bluntly. Had he and my butler coordinated today? If two people close to me said the same thing, it was definitely true.
"Thanks, I know," I replied, forcing a smile at his—very funny—joke. Or perhaps not a joke at all.
"Arthur... We've been through a lot together, and I want you to know that big changes are coming to Oscorp," I began cautiously.
"Norman, I understand you're sick and the doctors haven't given you much time, but don't write yourself off just yet—" he started, but I cut him off.
"That's not what I meant. I may need to leave the company soon, and I need to know—can I count on you?" I asked. I had no idea how he'd respond, but his answer would tell me everything. If he chose to follow a dying man out of Oscorp, he'd be the most loyal person I could ask for.
He didn't answer immediately, taking a long ten seconds to consider my question—or rather, my proposal.
"Alright, Norman. If that's what you want, I'll leave with you. But you'll have to explain this to Elizabeth yourself," Arthur said with utmost seriousness, perhaps making the most important decision of his life.
"I want to be clear: I will resolve my health issues soon," I told him.
"You will?" he began, but I interrupted again.
"It doesn't matter what the doctors said. I told you, and that's what matters."
"Fine, Norman. But what exactly do you want from me right now?" he asked, realizing this conversation had a purpose.
"I'll need loyal people to ensure my safety—and the safety of my new company. And who better to find them than the head of security?" I laid my cards on the table.
"You want to start a new company from scratch?" Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "Norman, your ambition has always amazed me, but this time you've outdone yourself. Alright, I'll start discreetly sounding out potential candidates."
"Good. Now, let's address current business. Any updates on the theft of our equipment from the warehouse in—" I shifted to company matters. We couldn't afford to raise the board's suspicions.
As usual, when there was a lot to do, time flew. I realized that if I wanted to pick Harry up from school as I'd promised that morning, I needed to wrap things up and head to the parking lot. Traffic in New York could be truly hellish.