Connors leaned against the long metal counter at the front of the lab. Harsh fluorescent light reflected off the lenses of his glasses. His empty sleeve, neatly pinned against his side, was impossible not to notice. When he gestured with his remaining hand for emphasis, it stood out even more. His voice carried a gravity that silenced idle chatter almost immediately.
"You all know the limitations of human biology," Connors began. His tone was steady and commanding. "A fractured tibia? Six to eight weeks in a cast, minimum. A ruptured Achilles tendon? Months—sometimes years—of therapy. And a lost limb…" He lifted his pinned sleeve slightly, letting the pause linger, heavy in the air. "Gone. Irretrievable. Human beings are extraordinary, yes—but in terms of regeneration, we are pathetically fragile."
A slide flickered on behind him. Images of axolotls, salamanders, and lizards filled the screen, their severed limbs in various stages of regrowth.
"Now look here. Ambystoma mexicanum, the axolotl. A single specimen can regenerate limbs, portions of the heart, spinal cord segments, and even parts of the brain. Not scar tissue—fully functional structures. This is possible due to what are known as blastema cells—a kind of pluripotent mass that forms at the site of injury and reactivates developmental pathways. Effectively, the body rolls itself back to an embryonic blueprint to rebuild what was lost."
A young man, maybe in his early twenties, raised a hand. "So… are you saying they basically trigger stem cell behavior at will?"
"Exactly," Connors replied, his eyes glinting as if pleased. "A salamander doesn't wait for a laboratory to extract stem cells and coax them in a dish. It is the laboratory. Every cell carries the instruction manual. Evolution gifted them the tools to read it."
He changed the slide again. This time, a starfish regenerated arms, and a planarian flatworm divided into two.
"Consider this: a planarian can be cut into hundreds of fragments. Nearly every one will grow into a complete organism. Imagine losing an arm and simply growing another. Imagine a spinal cord injury reversed in weeks, not decades. Imagine the blind seeing again, the paralyzed walking, amputees... whole again."
There was a murmur through the room. Awe radiated from some faces, but shadows of discomfort flickered in the eyes of others—a hush edged with wonder and dread.
Connors paced. His voice grew more intense. "And yet, humans—apex predators, dominant species—heal with the sophistication of an earthworm. You scar, you limp, you adapt, but you do not regenerate. Ask yourself why."
A hand shot up from the back—this time, a woman in her thirties. "Evolutionary trade-offs?" she guessed. "Humans developed advanced cognition, but at the expense of certain cellular pathways?"
Connors nodded sharply, a thin smile tugging at his mouth. "Precisely. Regeneration and cancer suppression are often inversely related. Salamanders regenerate because their cells proliferate with fewer restrictions. Humans have evolved stronger tumor-suppressor mechanisms, which limit runaway cell growth. In short, our ability to resist cancer costs us the ability to regrow."
The projector switched again. Crocodiles now filled the screen—jaws wide, scales gleaming.
Here is another fascinating case. Crocodiles, unlike their smaller lizard cousins, cannot regenerate entire limbs. Yet they exhibit another miracle: immune systems built to thrive in septic, microbe-rich places. Wounds that should fester heal cleanly. Their blood holds unique antimicrobial peptides—so potent they kill bacteria and fungi that would ravage a human body. Scientists have found several molecules in crocodilian serum with potential pharmaceutical uses. Think: antibiotics, antivirals, wound-healing serums, all in plain sight.
Another student piped up—a nervous-looking kid, maybe sixteen. "So, uh… are you saying we could, like… copy that DNA? Use CRISPR to put those traits in people?"
Connors chuckled, but it wasn't warm. It was sharp, almost feverish. "That is one possibility. We could graft nature's solutions onto our own frail genome. We could splice into us what evolution denied." He tapped his empty sleeve against his chest. "This—this is why we study comparative regeneration biology. I refuse to believe the answer is no."
The air in the room felt denser, nearly electric. Some scribbled furiously in notebooks, hands trembling with excitement or anxiety. Others sat in stiff silence, caught between yearning and a rising sense of dread.
Connors finally dimmed the projector, plunging the room into a cooler, quieter light. He swept his gaze across the room, meeting eyes, demanding focus.
"You are here not just to watch me chase theories. You are here to work. Over the next several weeks, you will conduct DNA sequence analysis on reptilian samples. You will study gene expression. You will model protein pathways. And above all, you will ask the questions science has been too timid to ask. What if the limits of the human body are not limits at all, but barriers to be broken?"
He let the silence stretch. Then his tone softened, almost conspiratorial.
"Pair up. Get started. Today, we begin with genomic comparisons between reptilian fibroblast cultures and mammalian cells. Pay attention to transcription factors. They may hold the key."
The clamor of chairs scraping and pages flipping was mixed with nervous laughter and uneasy glances. Students paired up—some with relieved grins, others with damp palms and tense expressions. My hand moved over my notes, but my chest tightened, gaze flicking back to Connors, haunted by the look in his eyes.
"Parker. You wanna… partner up?"
I turned, stunned. Of all people, Flash Thompson stood there—no sneer, no taunt. His face, for once, was stripped of bravado, just… vulnerable. Just asking.
"You sure about that?" I asked, narrowing my eyes a little.
Flash shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Why not? You're good at this science stuff. I don't feel like wasting my time with someone who doesn't care. So… you in?"
I studied him for a second. It didn't sound like an insult. More like—begrudging honesty. Finally, I sighed. "Fine. But if we're partners, you put in the work. No dead weight."
He nodded, almost serious. "Deal."
He dropped into the seat next to mine, his navy polo stretched snug across his chest, his khakis crisp, and his sneakers so clean they probably never touched actual dirt. His hair was styled with military precision, like he'd spent more time on it than he ever would on lab work. He gave me that same familiar look—like I was gum stuck to his shoe—but behind it, I caught a flicker of something else.
For a moment, we worked in silence, both of us unpacking the supplies Connors had set out—microscopes, vials, slides. But Flash kept sneaking glances at me. Finally, he squinted like he was trying to figure out a math problem.
We settled at one of the lab benches, unpacking the slides and sample trays Connors had laid out. The bright labels read names like Anolis carolinensis, Crocodylus niloticus, and Iguana iguana. Not exactly beginner-level biology.
As I adjusted the microscope, I felt Flash staring at me.
"What?" I asked.
"You look… taller," he blurted.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Taller. And… uh… bigger. Like, more muscle." His voice dropped into something almost defensive. "And where are your glasses? You blind without 'em?"
I smirked despite myself. "Hit the gym since I got out of the hospital. And… I don't need the glasses anymore."
Flash tilted his head, studying me. His usual sneer was gone, replaced by curiosity. Awkwardly, like he hated himself for asking, he said, "You think… You could give me your workout?"
That one made me pause. Flash Thompson—the guy who shoved me into lockers, taped "Kick Me" signs to my back, made my life hell—asking for fitness tips?
"Sure," I said. "But only if you actually put in the work. No shortcuts."
He gave the smallest nod. No sarcasm, no comeback. Just a nod. Then he went quiet again. For a strange, surreal moment, it felt like we were just classmates, not sworn enemies.
But reality never lets me have normal for long.
Connor clapped his remaining hand together at the front of the room. "Eyes forward. Let's begin."
His voice carried, pulling everyone in. On the screen behind him appeared an image of a salamander, limb in mid-regrowth. "You all know the fragility of human biology," he began. "A bone break takes months to mend. A torn tendon may never fully heal. And a lost limb…" His gaze swept the room as he lifted his pinned sleeve. "Gone. Forever."
A hush fell. Even Flash leaned in, uncharacteristically attentive.
Connors clicked to the next slide: axolotls, lizards, starfish. "But in nature, limitations vary. Axolotls regenerate limbs, spinal cord segments, and even sections of the brain. Certain lizards regrow tails. Starfish regrow entire arms. These organisms form a blastema—a mass of pluripotent cells at the wound site that resets development, as if rewinding time. Imagine if humans could do the same."
A man in his late twenties raised a hand. "So, like… their cells turn into stem cells?"
"Precisely," Connors said, eyes lighting up. "Where our cells scar, theirs rebuild. It's an elegant, efficient process—one humans lost on the evolutionary path."
He switched slides again. Crocodiles filled the screen, bloodied but alive. "Now consider crocodiles. They cannot regenerate limbs. But they possess something else remarkable: immune systems strong enough to heal grievous wounds in septic waters without infection. Their blood contains antimicrobial peptides that kill pathogens which would overwhelm a human. Soldiers in the field, accident victims—if we could harness this immunity, how many lives could be saved?"
Flash raised his hand before I could stop him. "Wait—you're saying… like, we could make people heal like that? Just splice it into us?"
Connor's smile tightened. "That is one possibility, yes. Through comparative genomics, CRISPR, and synthetic biology, we could copy these mechanisms. The question is not can we… but should we?"
The room buzzed with whispers. Even I had to admit, Connors was magnetic when he spoke.
He dimmed the screen. "You are here not merely to observe, but to participate. Today, you'll begin by analyzing DNA samples from various reptilian tissues. Note transcription factors, compare gene expression, and ask yourselves: where do humans fall short? And more importantly… how do we change it?"
Students began pairing up, dragging chairs, and opening notebooks. Flash and I exchanged a glance. He rolled his eyes, but for once, not at me—at the challenge itself.
"Guess we better not screw it up," he muttered.
"Guess not," I said, focusing on the microscope.
By the time Connors called for a lunch break, my stomach was grumbling. I slipped away with my packed sandwich, heading for a quiet corner table. I took out my notebook, jotting ideas for an upgrade for the Emergency Web, my FNSM App, while chewing. Arachne's voice buzzed faintly in my ear through the earpiece.
"Sir, you are multitasking again."
"Guilty as charged," I muttered.
But before I could lose myself in coding notes, a shadow fell over the table. Flash. He plopped down across from me with his tray, sulking like a kicked puppy.
"Relax, Parker. MJ ditched me for some other girls. Not like I had a choice."
I almost laughed at the idea of Flash Thompson abandoned at a lunch table, but I bit my tongue. We ate mostly in silence, and honestly, that was fine by me.
After lunch, Connors gathered us around a secure case at the front of the lab. Inside were several sealed vials, each glowing faintly under UV light.
"These," he said reverently, "are extracted DNA samples from various reptilian species. Sequenced, isolated, and preserved under sterile conditions. Among them is crocodilian DNA, which contains the extraordinary peptides and immune markers I mentioned earlier. With careful study, we can understand how to apply their secrets to human biology."
I leaned closer, fascinated. The vials shimmered faintly, like little universes in glass.
"Scientists are particularly interested in crocodiles' rapid wound healing," Connors went on, his voice low and intense. "Imagine a soldier injured in combat. Infections would be nonexistent. Healing would be swift. No antibiotics required. The potential applications…" His voice trailed into silence, as if he could see the future right there in the vial.
And then it happened.
A low hum rippled through the lab, followed by the sharp crackle of static. The overhead UV lamps flickered violently, buzzing like a swarm of hornets. One bulb flared white-hot, and then— pop! —it shattered. Glass rained down, sparks spitting across the counter.
The stray energy arced downward, jagged lightning snaking into a rack of vials.
The impact was explosive. Glass burst in a shower of shards. Chemicals hissed and foamed across the table, spilling in wild streaks of luminous green.
Dr. Connors reacted on instinct, throwing up his one arm to shield his face. But it wasn't enough. The liquid splashed over him, soaking his shirt, clinging to his skin. Under the residual radiation discharge, it pulsed faintly, like veins of living fire spreading across his body.
For a moment, the lab went silent. Then the screams began.
Connors staggered, choking, clutching at himself. His body convulsed violently, his back arcing as if he'd been wired into a generator. His breath came in jagged, animal gasps. His teeth ground together so hard it was audible, like bone splintering.
"Dr. Connors!" someone cried. But no one moved. No one dared.
My spider-sense went into overdrive. It wasn't just buzzing—it was screaming, every nerve shouting danger, danger, danger.
Connors dropped to his knees, clawing at his chest, his voice cracking between agony and denial."What is—!? No—oh God, no—!"
His lab coat tore open as his chest began to move. Not with breath—no, his muscles were writhing, bulging, shifting as though something inside was trying to force its way out.
The first scales erupted across his forearm. Wet, glistening patches of emerald that pushed through the skin like shards of broken glass. His veins blackened, thick fluid surging like poison through his bloodstream.
He let out a guttural howl as his spine arched. Bone ridges punched through his back with a sickening crack, each one tearing through flesh to form jagged scutes. His tailbone swelled grotesquely, bursting through fabric with a sharp rip before unfurling into a long, muscular tail that whipped across the floor. The impact rattled tables, sending beakers crashing.
His jaw convulsed, bones splintering and stretching forward. Teeth sprouted, serrated and uneven, transforming into the jagged maw of a predator. His one good arm swelled, muscles ballooning until the seams of his shirt shredded. Fingers elongated, splitting as claws erupted where nails had been, each one glistening and sharp.
The smell hit next—fetid and suffocating. Swamp water mixed with rot and coppery blood.
By the time it was over, Dr. Curtis Connors was gone.
What stood in his place was a nightmare: a hulking reptilian beast, nearly nine feet tall, scales glistening under the shattered lights. Crocodilian jaw, ridged back, claws like hooked blades, and a tail that thrashed with brutal weight.
The Lizard.
His roar shook the lab, a sound so deep and primal it reverberated through my ribcage.
Students screamed. Chaos erupted. Chairs toppled, glass shattered, people shoved toward the exits in a frenzy.
I was about to shout for everyone to run when Flash—of all people—beat me to it.
"Everyone OUT!" he bellowed, his voice carrying like a drill sergeant on a battlefield. He moved fast, shoving tables aside, clearing paths, grabbing stragglers, and hurling them toward the door. His face was calm—too calm—like he'd done this before. Like a soldier. "Move, move, MOVE! Spider-Man'll deal with it when he gets here!"
Nobody questioned him. They listened. They ran.
And me? My hand was already reaching for my bag. My chance. My responsibility.
While the chaos swallowed the room, I slipped to the side, heart hammering. Flash's voice thundered commands behind me, covering the sound of my zipper as I dug for the mask.
This was it. No more hesitation.
It was time to suit up.