softly. Great. Just great. Everyone else goes on a nice, ordinary class trip, and good old Peter Parker gets bitten by a toxic spider.
But even as the possibility occurred to him, he was in clined to dismiss it. How in the world could a spider have es caped from there, anyway? It's not as if one of its relatives could smuggle in a teeny tiny hacksaw. The spiders weren't about to start punching their way through the thick glass. No ... despite Peter's tendency to ascribe a worst-case sce nario to everything in the world, even he had to admit that the chances were that this was a normal, garden-variety spi der. Heck, it didn't even look as big as the others had been. The others had been huge, relatively speaking. This one just looked like ... well, like a dead arachnid.
It was kind of puny, really.
And the kids—Flash, in particular—did tend to refer to him as Puny Parker. So if he had to be bitten by a spider, it was probably appropriate that it was this one.
Peter stood there, rubbing his hand, as the array of elec tron microscope display screens flashed around him, images of DNA strands dancing over him. He didn't consider it to be particularly ironic in any way.
That would change.
IV.
THE MEETING
Norman Osborn could remember clearly the day that the proud OsCorp Industries factory in Commack, Long Island, had first opened. He had stopped going home in those final days, as they rushed to make certain everything was ready for the opening day. He ate, slept, and breathed that build ing, checking every rivet, every switchplate, every window seal.
The first time he saw the neon letters of the huge OsCorp logo flicker to life, he felt a swelling of pride. The first time he beheld a black, noxious cloud belching out of the tower ing smokestacks, he knew that everything for which he'd been striving all these years had finally been attained.
So here he was, years later, and if driving a wrecking ma chine through the place—leveling it, reducing it to nothing but a pile of rubble—had been an option, he would have grabbed it in a heartbeat.
Explosives would serve just as well.
"General Slocum and the others have already started the inspection," said his somewhat high-strung assistant, Simkins. "Mr. Balkan and Mr. Fargas are with them."
Above the elevator door, the square that read research and development lit up. R&D was situated a fifth of a mile underground, which was a compromise as far as Osborn was concerned. For his full comfort level to be reached, he'd much rather have had it situated somewhere near the earth's core. Industrial theft was his number-one concern, and he
was prepared to do whatever it took to avoid having enemies swoop in and steal that which he had labored so long to achieve.
There was a soft ping as the elevator doors slid open. Os born stepped out onto a dizzyingly high catwalk, and his hard green eyes, while appearing to be focused straight ahead, took in everything around him, with peripheral vision that would have rivaled the capabilities of security cameras. Simkins gulped audibly, fighting off a momentary flash of vertigo before gripping the rail and moving behind her boss. She had to pick up speed, because Osborn wasn't slowing down.
"Why wasn't I told about this?" Osborn growled.
"I . . . don't think they wanted you to know, sir," admitted Simkins.
Osborn moved quickly down a narrow flight of steps, tak ing two at a time. He hoped Simkins could keep up but was too focused on his destination to be concerned if she didn't. He practically vaulted down to the polished floor, ignoring the greeting of "Morning, Mr. Osborn" he got from every employee he passed. As if there was anything good about this morning. As if any of them were remotely happy to see him. Every single one of them was a security risk, no matter how many nondisclosure forms they signed.
On the other hand, there was nothing to be done when the enemy strolled right into your lair. Or, for that matter, rolled right
But even as the possibility occurred to him, he was in clined to dismiss it. How in the world could a spider have es caped from there, anyway? It's not as if one of its relatives could smuggle in a teeny tiny hacksaw. The spiders weren't about to start punching their way through the thick glass. No ... despite Peter's tendency to ascribe a worst-case sce nario to everything in the world, even he had to admit that the chances were that this was a normal, garden-variety spi der. Heck, it didn't even look as big as the others had been. The others had been huge, relatively speaking. This one just looked like ... well, like a dead arachnid.
It was kind of puny, really.
And the kids—Flash, in particular—did tend to refer to him as Puny Parker. So if he had to be bitten by a spider, it was probably appropriate that it was this one.
Peter stood there, rubbing his hand, as the array of elec tron microscope display screens flashed around him, images of DNA strands dancing over him. He didn't consider it to be particularly ironic in any way.
That would change.
IV.
THE MEETING
Norman Osborn could remember clearly the day that the proud OsCorp Industries factory in Commack, Long Island, had first opened. He had stopped going home in those final days, as they rushed to make certain everything was ready for the opening day. He ate, slept, and breathed that build ing, checking every rivet, every switchplate, every window seal.
The first time he saw the neon letters of the huge OsCorp logo flicker to life, he felt a swelling of pride. The first time he beheld a black, noxious cloud belching out of the tower ing smokestacks, he knew that everything for which he'd been striving all these years had finally been attained.
So here he was, years later, and if driving a wrecking ma chine through the place—leveling it, reducing it to nothing but a pile of rubble—had been an option, he would have grabbed it in a heartbeat.
Explosives would serve just as well.
"General Slocum and the others have already started the inspection," said his somewhat high-strung assistant, Simkins. "Mr. Balkan and Mr. Fargas are with them."
Above the elevator door, the square that read research and development lit up. R&D was situated a fifth of a mile underground, which was a compromise as far as Osborn was concerned. For his full comfort level to be reached, he'd much rather have had it situated somewhere near the earth's core. Industrial theft was his number-one concern, and he
was prepared to do whatever it took to avoid having enemies swoop in and steal that which he had labored so long to achieve.
There was a soft ping as the elevator doors slid open. Os born stepped out onto a dizzyingly high catwalk, and his hard green eyes, while appearing to be focused straight ahead, took in everything around him, with peripheral vision that would have rivaled the capabilities of security cameras. Simkins gulped audibly, fighting off a momentary flash of vertigo before gripping the rail and moving behind her boss. She had to pick up speed, because Osborn wasn't slowing down.
"Why wasn't I told about this?" Osborn growled.
"I . . . don't think they wanted you to know, sir," admitted Simkins.
Osborn moved quickly down a narrow flight of steps, tak ing two at a time. He hoped Simkins could keep up but was too focused on his destination to be concerned if she didn't. He practically vaulted down to the polished floor, ignoring the greeting of "Morning, Mr. Osborn" he got from every employee he passed. As if there was anything good about this morning. As if any of them were remotely happy to see him. Every single one of them was a security risk, no matter how many nondisclosure forms they signed.
On the other hand, there was nothing to be done when the enemy strolled right into your lair. Or, for that matter, rolled right
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