Chapter 31: Saving Private Harry, Curing the Osborn Family Genetic Disease
The cold light from the screen illuminated Aaron's face.
The screen was filled with exclamation marks.
Aaron pressed the lock screen button. The phone screen went black.
He stuffed the phone back into his jeans pocket.
He turned his head to look at Gwen, who was cowering at the edge of the sofa.
The girl's shoulders were still trembling slightly. That light blue cardigan was stained with some ashes.
Aaron walked over.
He reached out and grabbed Gwen's arm.
It felt icy cold to the touch.
"It's okay." Aaron pulled her up.
Gwen bit her lower lip and nodded. Her fingers gripped Aaron's cuff tightly.
"I need to go out for a bit." Aaron patted the back of her hand.
He turned around and kicked the popcorn bucket that had fallen on the carpet.
The paper bucket rolled twice and hit Mary Jane's Martin boots.
"MJ, help me watch her. There's ice cream in the fridge."
Mary Jane rubbed her bruised knee and stood up.
She glanced at the messy living room, and then looked at Felicia, who was standing by the terrace wind vent.
"You'd better come back soon." She muttered.
Aaron didn't reply.
He walked to the entryway and grabbed that black jacket.
The zipper got stuck halfway.
Aaron frowned and pulled it up hard. The metal teeth made a harsh friction sound.
He pushed open the brass door and strode into the elevator.
...
Margaret Hospital.
Manhattan's most luxurious private hospital.
The cold white ceiling lights illuminated the fifteenth-floor hallway.
The air was filled with a mixed smell of high-concentration disinfectant and formalin.
The smell was too pungent, making one's throat feel dry.
As soon as Aaron stepped out of the elevator, he heard a commotion deep in the hallway.
Peter Parker was like an ant on a hot pan.
Pacing back and forth at the door of the ward.
His black down jacket was zipped halfway, the zipper was broken, and his chest was open.
Both of his hands tightly grabbed his messy hair.
Pulling hard twice, he pulled out a few brown hairs.
"Aaron! You're finally here!"
Hearing the footsteps, Peter suddenly raised his head.
His swollen left eye socket paired with a red nose made him look like a comical Joker.
He rushed over in two or three steps and grabbed Aaron's arm.
Failing to control his strength, he grabbed Aaron's sleeve into a crumpled mess.
"Harry is not going to make it!" Peter's voice was laced with tears.
"He vomited a lot of blood. The Doctor said his cells are undergoing rapid necrosis."
Peter stamped his feet anxiously in place.
"Mr. Osborn is also missing. The news says Green Goblinbombed Times Square. When Harry saw the news, he fainted on the spot."
He rambled incoherently, spitting saliva into the air.
Aaron brushed Peter's hand aside.
"I'll go in and take a look."
He walked to the door of Ward 1502.
He pushed open the heavy soundproof door.
The ward was in complete chaos.
Three Doctors in white lab coats were sweating profusely as they held down Harry on the hospital bed.
Leather restraints were tightly bound around Harry's wrists and ankles.
The edges of the straps had already squeezed out purplish-red bloody marks.
Harry lay on the white bedsheets.
His body twitched violently, as if connected to high-voltage electricity.
He gritted his teeth tightly, and the corners of his mouth were covered with dark red blood foam. The blood foam flowed down his chin, dyeing a large part of the pillow red.
The most terrifying thing was his skin.
Beneath the originally pale skin, thick green-blue veins bulged out.
It looked like bugs were drilling back and forth inside the blood vessels.
This was the Osborn family's genetic disease. An irreversible genetic defect.
"Sedatives are useless!" shouted the Doctor.
His glasses were skewed to the tip of his nose, and his hands firmly pressed down on Harry's shoulders.
"His cells reject any chemical drugs! Go prepare the defibrillator!"
The Nurse nearby panicked and pushed the defibrillator cart over.
The wheels rolled over the floor tiles, making a rattling noise.
The electrocardiogram monitor emitted a rapid "beep-beep" alarm sound.
The green wavy line on the screen became flatter and flatter, about to turn into a straight line.
Aaron stood at the door.
He watched Harry on the bed with cold eyes.
Oscorp could not afford to be in chaos.
Stark Industries' dry shares had just been signed. To completely expand his sphere of influence in New York, Oscorp's biotechnology and military production lines were indispensable.
Norman Osborn was already a wanted criminal who couldn't see the light of day.
Now Harry had to survive.
Survive, take over Oscorp, and then become the most obedient agent in his hands.
Aaron took two steps forward.
"Peter." He turned his head.
Peter was clinging to the door frame, watching with a pale face.
"Go downstairs and buy me an iced Americano." Aaronfished a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and shoved it into Peter's hand.
"But Harry..." Peter clutched the banknote and refused to leave.
"Go."
Aaron's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable firmness.
Peter swallowed, looked at his best friend on the hospital bed, and then looked at Aaron.
Finally, gritting his teeth, he turned and ran toward the elevator.
Aaron walked to the hospital bed.
He grabbed the Doctor's back collar in one clutch.
Effortlessly pulling him backward.
The Doctor staggered two steps, his back hitting the wall, and his glasses completely fell off.
"What are you doing!" roared the Doctor.
"Get out."
Aaron didn't look at him, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
"I am the family's private representative. Now, everyone get out."
"He's dying!" The Doctor pointed at the electrocardiogram monitor.
Aaron turned his head and stared into the Doctor's eyes.
There was no emotional fluctuation in those eyes, as cold as two pieces of ice.
The Doctor shuddered.
He suddenly felt that the high school student in front of him was even more dangerous than the patient whose heart could stop beating at any time.
"Let's go. You'll be responsible if anything happens."
The Doctor picked up his glasses and left the ward with two Nurses as if fleeing for his life.
The heavy soundproof door closed again.
In the ward, only the puffing sound of the oxygen generator and the faint ticking sound of the monitor remained.
Aaron walked to the head of the bed.
Harry's twitching amplitude became smaller. Breathing out more than breathing in.
The green blood vessels on his neck had spread to his cheeks.
Aaron gave an instruction in his mind.
"Extract mystery box items."
His right hand reached out from his jacket pocket.
In his palm, there was an extra slender glass test tube.
Both ends of the test tube were inlaid with silver metal sleeves.
Inside was a sea-blue transparent liquid.
[Perfect Gene Repair Fluid].
It was of the same origin as the bottle given to ProfessorLizard back then, but this one removed the potency of cross-species gene stripping and converted it into mild telomere recombination.
Aaron pinched the test tube.
His thumb pried open the upper silver metal stopper.
The action was as casual as opening a bottle of cola.
A stainless steel IV stand stood beside the hospital bed.
A bag of saline was hanging on it. A transparent plastic tube was connected to the intravenous indwelling needle on the back of Harry's hand.
Aaron pulled out the medication port on the IV bag.
He tilted his wrist.
The sea-blue liquid flowed out along the mouth of the test tube.
Dripping into the transparent saline bag.
The blue instantly spread in the saline, like a drop of ink falling into clear water.
The whole bag of saline turned into a beautiful fluorescent blue.
The blue liquid medicine flowed down the plastic tube.
Drop by drop.
Passing through the drip chamber, it flowed into the intravenous indwelling needle.
Finally injecting into Harry's blood.
Aaron threw the emptied test tube into the medical waste trash can next to him.
The glass hit the plastic bucket, making a dull thud.
He pulled over an escort chair.
Turning it around, he straddled the chair.
Resting both hands on the back of the chair.
He felt a pack of Marlboros he had swiped from the convenience store on the street corner out of his jacket inner pocket.
Pulling one out, he bit it in his mouth.
Taking out a metal lighter.
"Click."
The flame flared up.
Aaron tilted his head and lit the cigarette.
He didn't usually smoke, but now he needed some tar smell to disperse the formalin smell in his nose.
He exhaled a mouthful of white smoke.
He turned his head to look at the hospital bed.
The medicine took effect extremely quickly.
In less than ten seconds.
The faint ticking sound of the electrocardiogram monitor suddenly changed its rhythm.
"Beep—beep—beep."
The sound became strong.
The green curve on the screen, which was about to calm down, suddenly spiked.
The peaks were sharp and beat regularly.
The muscles on Harry's face stopped spasming.
Those green blood vessels that bulged like bugs receded like the tide.
Quickly deflating.
The pale skin regained its ruddy color at a speed visible to the naked eye.
His chest heaved violently once.
His lungs seemed to greedily inhale a large mouthful of fresh air.
The leather restraints that originally bound him made an overwhelmed creaking sound.
Harry opened his eyes abruptly.
There was not a trace of bloodshot in the whites of his eyes.
His pupils were terrifyingly bright.
He didn't feel any torture from illness and pain.
There was no excruciating pain of burning bones, no dizziness of the brain about to explode.
Instead, it was a majestic sense of power surging from the depths of his bone marrow.
Harry gasped heavily.
He turned his head hard.
The blinds of the ward were not fully drawn, and the neon lights of Manhattan outside cut in obliquely.
In the beam of light.
Aaron was straddling the chair, with his back to the window.
Against the light.
His fingertips held a half-burned Marlboro.
Bluish-white smoke curled upward, blurring his facial features.
Chapter 32: Harry is Moved and Acknowledges Big Brother, Green Goblin Completely Reduced to a Wage Earner
Harry gasped heavily, his chest heaving violently like an old, broken bellows.
He abruptly raised his left hand.
With a ripping sound.
The indwelling needle connected to his vein was forcibly pulled out by him.
A few droplets of dark red blood splashed onto the white floor tiles.
He didn't feel any pain.
With a powerful push from his legs, he flipped himself right off the bed.
Stepping barefoot on the cold tiles, he didn't feel the usual soreness and weakness seeping deep into his bone marrow.
Harry raised both hands, staring fixedly at his palms in the neon light from outside the window.
His skin was rosy, and those green veins writhing like bugs under his skin had completely disappeared.
He clenched his fingers tightly.
His knuckles made a sharp cracking sound like popping beans.
This surging, majestic sense of power welling up from deep within his muscles was something he had never experienced in his life.
He felt that he could punch right through the wooden door of the hospital room right now.
He abruptly turned his head.
Looking at Aaron, who was straddling the attendant's chair against the light.
That empty blue test tube was still in the medical trash can.
The saline bag hanging on the IV pole was empty, leaving only a few droplets of blue residual liquid.
Harry was not a fool.
In a dead end where the attending Doctor was helpless and the monitor was about to flatline.
Only this transfer student had stayed in the hospital room and pulled him back from the gates of hell.
"You..." Harry swallowed a mouthful of saliva, his throat so dry it was smoking.
His two legs bent.
His knees heavily slammed onto the hard tiles, producing a dull impact sound.
He didn't have any airs of a wealthy young master.
The men of the Osborn family lived even more humbly than sewer rats in the face of genetic diseases.
Now, that guillotine hanging over his head was gone.
"Thanks, Aaron." Harry lowered his head, his voice trembling with a thick nasal tone.
"From today on, you are my Big Brother. Use all the resources of the Osborn family however you want."
Aaron didn't say anything.
Holding that Marlboro between his fingers, he tapped it twice against the edge of the stainless steel trash can.
Gray-white ash fell patteringly, landing on the red plastic bag.
"Get up." Aaron bit down on the cigarette filter.
"The floor is cold. Put on your shoes."
He needed a lively Osborn heir.
This was much more useful than a pile of complex equity transfer documents or searching the World for proxies.
Harry stood up supporting himself by the edge of the bed, just wanting to ask what the next step's plan was.
Outside the glass window, a faint scratching sound suddenly came.
That was the sound of some sharp metal rubbing against the glass.
Aaron's Super Hearing instantly captured the movement on the exterior wall.
Someone was climbing the building. This was the fifteenth floor.
He didn't move, still straddling the chair.
Letting the grayish-white smoke drift upward, blurring his vision.
Click.
The aluminum-alloy window lock of the ward was directly pried open violently by someone outside.
The latch broke into two pieces and fell onto the windowsill.
The window was pushed open a crack.
The cold wind of early winter in Manhattan poured in mixed with chilliness.
Instantly blowing away the smell of disinfectant in the ward.
A black shadow vaulted in.
When landing, his knees bent slightly, making a very light sound like an alert old cat.
Norman Osborn.
He was wearing a wide black long trench coat with a hood.
Underneath the trench coat, it was bulging, wrapped with several tattered pieces of green bulletproof armor.
That was the remnant of the Green Goblin battle suit he wore in Times Square.
His left cheek was pasted with thick medical gauze.
A bit of dark red bloodstain seeped through the center of the gauze.
That day, after being slapped flying by Aaron, his cheekbone cracked, and the wound hadn't healed yet.
"Harry."
Norman lowered his voice, sounding like damaged sandpaper rubbing together.
He took two hurried steps forward.
"Come with me. There's a mole in Oscorp, the hospital is not safe. I'll take you..."
Norman's words stuck in his throat, like a rooster whose neck was being choked.
He saw Harry standing by the bed.
With a rosy complexion, looking at him as if he were a lunatic.
Then.
Norman saw the figure smoking a cigarette on the chair next to him.
Aaron pressed the Marlboro, which was about to burn down to the sponge filter, onto the lid of the trash can.
The spark sizzled and went out.
He slowly turned his head.
Norman's breathing stopped instantly.
That face.
That monster in Times Square who slapped him and his glider together into a load-bearing pillar with a single strike.
That baleful star wearing White clothes.
Even though he had changed into a black jacket now, that breath-stealing sense of oppression was something Norman could never forget even as a ghost.
Fear was like a bucket of ice water poured directly from the top of his head down to his heels.
Norman's legs went weak, his upper and lower teeth clattered together, making a clicking sound.
The arrogance and sense of superiority brought by the Super Serum were crushed into powder the moment they met those eyes.
Run.
This was the only remaining instinct in his head.
He turned abruptly, crawling with hands and feet toward the open window.
His movements were so fast they whipped up a gust of wind.
The hem of his trench coat overturned the nearby IV pole.
With a clatter, the stainless steel frame smashed to the ground, and the IV bottle shattered into pieces. Glass shards splattered all over the floor.
Aaron wasn't in a hurry to get up.
On his retina, the vision of God-level Prediction instantly opened.
Three red dashed lines extended outward from beneath Norman's feet.
One pointed to the left side of the windowsill.
One pointed to the air conditioner unit on the right.
The red lines intertwined, precisely marking the landing point of Norman's thigh muscle exertion and his subsequent escape route.
Norman's left foot stepped on the radiator, preparing to leverage himself to leap out of the window.
Aaron moved.
Steel Body erupted.
He crossed the three-meter distance like teleportation.
The soles of his shoes didn't even make a friction sound on the tiles. The air was forcefully squeezed apart.
Half of Norman's body had already leaned out of the window.
The cold wind of the fifteenth floor blew on his face.
He had just wanted to rejoice that he had escaped by the skin of his teeth.
The back of his neck suddenly tightened.
A hand tightly gripped his neck.
Like a hydraulic clamp cast from pig iron.
Norman's feet left the ground, and he was forcibly dragged back from outside the window.
The cold wind was shut outside the window again.
Bang!
Aaron grabbed Norman by the neck with one hand, pinning his whole body against the concrete wall of the ward.
The force was so great that it knocked spiderweb-like cracks into the white latex paint on the wall.
Wall dust fell off patteringly, landing on Norman's hood.
Norman's feet were suspended in the air.
His hands desperately tried to pry apart Aaron's fingers.
The fingers wearing tactical gloves scraped against the back of Aaron's hand, unable to leave even a white mark.
His face was stuffed blue and purple, and his tongue involuntarily stuck out.
A strange clicking sound came from his throat.
The strength of his struggle grew smaller and smaller, and the whites of his eyes rolled up.
Harry stood by the hospital bed.
He looked at his father hanging on the wall, opened his mouth, but couldn't make a sound for a long time.
He didn't plead for mercy.
He knew he had no qualification to speak now, and this father had been crazy for a long time. Harry had also seen the news of Times Square today.
Aaron looked at Norman's face, which was extremely distorted due to oxygen deprivation.
He relaxed his grip a little.
Air rushed back into the trachea.
Norman gasped heavily like a dead fish out of water, coughing violently.
Saliva pulled out long silver threads along the corners of his mouth, dripping onto the black trench coat.
Aaron raised his left hand.
He slapped Norman's old face twice with the back of his hand, neither too hard nor too softly.
Slap. Slap.
The crisp sound of slaps echoed in the quiet ward.
"From today on, Oscorp is run by Harry."
Aaron looked at the once-insufferable Green Goblinslumping against the wall like a dead dog, his voice very calm.
"And you, Norman."
Aaron patted his face again.
"I have the first dirty job for you to handle."
Chapter 33: Vulture wants to smuggle weapons? Package both the man and the cargo together and take them away!
Queens.
Abandoned Pier 5.
The sea breeze blew over, carrying a heavy fishy smell, bone-chillingly cold.
The roll-up door of the tin warehouse was pulled halfway down.
The rusted door tracks made a squeaking friction sound in the wind.
Adrian Toomes stood between two rows of wooden crates.
He was wearing a pilling brown leather jacket.
He clutched an old screwdriver in his hand and forcefully pried open the lid of a long wooden crate.
Several rusted iron nails were pulled out, and sawdust splattered.
The inside of the crate was lined with yellowed shock-absorbing sponge.
In the middle lay a purple alien energy rifle.
The barrel bore the rugged patterns of Chitauri technology.
The metal on the surface of the gun body shimmered with an eerie, cold light.
Standing opposite were three bald, stout men.
The leading gang boss had a scorpion tattooed on his neck; he bit down on a cigar and leaned forward to take a look at the cargo inside the crate.
"The goods are top-notch."
The boss spat out a puff of white smoke, which quickly dissipated in the cold wind.
He heavily threw the black briefcase in his hand onto the iron table.
Click.
The case popped open, revealing bundles of old banknotes inside, green U.S. dollars.
Having circulated in the underground black market for years, they carried a moldy paper smell.
Toomes rubbed his hands together.
A few deep laugh lines squeezed out on his old face.
With this money, the severance pay for his workers and his family's mortgage would be settled.
He wouldn't have to look at the faces of those suited bastards from Stark Industries anymore.
The Tinkerer behind him pushed up his goggles and walked forward quickly to inspect the money.
Toomes just extended his calloused hand to grab the briefcase.
The tin roof overhead suddenly made a loud crash.
It was as if some heavy object had smashed down heavily.
The load-bearing steel frame of the roof let out an ugly cry of distress.
Dust fell down in a flurry, covering Toomes' head and face.
Right after that.
The screech of turbine engines tore through the sea breeze.
The skylight glass at the top of the warehouse shattered with a loud crash.
Large chunks of glass shards mixed with the night wind poured in, smashing several wooden crates on the ground.
Norman Osborn stepped on the Green Goblin glider and descended from the sky.
He wasn't wearing that tattered green armor, but only put on a long black windbreaker.
Medical gauze on his left face was still seeping blood.
Metal mechanical claws extended from the bottom of the glider.
They directly grabbed the black briefcase on the iron table and flipped it upward with momentum.
The metal clasp of the briefcase snapped.
Banknotes burst open in mid-air like snowflakes, fluttering and scattering all over the ground.
"This batch of alien trash is requisitioned by Oscorp."
Norman's voice was hoarse.
He hovered in mid-air, coldly watching the group of black-market dealers below.
This was the first dirty job assigned to him by that White fiend, to rob back all the high-tech equipment in New York's underground black market.
He didn't dare not risk his life.
He didn't want to be hung on the concrete wall of the ward again to experience that suffocating near-death sensation.
"What the hell are you!"
The gang boss roared, spitting out the cigar in his mouth.
He drew the Glock pistol from his waist and fired three shots at Norman in mid-air.
The muzzle spewed orange-yellow tongues of fire.
Brass casings bounced onto the concrete floor, making a crisp sound.
The bullets hit the armor at the bottom of the glider, splashing a few sparks and being directly deflected.
Norman snorted coldly.
The machine gun at the front of the glider poked out and strafed a burst at the feet of the gang members.
The concrete ground was beaten with mud and stones flying everywhere.
The three bald, stout men were scared out of their wits, scurrying away with their heads in their hands and crawling to hide in the gaps between wooden crates.
Toomes looked at the U.S. dollars fluttering all over the ground.
His eyes instantly turned red.
That was his family's lifeline, and the rice bowls of dozens of his subordinate brothers.
This madman who suddenly popped out smashed his rice bowl directly.
"Tinkerer! Give me equipment!"
Toomes roared toward the corner of the warehouse, his voice cracking.
He tore off the old leather jacket on his body and threw it fiercely onto the banknotes all over the ground.
In the corner, the scrawny Tinkerer flurriedly pushed over a wheeled metal rack.
A huge set of mechanical wings hung on the rack.
The dark green metal feathers shimmered with a cold light, and a glowing Chitauri energy core was embedded in the core.
Thick black cables connected various joints.
Toomes took two steps back, and his back crashed into the metal skeleton.
The buckles locked automatically.
The hydraulic rods let out an inflatable hiss, integrating his arms and wing skeleton into one.
"Go to hell, madman!"
Toomes gritted his teeth, the veins on his neck bulging one by one.
The twin-turbine rotors on the mechanical wings started abruptly.
The huge lift overturned the surrounding iron tables, and purple alien scrap metal scattered all over the floor.
Toomes' feet left the ground.
The metal wings spread out, with a wingspan close to eight meters, and the sharp blades on the edges rotated at high speed.
His body leaned forward, directly smashing through the blocking iron roll-up door.
Like a food-protecting raptor, he lunged straight at Norman in mid-air.
Norman's expression changed.
The fracture on his cheekbone hadn't healed yet, and his nerve reactions were half a beat slower.
He hurriedly stepped on the acceleration pedal at the bottom of his feet.
The Green Goblin glider spewed white tail flames, trying to elevate his position to dodge.
Toomes' speed was even faster.
The metal right wing, like a huge guillotine, cut fiercely toward Norman's neck with a violent wind howl.
The distance was less than two meters.
The airflow whipped up by the blades had already whipped the gauze on Norman's face into a rustling noise.
Just at the moment when Toomes was about to cut Norman in half.
In the night sky above his head, the air made a dull sonic boom without warning.
There was no engine sound and no alarm.
A figure tore through the night wind and plummeted straight down.
Aaron was wearing that black jacket.
He didn't even activate the anti-venom suit, relying solely on the terrifying mass of the Steel Body and the kinetic energy of the high-altitude fall.
Toomes only felt his head suddenly turn dark.
It was like a huge mountain pressing down on his head.
Even the surrounding air was pushed away by this force, forming a brief vacuum.
Aaron's feet accurately stepped on the core rotor of the mechanical wings.
Boom!
A deafening explosion blasted over the pier.
The Chitauri energy core short-circuited instantly, bursting out a blinding ball of blue electrical sparks.
The high temperature directly melted the surrounding insulation rubber.
The sturdy dark green metal feathers under the terrifying heavy pressure.
Broke inch by inch like plastic toys.
The snapped metal fragments flew in all directions, embedding themselves into the tin plates of the containers.
Toomes couldn't even let out a scream.
The huge downward force drove his entire body to smash straight toward the ground.
His proud mechanical wings completely became a fatal burden.
Bang!
The concrete ground of Pier 5 was directly smashed through.
A huge crater with a diameter of three meters formed instantly.
Cobweb-like cracks spread all the way to the seaside, and a few gravels rolled into the pitch-black seawater, splashing out a few white splashes.
Smoke and dust filled the sky, soaring into the air.
Toomes was pinned firmly at the bottom of the pit.
Three ribs in his chest were broken, and the air in his lungs was forcibly squeezed out.
With a "wah" sound,
He spewed a large mouthful of fresh blood, which sprayed on the inside of the flight mask and blurred his vision.
The mechanical wings on his back were completely scrapped.
They twisted into a pile of scrap iron, occasionally spitting out a trace of electrical sparks and making a sizzling electric leakage sound.
Toomes' fingers twitched twice, and he fainted from the pain directly.
The surrounding gang thugs were all dumbfounded.
Their hands holding pistols trembled constantly, and they didn't even have the strength to pull the trigger.
Someone simply threw the gun away and scrambled out of the warehouse.
The Tinkerer cowered behind the iron rack, hugging his head with both hands, trembling all over.
Norman landed on the edge of the pit stepping on the glider.
Looking at the tragic state at the bottom of the pit, the wound on his left face ached faintly.
He swallowed a mouthful of saliva in fright.
This job was indeed hard to do; if he had been a fraction of a second slower just now, the one lying at the bottom of the pit spitting blood would have been him.
Aaron moved his foot away from the scrapped rotor.
The sole of his shoe rubbed twice against the clean concrete ground nearby, scrubbing off the stained engine oil.
He didn't care about the half-dead Toomes in the pit.
Nor did he pay attention to Norman nearby who didn't even dare to breathe heavily.
The sea breeze blew into the dilapidated warehouse, blowing away the blueprints all over the floor and the banknotes with an ink smell.
Aaron raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the entire abandoned warehouse.
It was piled with wooden crates of all sizes.
All of them were alien weapon wreckage smuggled out from the battlefield of the Battle of New York, as well as abandoned mechanical equipment from Stark Industries.
Parts of anti-gravity engines, purple energy sources, damaged Chitauri flyers.
An electronic synthesized voice rang out abruptly deep in his mind.
"Ding! Detected a massive gathering of extraordinary technological supplies, triggering the distribution of premium blind box rewards..."
Chapter 34: Another Top-Tier Blind Box, Gaining Spatial Warping Ability
The sea breeze poured in through the sheet iron roof that had a large hole blown in it.
Making a shrill wailing sound.
Aaron stood on the edge of the crater filled with a mess.
His sole stepped on Toomes's chest.
Half of the windproof goggles on Toomes's face were shattered.
Bloody white foam gurgled out from his mouth.
The pair of mechanical wings behind him were twisted into a pile of irregular scrap metal.
The exposed black cables were broken into several sections.
Occasionally, a blue electric spark burst out, making a short sizzling sound.
The air was filled with a strong smell of burnt engine oil and the salty, fishy smell of seawater.
The synthesized electronic voice deep in his mind was still echoing.
"Ding! Detected the gathering of a large amount of superhuman technology supplies, triggering the distribution of top-tier blind box rewards..."
Aaron lifted his eyelids.
His gaze swept across the empty Pier 5 warehouse.
Dozen of loosely covered wooden boxes were scattered on the concrete floor.
Lying inside the boxes were purple Chitauri energy rifles.
Remnants of Stark Industries anti-gravity engines with high-temperature scorch marks.
And a pile of crude electromagnetic pulse generators.
The messy metal parts were piled up like a small hill.
Norman Osborn stepped on the Green Goblin glider, stopping in mid-air ten meters away.
The sound of him swallowing his saliva could be heard clearly in the quiet warehouse.
As for the thin Tinkerer hiding behind the iron shelves.
He had long been scared limp and sat paralyzed on the ground.
Holding his head with both hands, pale yellow liquid was dripping pathetically down from his crotch.
The stench of urine mixed into the cold wind.
Aaron withdrew his gaze.
His consciousness sank into the system space.
Right in the center of the dim virtual grid floated a metal blind box emitting a dark golden glow.
The surface of the box was engraved with circles of complex geometric patterns.
The light flowed within the patterns.
Exuding a heavy, mysterious texture.
"Open." Aaron recited silently in his heart.
The dark golden blind box did not burst.
Like a piece of butter thrown into boiling water, it silently collapsed and melted.
Transforming into a cluster of dazzling silver-white stardust.
The stardust elongated in the light curtain, like a silver ribbon, and plunged fiercely into Aaron's glabella.
[ Reward obtained: Spatial Warping Ability (cooldown-free teleportation). ]
[ Skill Description: Ignores physical barriers and absolute distance limits. As long as the brain constructs the spatial coordinates of the target location, instant warping can be achieved. The upper limit of warped mass increases with the host's mental power and physical strength. ]
Aaron closed his eyes.
There was no pain of muscle tearing.
Nor the scorching heat of bone reorganization.
He only felt as if a basin of minus two hundred degrees liquid nitrogen had been poured deep into his cerebral cortex.
Icy and lucid.
Nerve synapses proliferated wildly, and his senses were infinitely magnified in an instant.
He opened his eyes again.
The World had changed.
There was an extra layer of invisible grid in the air to the naked eye.
That was the folding node of space itself.
The originally unbreakable three-dimensional physical space turned into a piece of blank paper that could be kneaded at will in his eyes.
As long as his mind stirred, he could infinitely shorten the distance between two points just like folding paper in half.
Aaron raised his right hand.
His gaze locked onto a black passcode box on an iron table ten meters away.
That was a cash box used by gangsters for transactions.
Aaron's thumb pressed against his middle finger and snapped his fingers.
Snap.
There were no sparks.
There were no sound or light special effects.
That heavy passcode box filled with U.S. dollars vanished into thin air on the shabby iron table.
The very same second.
The box directly appeared in Aaron's left hand.
The leather handle carried a bit of damp coldness from the night wind, and the tactile sensation was extremely real.
Norman's eyes widened almost to the point of popping out of their sockets.
He looked at the empty iron table.
Then looked at the box that had appeared out of thin air in Aaron's hand.
The wound under the gauze on his left face burst open again due to violent twitching of facial muscles.
Dark red blood dripped down his chin onto his black windbreaker.
Aaron casually threw the passcode box onto the ground.
The corner of the box smashed against the rough concrete floor, chipping off a piece of black paint.
"Bring that little guy who is shaking like a sieve along."
Aaron pointed at the Tinkerer in the corner.
Norman shuddered.
He didn't dare to ask a single extra word.
He kicked away the glider, strode over, and grabbed the Tinkerer up like picking up a chick.
The Tinkerer let out a miserable scream like a slaughtered pig.
Aaron stood in the middle of the wooden boxes scattered everywhere.
Closing his eyes.
He began to construct the spatial coordinates of the secret underground laboratory in Osborn Tower in his mind.
That was the secret Base he had just assigned to ProfessorConnors the day before yesterday.
White anti-static tiles, dazzling shadowless lamps.
The coordinate points quickly took shape in his mind.
He opened his arms.
An invisible fluctuation erupted from his body, quickly sweeping across the entire Pier 5.
The Steel Body endowed him with massive mental power and physical carrying capacity.
The air in the warehouse began to distort.
Like looking at the scenery across the scorching asphalt road in summer.
The line of sight became blurred and overlapping.
Those wooden boxes filled with alien weapons.
The Chitauri energy cores scattered all over the ground.
Along with the half-dead Vulture in the pit under his feet.
And the frightened Norman and Tinkerer.
All wrapped within this transparent spatial barrier.
Hum——
An extremely low-frequency vibration sound exploded in the air.
Pressing so hard that people's eardrums ached.
The next second.
All supplies inside the entire warehouse, along with these few people.
Vanished into thin air.
The sea breeze whistled past.
Leaving only an empty, broken sheet iron shell emitting a monotonous creaking sound in the dark night.
Not even a single green U.S. dollar bill was left on the ground.
...
Osborn Tower.
Underground Level 7. Secret biological laboratory.
The cold white overhead lights illuminated the laboratory without a single shadow.
Curt Connors was wearing a brand new white lab coat.
Pinching a glass dropper with his right hand.
Lowering his head to look at the cell slices under the microscope.
The laboratory was so quiet that only the slight buzzing sound of the incubator running could be heard.
Hum!
The air gave off a harsh air blast without warning.
On the open space in the center of the laboratory, a blue spatial rift tore open like a big mouth.
A violent wind suddenly rose.
Dozen of heavy wooden boxes crashed clatteringly onto the white anti-static floor tiles.
Wood chips flew everywhere.
A purple Chitauri energy rifle slid two meters away, heavily slamming into the metal leg of the experimental bench.
Then, a lump of a man stuck with scrap iron wings fell from mid-air.
Smashing onto the ground with a bang.
Shaking the floor tiles to emit a muffled thud. Toomes spat out another large mouthful of thick blood.
Connors' hand trembled.
The blue reagent in the dropper was squeezed too much, directly ruining the specimen on the glass slide.
He suddenly raised his head.
His newly grown right hand tightly grasped the edge of the stainless steel experimental bench.
Aaron, wearing a black jacket, landed steadily in the middle of the messy ground.
Cotton slippers stepped on several scattered hundred-dollar bills.
Norman carried the Tinkerer, his center of gravity unstable upon landing, and he staggered two steps before standing firm.
He looked at the familiar furnishings of the underground laboratory around him.
Making a rattling sound of gasping in his throat.
In an instant.
He crossed more than half of New York City.
And brought dozens of tons of munitions and three living people.
"Boss." Connors saw clearly who had come.
He quickly bypassed the experimental bench and walked over.
Without asking how these things fell from the sky.
After witnessing Aaron's bottle of gene potion capable of limb regeneration, Connors' psychological endurance had long broken through the bottom line of science.
Aaron extended his foot and kicked the unconscious Toomes on the ground.
The toe of his shoe tapped on the torn leather jacket.
"This old man, and that subordinate of his."
He pointed at the Tinkerer who had peed his pants nearby.
"Hand them over to the two of you."
Aaron looked around at the alien scrap on the ground.
"Alien weapons reverse engineering."
"Don't let go of Stark's anti-gravity parts either."
"Strip out all usable technologies for me. Organize them into data and send them to me."
Connors looked over following Aaron's gaze.
His gaze fell on the Vulture armor wreckage on the ground.
A fanatical light immediately burst out in his eyes.
"The Chitauri energy circuit! Fantastic!"
Connors squatted down, his palm stroking the scrapped core rotor.
His rough fingerprints wiped away the scorch marks on it.
Just like touching a rare treasure.
Norman threw the Tinkerer onto the ground.
Looking at Aaron, the cold sweat on his back had already soaked his high-end shirt.
Sticking to his skin, sticky and uncomfortable.
Teleportation.
Teleportation carrying people.
This was not a power that genetic mutation could explain.
Norman completely abandoned any thoughts of resistance.
He obediently lowered his head, and stood next to Connors like the most loyal old servant.
Not even daring to breathe loudly.
Aaron patted the dust off his hands.
Feeling pretty good.
The consumption of spatial warping was much smaller than he imagined.
With the perverted-level physical support of the Steel Body.
This large-scale teleportation at most just made him feel like he had run a couple of blocks.
There was no dizziness, nor exhaustion.
After finishing all this.
Aaron put his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
His fingertips touched that old smartphone.
He took out his phone.
The screen lit up, casting a cold light on the side of his face.
Six forty-five in the evening.
Today is Friday.
There were three unread text messages on the phone lock screen interface.
All sent by Gwen.
"Have you left yet?"
"I borrowed my dad's Ford. It's parked at the intersection."
"You are not allowed to be late for tonight's date."
Aaron looked at the text messages.
In his mind emerged the dress Gwen might wear today.
And the tip of her nose slightly reddened from waiting.
He had promised Gwen to give her a surprising and romantic date tonight.
From the underground laboratory of Osborn Tower to Forest Hills in Queens.
If driving.
New York traffic during Friday evening rush hour could trap people on the cross-sea bridge for a full two hours.
Even driving a Stark Industries helicopter would take twenty minutes.
Aaron put his phone back into his pocket.
The corners of his mouth curved upward.
"Just right, I can use the new ability as a vehicle."
Chapter 35: Taking Gwen to Paris to See the Night View, While Peter Is Still Catching a Thief
"Just right, I'll use the new ability as a vehicle."
Aaron pressed his thumb against his middle finger.
Snap.
A crisp snapping sound echoed through the underground laboratory.
The air twisted violently like water ripples.
A blue spatial jump gate was torn open out of thin air.
Tiny electric sparks flickered at its edges, emitting a faint buzzing sound.
Aaron strode forward and stepped inside.
With a flash of blue light, the jump gate closed instantly.
Only Connors and Norman were left in the laboratory, staring blankly at each other.
Queens, Forest Hills.
A warm yellow desk lamp was lit in Gwen's bedroom.
She was wearing a wine-red off-the-shoulder slim-fit sweater, paired with a black tweed miniskirt below.
At the moment, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror.
Holding a true red lipstick in her hand.
Her lips were pursed slightly, trying to outline a perfect lip shape.
For tonight's date, she had tried on every piece of clothing in her wardrobe.
The single bed was piled high with discarded jackets and skirts.
Just as she was about to apply the color.
The air behind her twisted for a moment.
Blue light illuminated the pink striped wallpaper.
Aaron walked out wearing that black jacket and stepping in cotton slippers.
Gwen saw the sudden man popping out from the mirror.
Her hand trembled.
The lipstick drew a long red line across her fair cheek.
"Clatter."
The metal tube dropped onto the wooden floor and rolled into the shadows beneath the bed.
"Aaron?" Gwen abruptly turned around.
Her chest heaving violently.
"How did you get in? My dad is still downstairs watching the football game!"
She lowered her voice and anxiously glanced at the tightly closed wooden door.
If George Stacy knew that a boy had suddenly appeared in his daughter's boudoir, his standard-issue police pistol would definitely go off.
Aaron lowered his head to look at the cotton slippers on his feet.
He left in too much of a hurry and forgot to change his shoes.
But it didn't matter.
"Taking a shortcut." He reached his hand out in front of Gwen.
Palm facing up.
"Are you ready? The surprise we agreed on."
Gwen looked at that large hand.
She hadn't recovered from the magic trick of making a person appear out of thin air.
"Are we going to jump out the window?" She swallowed hard.
Aaron didn't explain.
He took a step forward and directly grasped Gwen's hand.
The girl's fingers were a bit cold, with fine sweat seeping into her palms.
Aaron snapped his fingers again.
A blue jump gate opened beside the desk.
On the other side of the door was a brilliant sea of golden lights.
The wind blew over from the door, carrying the rich aroma of black coffee and butter croissants.
Aaron pulled Gwen and stepped across.
The feeling of weightlessness lasted only a fleeting moment.
Gwen's feet touched the ground.
Her high heels stepped on the hard hollow steel floor, making a creaking sound.
The cold wind blew head-on, whipping up her blonde hair.
She opened her eyes.
Beneath her feet was the Seine River, flowing with lights.
The entire city was like a huge piece of amber, shining in the night.
The top-floor observation deck of the Eiffel Tower.
"This is..." Gwen's mouth hung open, forgetting to breathe.
"Paris."
Aaron let go of her hand.
With a thought, he extracted a small round table covered with a white tablecloth from the system space.
Two velvet-backed chairs landed steadily on the steel plate.
A silver single-headed candleholder was placed on the table.
The candle flame flickered violently in the wind, yet it didn't go out.
Aaron used his Steel Body to block the wind gap.
His formidable physique directly split the high-altitude cold airflow, forming a marvelous windless zone around them.
Gwen rubbed her eyes.
The lipstick mark on her cheek was smeared over a large area by her, looking a bit comical.
"This is too crazy. Ten minutes ago I was still in New York."
She walked up to the round table, her fingers touching the cold silver candleholder.
The touch was real, carrying the chill of metal.
"Just how many secrets are you hiding?"
She raised her head, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.
"You can guess slowly." Aaron pulled out a chair, "Sit down first."
He snapped his fingers.
Two steaming portions of Beef Wellington and a bottle of decanted Romanée-Conti appeared out of thin air on the tabletop.
The greasy aroma of the meat juices instantly overpowered the high-altitude cold air.
Gwen covered her mouth with both hands, completely captivated by this unreasonable romance.
At the same time.
New York, Queens.
The night wind whipped against the face like a barbed leather whip.
In an old back alley covered with dark ice, the streetlights flickered uncertainly.
"Stop right there!"
Peter Parker shouted at the top of his cracked voice.
His severe cold hadn't fully recovered yet, and the voice he shouted carried a heavy nasal tone.
He was wearing a red and blue spandex suit, still wearing that faded gray hoodie over it.
The hoodie's zipper was broken, and the cold wind blew straight into his jacket.
A dozen meters ahead.
A man wearing a black beanie was pedaling desperately on a pink women's bicycle.
In the bicycle basket lay a snatched snakeskin pattern women's handbag.
"Put the bag down!"
Peter stepped on the brick joints of the wall, darting upward by two meters.
Aiming his right hand at the back of the cycling man, he pressed the web shooter hard.
The high-pressure valve made a hissing leak sound.
Tonight's temperature in New York was close to zero degrees.
The inferior synthetic web fluid was half frozen inside the launcher tube.
A semi-dry, semi-wet white mucus sprayed out.
Flying halfway, it lost momentum.
With a splat, it dropped directly into a puddle of dirty water on the ground.
"Damn it." Peter cursed.
Kicking off the wall with both feet, he prepared to pounce over directly to intercept with his physical body.
When landing.
The flat sole of his canvas shoes stepped on a patch of black dark ice.
Friction instantly dropped to zero.
Peter's two legs flailed wildly in the air.
His center of gravity completely spun out of control.
"Bang!"
He crashed headfirst into the green tin trash can at the corner of the alley.
A large chunk of the rusted tin dented inward, emitting a harsh, loud noise.
The trash can overturned.
Half a bag of stinking kitchen waste and several empty beer bottles crashed all over his head with a clatter.
Rotten vegetable leaves mixed with ice water flowed down his neck.
The stench assaulted his nasal cavity directly.
The robber riding the bicycle glanced back.
Uttering a harsh sneer.
He pedaled hard twice, made a turn, and disappeared at the end of the street.
Peter lay face down in the garbage pile.
With trembling hands, he pulled off a piece of banana peel stuck to his mask's goggles.
When the cold wind blew, he sneezed three loud sneezes in a row.
Snot ran into his mouth, and a salty, fishy taste spread across the tip of his tongue.
Desolation seeped right into his bones.
"Why didn't I just stay at home drinking hot soup?"
He muttered softly, struggling to crawl out of the mud.
Rubbing his bruised shoulder, he limped out of the dark alley.
Paris.
The top of the Eiffel Tower.
Aaron cut a piece of steak and popped it into his mouth.
Puff pastry crumbs fell onto the white tablecloth.
Gwen hardly ate anything.
Supporting her chin with both hands, she just stared right at Aaron.
No matter how beautiful the Paris night view behind her was, it seemed incomparable to the mysterious boy in front of her.
This meal kept her heart rate from dropping below 120 the entire time.
She hadn't even touched her knife and fork much.
"You have black pepper sauce at the corner of your mouth."
Gwen spoke suddenly.
She stood up and leaned over across the small round table covered with rose petals.
The neckline of her wine-red sweater tilted slightly.
Revealing a large area of fair collarbones.
She reached out her hand.
Her thumb gently brushed past the corner of Aaron's mouth.
Her fingertips were warm, carrying a faint hint of vanilla scent.
Aaron didn't move.
Allowing her fingers to linger on his skin.
Gwen didn't sit back down.
Her face got closer and closer to Aaron's.
Their breaths intertwined.
She closed her eyes, her long eyelashes trembling slightly.
Their lips pressed together.
Carrying a slight sweetness of red wine and the girl's unique softness.
Aaron took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her waist.
Through the sweater, he could feel the tension and slight tremble of her body.
The night wind swirled around them, unable to disperse the heat of this tiny space.
Just at the moment when the atmosphere was so sweet it was about to string out.
Hum—
Aaron's Steel Body suddenly shook.
It wasn't his heartbeat. It was his eardrum.
Super Hearing captured a burst of violent physical fluctuations.
This fluctuation pierced through the spatial barrier of half the Earth.
Carrying the familiar Earth magnetic frequency of New York, it forcibly smashed into his neural center.
Rumble.
A dull tearing sound.
Underground in Queens, New York, it felt like tens of thousands of tons of yellow sand were grinding frantically inside the pipes.
The sound of the asphalt road fracturing.
The mournful cry of breaking reinforced concrete.
As if a localized strong earthquake had occurred.