While studying the spider and the Oz Serum variant derived from it—which I ultimately called the Spider Serum—I realized just how lucky Peter Parker was to gain his powers without dying in the process or turning into some monstrous spider-creature. The odds of a successful outcome were less than three percent.
When Harry mentioned at dinner the day after Peter was bitten that he hadn't shown up at school, I worried that I might have altered something and that Peter hadn't survived the transformation. But the next day, he returned to school and even got into a scuffle with his classmate, Flash Thompson.
After Dr. Mendel declared the Spider Serum we'd developed a complete dead end and returned to earlier stages of research, I focused on analyzing what we had achieved.
What we had was an overly aggressive serum variant that, while lacking major side effects, almost guaranteed the death of anyone injected with it. I needed something to increase the chances of survival. And I had a rough idea of what that something was.
But I couldn't obtain this missing component on my own. Fortunately, I had a lot—a lot—of money and a rough plan for how to make it happen.
First, I sent an email to a known address with a single word: "urgent," to summon the right person. Then, I picked up a secure phone to place an order that would be difficult to trace back to me.
"Hello, you've reached Med Tech Innovation, the leading manufacturer of medical equipment in the country," a woman's voice answered when I dialed the number. The leading manufacturer? Hardly. This firm wasn't on that level, but they were the best... of the mid-tier.
"Connect me with someone who handles custom orders," I said.
"Please hold. A specialist will be with you in a few minutes," came the all-too-familiar response from my past life as Alexander.
"Yes?" a gruff male voice answered, clearly annoyed that someone had called him.
"I'd like to order a blood extraction device. It needs maximum suction power, but the subject shouldn't feel it being used. Is that possible?"
"It's possible... The device will be ready in a week," the specialist replied.
"It needs to be ready in twelve hours, maximum. And it must have no logos or serial numbers," I demanded.
"Do you realize how difficult that is?" he shot back. "First, the timeline is unrealistic. Second, we have a queue, and we can't just drop everything for your order."
"I'll pay ten times the standard price," I said.
"You don't understand—money can't solve everything. We—"
"Thirty times," I countered.
"...," he huffed into the receiver.
"Fifty times," I made my final offer. If they refused, I'd find someone else.
"Where should we deliver your order, and how will payment be arranged?" the so-called specialist abruptly changed his tune. "We'd also like to clarify the device's specifications."
Ironically, Oscorp had already developed such a device, and I had access to it. But I wanted to leave as few traces as possible.
The person I needed didn't contact me that day, or the next. It was only in the evening, as I sat in an armchair in my living room, sipping wine by the fireplace, that a voice spoke from behind me.
"You called for me, Osborn?" the man asked.
"You took your time," I said calmly, as if one of the world's most dangerous mercenaries hadn't just infiltrated my home without triggering a single security system.
"Not everything revolves around you, Osborn. I was on the other side of the world and had to finish my business first," the mercenary said, taking a seat in the second armchair.
"Taskmaster, I have two jobs for you: one needs to be done quickly, and the other is long-term. We'll discuss the second after you've completed the first—without leaving a trace."
"Offended, Osborn. I always keep my work clean," Taskmaster replied.
"Enough small talk. Let's get to business," I said.
"To business, then," he echoed.
"I need you to obtain blood from a specific individual—and fast," I explained.
"Do you know where the target is?" Taskmaster asked. "If I have to search, it'll take extra time, though I can handle it."
"Yes, he's not exactly hiding. For the past six months, he's been riding his motorcycle from bar to bar across Canada. His path can be tracked by the fights and wrecked bars he leaves behind. Recently, surveillance cameras caught him entering a small town called Brantford."
"Osborn, you know where the target is, and all you need is his blood. That's odd—seems like a simple job, not the kind that requires a high-level mercenary like me. Your orders used to be much more... complex," Taskmaster said, clearly aware of his worth.
"He's not an ordinary man. He has certain... abilities," I told him.
"Such as?" he asked, intrigued.
"His skeleton is made of adamantium. He can extend claws from the same metal. And he has a healing factor," I listed.
"Logan," Taskmaster said, suddenly serious.
"Yes, Logan. I'm surprised you know him," I said. His familiarity with the target only made things easier.
"We've met. In a direct fight, I'm no match for him—I can only hold my own until he unsheathes his claws," Taskmaster admitted, a professional who knew his limits.
"If done right, you won't even have to fight him," I assured him.
"Hmm... Sounds like you have a plan. I'd like to hear it in full before deciding. If I don't like it, I'll either refuse or do things my way—for a much higher fee," the mercenary stated.
"A reasonable demand. My plan is this..."
From Taskmaster's (Anthony Masters) Perspective
I walked into a bar in Toronto, not as the infamous mercenary Anthony Masters, but as a mid-level businessman—clearly wealthy, but not a millionaire. My face was different, thanks to a special mask that had saved me more than once when I needed to remain unrecognized.
This wasn't just any bar. It was an unofficial den for local mercenaries, where they relaxed and picked up new contracts.
"Can I place an order?" I asked the bartender, sitting at the counter and emphasizing the word.
"An order? Sure. See that guy in the corner? Talk to him," the bartender said before turning to another customer.
"What do you want, kid?" the mercenary at the table asked as soon as I sat down.
"I need people for a job," I said, feigning confidence—or rather, making sure he saw me feigning it.
"You've come to the right place. What's the job? But let me warn you—if you're looking to kill someone, you're in the wrong spot. We don't do that," he said immediately.
"I don't need anyone killed. I need a guy named Steve taught a lesson—so he stops eyeing other men's wives," I said, injecting false anger into my voice.
"A lesson... We can handle that," the mercenary said, sizing me up as if he already knew everything about me.
"There are a couple of guys here—" he began, but I cut him off.
"A couple won't be enough. He's trained in martial arts. Taking him down won't be easy."
"Well, we can bring more, but it'll cost you. Though for your money, we'll do anything," he smirked.
"Money's no object. Just do the job and tell him it's from John. Make sure he knows not to look at other men's wives again," I said.
"Do you know where he is?" the mercenary asked.
"Not right now, but by evening, he'll be at Franklin's Grill in Brantford. He was there yesterday, and he'll probably show up again tonight," I shared.
"What does he look like?" he asked. I handed him a photo of Logan on his motorcycle.
"Hmm, he doesn't look tough. You sure two guys won't be enough?" the mercenary asked.
"Positive. Fifteen would be better—just to be sure," I said.
"Fine. This'll cost you this much," he scribbled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to me. The sum was impressive.
"Cut that by at least a third. I'm not hiring a special forces unit. And I'll pay half now, half after the job's done," I said, my expression making it clear I wouldn't budge.
"Ha-ha-ha. Alright, kid. We'll teach this scumbag a lesson," he laughed, though his eyes stayed serious.
"I'll be back with the money," I said, standing up.
Back to Taskmaster's Perspective
This wasn't my first time in this bar. This time, it was Franklin's Grill in Brantford. I wasn't dressed as a businessman now, but as a local worker, there to drink a few beers.
I carried a briefcase containing the blood extraction device. I didn't know exactly how it worked, but in theory, it could suck a massive amount of blood from the target in seconds—without them noticing.
I sat nursing my beer when Logan walked in. He scanned the bar, paused when his gaze landed on me, sniffed the air, then shook his head and headed to the counter. Hmm... We had met before, but only briefly. He shouldn't recognize me. I looked different, moved different—I'd copied the mannerisms of a local worker using my abilities. Hopefully, it was just a coincidence.
An hour passed. Logan kept ordering drinks, and I kept sipping my beer. Then, the twelve mercenaries I'd hired arrived.
"Hey, Steve! Stop drinking and get over here—we need to talk," the apparent leader said, twirling a chain. Naturally, no one reacted. Well, almost no one. Many glanced around, wondering which unlucky Steve had drawn such a crowd.
When Logan didn't respond, the mercenary looked around, then approached him. Logan, ignoring everyone, sipped his whiskey as the man clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Take your hand off me. I'm not Steve," Logan said quietly.
"I think you are Steve," the mercenary said, gripping tighter.
"You asked for it," Logan growled. He spun and shoved the man away with a palm strike, sending him flying across the bar.
Silence fell for a few seconds—you could've heard a fly buzz—before all hell broke loose.
The mercenaries, helping their leader to his feet (who immediately clutched his ribs), charged at Logan with chains, bats, and fists.
Logan, smirking, stepped forward to meet them. He handled his attackers effortlessly, and from the way they kept getting up after his hits, it was clear he was toying with them.
The real fun started when Logan hurled a mercenary into a nearby table, sending a local patron and the table crashing to the floor.
"They're beating up one of ours!" I shouted. At that, everyone in the bar lunged at Logan.
Watching him toss people aside, I finished my beer, set the mug down, opened my briefcase, and pulled out the blood extraction device. I approached Logan from behind.
While Logan methodically pummeled one mercenary and another tried to interfere, a local even wrapped his arms around Logan's legs in a futile attempt to take him down. I slipped behind him, locked my left arm around his neck, and pressed the device to the back of his neck.
Logan ignored my weak attempt to choke him for three seconds before turning his attention to me. With one violent jerk, he hurled me into the wall. By then, the device had already extracted a significant amount of blood.
After slamming into the wall, I quickly recovered, pocketed the device, and headed for the exit. I wasn't the only one—many others were wisely fleeing the bar while they still could.
Outside, I got into the car I'd rented under false papers in Toronto. I placed the device in a medical cooler I'd bought for this purpose, then drove to a small private airport, where a plane awaited to take me back to the U.S.
The job was as good as done.
While Taskmaster handled my request, I worked on adapting the Spider Serum to incorporate Wolverine's blood. It wasn't easy, given that I had no idea what that blood even was. But I managed the preliminary preparations. Taskmaster didn't keep me waiting long—about a day after our meeting, he visited me again at my mansion.
"Osborn, here's what we agreed on. The job's done in full," Taskmaster said, setting a portable medical cooler on the coffee table.
"Excellent. Tomorrow, after I verify the blood, payment will be made in full," I said. "Not that I don't trust you, but rules are rules."
"Of course. I understand. And, Osborn, what was that about a second job?" he asked.
"I know you're one of the best trainers money can buy. And I want to hire you in that capacity," I told him.
"A trainer? Not for you, I hope. Judging by your condition, you wouldn't survive a single session," he said, shaking his head.
"No, I need a trainer for my son, Harry. Your main task will be to make his body as strong as possible—without chemicals. Otherwise, no restrictions," I said.
"Hmm. Why not? I've got free time, and given how much you're paying, I've no reason to refuse. Plus, I've been wanting to test some interesting training methods," Taskmaster said in a tone that made me slightly nervous for Harry. But it was for his own good.
"Good. You can start settling into the mansion. As for me, I need to get to the lab—I've got some urgent experiments to run," I said.