Unlike the very angry General Aslock—whose rage probably had him pacing his sterile office like a caged predator at this very moment—John and his team were absolutely ecstatic. The taste of victory was sweet on their tongues, mixed with the champagne they'd been sipping throughout the afternoon celebration.
Today marked a milestone that would be remembered for decades to come: they had officially registered their new company, Genesis Technologies. The paperwork still smelled of fresh ink, and the corporate seal felt warm in John's pocket where he kept touching it like a talisman. Their first product—an advanced search engine that would revolutionize how people accessed information—was already complete, its algorithms humming quietly on servers in a converted warehouse across town. The smartphone project would still require months of refinement, countless late nights of debugging, and more coffee than was probably healthy for any human being.
But what made this achievement truly special wasn't just the technology itself. What they were creating wasn't simply borrowed from John's memories of a previous life—it was something entirely new, unprecedented, and thrilling. A fusion of future concepts with the strange, wonderful, and utterly unique principles of Marvel universe technology that defied conventional physics and opened doorways to possibilities that would have seemed like magic to observers from any other reality.
That evening, the warm glow of celebration continued at the Osborn villa, where the dining room had been transformed into a feast worthy of kings. The mahogany table groaned under the weight of delicious food—roasted turkey with crispy golden skin that crackled when carved, creamy mashed potatoes that steamed in the cool evening air, green bean casseroles that filled the room with the earthy scent of caramelized onions, and fresh bread rolls that Norman had insisted on baking himself despite having a full kitchen staff at his disposal.
John, Peter, Harry, Norman, and Doctors Octavius, Connors, and Stromm had gathered around the table like medieval knights celebrating a successful quest. The clink of silverware against china created a gentle percussion that mixed with the sound of animated conversation and frequent laughter. The villa's chandelier cast warm pools of golden light across their faces, highlighting smiles that seemed to glow with inner satisfaction.
"Apple pie is here!" Gwen's voice rang out like a bell as she emerged from the kitchen, carrying the final dish with obvious pride. Steam rose from the latticed crust, carrying the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and perfectly baked apples that made everyone's mouths water. She placed it in the center of the table before settling into the chair next to John, her shoulder brushing against his with comfortable familiarity.
"Cheers!" The word erupted from seven throats simultaneously, wine glasses and beer mugs raised toward the ceiling in a toast that seemed to encompass not just this moment, but all the struggles and triumphs that had brought them to this point.
The party that followed was the kind that creates lifelong memories. Everyone was in spectacularly high spirits, their usual professional restraints dissolved in alcohol and genuine affection for one another. The doctors—Octavius, Connors, and Stromm—chatted animatedly about theoretical applications while gesticulating with wine glasses that sloshed dangerously close to staining expensive clothing. Their conversations ranged from quantum mechanics to biological enhancement, each topic more fascinating than the last.
The younger members of the group sang songs that ranged from Broadway standards to rock classics, their voices blending in harmonies that would have made professional musicians jealous. They played party games that grew increasingly elaborate as the evening wore on—charades that involved acting out scientific concepts, trivia contests about superhero lore, and storytelling competitions where each person had to build on the previous narrator's increasingly ridiculous plot.
Late into the night, as the candles burned low and cast dancing shadows on the walls, they would pause occasionally to look around the table and marvel at what they had accomplished together. In the years to come, each of them would carry this evening like a treasure—a yellowed photograph preserved in their minds of a group of brilliant, hopeful people, their fists joined over a dinner table in solidarity, unknowingly standing at the dawn of a new era that would reshape the world in ways they couldn't yet imagine.
But as celebrations inevitably do, the evening wound down. Guests began to make their farewells, voices growing softer as exhaustion and contentment settled over the group like a comfortable blanket. Eventually, John found himself alone, drawn by some inexplicable urge toward solitude and reflection.
Later, much later, John stood on the villa's expansive balcony, his hands resting on the cool stone railing as he felt the night breeze caress his face with gentle fingers. The air carried the mingled scents of Norman's rose garden below, the distant salt tang of New York Harbor, and the ever-present urban mixture of concrete, car exhaust, and a million lives being lived simultaneously.
The city spread out before him like a circuit board made of light, each window a tiny beacon representing dreams, struggles, hopes, and fears. From this height, New York looked peaceful, almost serene—though John knew that appearance was deceptive. Even now, crimes were being committed, emergencies were unfolding, people were crying out for help that might or might not come.
But for this moment, he allowed himself to simply exist in the quiet space between heartbeats, letting his mind drift back through the corridors of memory to a time when the world had seemed both smaller and more overwhelming.
He had been an ordinary kid, unremarkable in every way that mattered to the adult world. After his parents passed away—a car accident on a rainy Thursday evening that had torn his universe apart in the span of a few seconds—he discovered the bitter truth that blood relationships didn't automatically translate to family bonds. With no relatives willing or able to take him in, no fairy godmother appearing to rescue him from his circumstances, he was sent to an orphanage whose name he could still taste like copper pennies on his tongue.
Life there wasn't easy. The building itself seemed to absorb sorrow, its gray walls and fluorescent lighting creating an atmosphere of institutional hopelessness that pressed down on every resident like a physical weight. The constant, ambient sadness that permeated every corridor, every shared bedroom, every meal eaten in silence—it was a huge shock to his young mind, unprepared for a world where love wasn't guaranteed and comfort had to be earned through good behavior and quiet compliance.
But strangely, that same oppressive environment stimulated something deep within him, something that had been dormant during his comfortable early childhood. The memories of his past life began to surface like bubbles rising from the bottom of a deep pond. He started having dreams every night—not the confused, symbolic dreams of typical childhood, but vivid, coherent experiences of being another person in another world entirely.
The dreams weren't beautiful. They were often harsh, filled with violence and moral complexity that should have been far too advanced for a grieving child to process. But they gave him something invaluable: experience and maturity that helped him navigate the harsh realities of orphanage life with the strategic thinking of an adult trapped in a small body. While other children cried themselves to sleep or acted out in desperate bids for attention, John learned to observe, to plan, to survive.
A year later—365 days that had felt like a lifetime of learning hard lessons about the world's indifference—the dean informed him with unusual gentleness that his cousin was coming to adopt him. From that day forward, his fate changed completely, as if someone had flipped a cosmic switch that altered the fundamental trajectory of his existence.
He remembered that afternoon with crystal clarity, every detail preserved like a photograph that had been carefully protected from fading. The old church where they met was a study in contrasts—ancient stone architecture that spoke of permanence and faith, while dust motes danced in slanted beams of sunlight that streamed through stained-glass windows depicting biblical scenes in jewel-bright colors.
He followed the dean inside, his worn shoes making soft scuffing sounds against the stone floor that echoed in the cavernous space. There, with her back turned toward the altar as if she had been praying for guidance, stood a woman in a simple blue dress. The fabric was faded from countless washings, its color softened to the pale shade of a summer sky just before dawn, but it was clean and carefully maintained—the dress of someone who took pride in her appearance despite limited resources.
Hearing their footsteps approach, she turned slowly, as if afraid of what she might see. The afternoon sunlight caught her fair face like a photographer's flash, illuminating features that were delicate but marked by worry lines too deep for someone so young. Her soft, dark hair caught the light and seemed to dance with its own inner fire, framing eyes that held depths of guilt, hope, and desperate love.
"Jane?" The name burst from his lips before conscious thought could stop it, rising from some deep place in his memory where fragments of better times still lived.
The woman—his cousin, his salvation, his second chance at having a family—rushed over with steps that seemed to cover the stone floor in heartbeats. Without a moment's hesitation, without any thought for his dirty, worn-out clothes that marked him as a charity case, she gently swept him into her arms as if he were made of precious crystal that might shatter at any moment.
As tears streamed down his cheeks—tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed during months of institutional care—a soft, delicate voice whispered in his ear with words that would echo in his heart for the rest of his life. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I'm late."
Later, when he was old enough to understand the full complexity of adult lives and the brutal mathematics of survival, Jane would tell him her own story. Her parents had been terrible people—neglectful, abusive, more interested in their own problems than in raising a daughter who deserved better. When they were all younger and the world had seemed safer, she would often come to John's house for dinner during her parents' worst periods.
John's parents, despite having little money themselves, would always slip her a few crumpled bills—not enough to change her life, but enough to buy school supplies or a warm meal when things got particularly bad at home. They had pooled what little they had, making sacrifices in their own budget, so she could attend Empire State University in New York and build a better future for herself.
She was still just a junior, buried under textbooks and part-time jobs, struggling to keep her grades up while working nights to pay for rent and ramen noodles, when John's parents died. The news didn't reach her for months—she had been so focused on survival that she hadn't maintained contact with anyone from her old life. By the time she learned what had happened, he was already deep in the system, just another file number in an overburdened bureaucracy.
She was barely surviving on her own, living on three hours of sleep and instant coffee, sharing a tiny apartment with two other students just to split the rent three ways. How could she possibly take care of a traumatized child when she could barely take care of herself? The guilt of that impossible situation would haunt her for years, manifesting in the way she would sometimes hold him too tightly, as if she could somehow make up for lost time through the intensity of her embrace.
It wasn't until she graduated—magna cum laude despite everything—and received a job offer from Stark Industries along with a signing bonus and an advance on her salary that she was finally able to come back for him. The moment she had financial stability, the very first thing she did was track him down and begin the adoption process.
She brought him to New York, to a small, shabby apartment in a neighborhood that was more honest about its limitations than pretentious about its aspirations. The walls were thin, the heater made strange noises, and the refrigerator hummed constantly, but it was theirs. The food was simple—sandwiches and soup, spaghetti with jarred sauce, frozen dinners heated in a temperamental microwave—but it was a world away from the institutional meals of the orphanage, flavored with love and served with patience.
To her surprise, he proved to be a remarkably sensible child, which saved her a lot of worry about typical childhood problems but also filled her with a deep, guilty sadness. She often wondered if his premature maturity was a wound that would never fully heal, a consequence of being forced to grow up too fast in circumstances that should have been handled by adults who cared.
She would often hug him as if he were still a baby, gathering him into her arms while they watched television or when she came home exhausted from work. He never knew if these embraces were meant to comfort him or herself, but he didn't care—they were warm and real and spoke of a love that asked for nothing in return.
He was mostly silent in those early days, his mind a swirling mixture of old memories from another life and fresh trauma from this one. The dreams continued, sometimes helpful, sometimes confusing, always vivid enough to make him question which reality was more real. Even when Jane came home exhausted after twelve-hour days at Stark Industries, her eyes red-rimmed from staring at computer screens and her shoulders aching from hunching over laboratory equipment, she would always try to cheer him up.
She would tell him about her work—simplified versions of complex engineering projects that nonetheless sparked his interest and made him feel included in her adult world. She would ask about his day, his homework, his feelings, with the patient attention of someone who understood that healing took time and couldn't be rushed.
More often than not, he found himself being the one to comfort her. She carried so much guilt about not being there when he needed her most, so much worry about whether she was doing right by him, so much fear that she would somehow become like her own parents—neglectful, absent, too wrapped up in her own problems to give a child what he deserved.
But the truth was something he wouldn't fully appreciate until he was much older: she was the best parent he could have ever asked for. She cared deeply and expressed that care in a thousand small ways. She recognized his pain without trying to minimize it or rush him past it. She encouraged his interests even when she didn't understand them. Most importantly, she respected him as a person with his own thoughts and feelings, never treating him like a burden or an obligation.
Why did I become the person I am now? he thought, his hands tightening slightly on the cool stone railing as he looked out at the city that had become his second home. The lights of Manhattan twinkled like earthbound stars, each one representing a life, a story, a set of dreams and disappointments that echoed his own in some fundamental way. That's probably the answer. It was her.
Jane had shown him that heroism didn't require superpowers or dramatic gestures. Sometimes it was as simple as choosing to care when caring was difficult, as basic as showing up when showing up required sacrifice. She had taught him that strength could be gentle, that power was most meaningful when it was used to protect rather than to dominate.
The night breeze continued to play across his face, carrying with it the sounds of the city that never truly slept. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—police, fire, ambulance, the eternal soundtrack of urban emergency response. Cars honked in irritation at traffic lights. A helicopter passed overhead, its rotors creating a rhythmic thudding that gradually faded into the ambient noise of eight million people living their lives simultaneously.
His thoughts drifted like leaves on a stream, touching on memories of Jane teaching him to cook simple meals, helping him with homework at their tiny kitchen table, staying up all night when he had nightmares about his parents or about the strange dreams that felt more real than reality. She had never made him feel like a burden, even when taking care of him meant sacrificing things she wanted for herself.
A pair of soft, white hands suddenly wrapped around his waist from behind, startling him from his reverie. He knew immediately who it was—the familiar scent of Gwen's shampoo, the particular way her arms fit around his torso, the gentle pressure of her cheek against his shoulder blade as she leaned against him.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were afraid of disturbing something sacred.
John turned within the circle of her arms, his own hands coming up to rest on her waist as he studied her face in the moonlight. Her blonde hair caught the illumination from the villa's windows behind them, creating a soft halo effect that made her look almost ethereal. Her blue eyes held genuine curiosity mixed with the kind of patient affection that reminded him, strangely, of Jane's approach to understanding his inner world.
"My childhood," he said simply, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested.
Her eyes sparkled with interest, but also with the gentle respect that came from understanding that some memories were treasures to be shared carefully. "Can you tell me about it?"
"Okay," he nodded, settling more comfortably against the railing as she remained close beside him, her presence warm and reassuring in the cool night air. "When I was a kid..."
And so he told her. Not everything—some memories were still too private, too painful, too complex for even the most intimate conversation. But he shared the important parts: Jane's rescue, their early struggles, the small apartment that had felt like a palace after the institutional coldness of the orphanage, the way love could transform the simplest meal into a feast and the shabbiest dwelling into a home.
As he spoke, Gwen listened with the kind of attention that was itself a gift—not just waiting for her turn to respond, but truly hearing every word, understanding not just the events he described but the emotions that gave them meaning.
Weeks Later...
Time passed like pages turning in a favorite book, each day bringing new adventures, new challenges, and new opportunities to prove themselves worthy of the trust the city was beginning to place in them. As Kamen Rider and Spider-Man appeared more and more frequently throughout Queens and the surrounding boroughs, almost everyone in their corner of New York had become familiar with the city's two new, officially sanctioned heroes.
Their reputations grew like ripples spreading across a pond, each rescue and each criminal apprehended adding to the mythology that was building around them. Local news stations began running regular segments about their activities. Children drew pictures of them in art class. Adults debated their methods and their motives in coffee shops and office break rooms.
One was a warm-hearted and talkative young man in red and blue who seemed to treat web-slinging through the sky as the most natural thing in the world. He appeared mostly at night when the criminals emerged from their daytime hiding places, his cheerful banter during fights becoming as much a part of his legend as his impossible agility. Police officers had learned to listen for his distinctive wise-cracks echoing off building walls—they were often the first sign that help was on the way.
The other wore red armor that gleamed like fresh blood in sunlight, an NYPD armband that marked him as officially sanctioned, and commanded a giant, flying mechanical beetle that had become a beloved sight to New Yorkers who had initially been terrified by its alien appearance. He appeared mostly during the day, working seamlessly with police officers, helping elderly citizens cross busy streets, directing traffic around accident scenes, and always speaking in a gentle, calm voice that somehow made even the most chaotic situations seem manageable.
"...and you know, I saved this lady the day before yesterday, and she gave me a scarf!" Peter chattered excitedly, practically bouncing as he walked beside John through a Queens neighborhood where they'd become as familiar as the local mailman. His enthusiasm was infectious, his hands gesticulating wildly as he relived each moment of their recent adventures. "It was hand-knitted with little spider patterns on it! Can you believe that? And I helped this old woman pick up her groceries when some teenagers knocked them over, and then someone else asked to take a photo with me!"
John listened with patient amusement, his armored form drawing occasional waves from residents who had grown comfortable with his presence. Children pressed their faces against windows to catch glimpses of the mechanical beetle that hovered obediently above them, its insect-like appearance somehow managing to be both alien and reassuring.
"Hey, have you ever been in a car accident?" Peter continued without pausing for breath, his voice taking on the rapid-fire quality that indicated he was processing multiple thoughts simultaneously. "This drunk driver was driving like a maniac yesterday—swerving all over the place, nearly hit a school bus—and I tried to stop him with my webs, but he hit me super hard! Like, really hard! I think I dented his hood when I landed on it!"
The mechanical beetle above them made a soft humming sound that might have been mechanical laughter. John's helmet turned slightly toward Peter, and though his expression was hidden, his body language suggested fond exasperation with his talkative partner.
"And why can't we catch all the robbers?" Peter's tone shifted to genuine frustration, his sense of responsibility clearly weighing on him. "I see them every day! Different ones, same crimes, like there's an endless supply or something! Do you catch a lot during the day? I've caught like, six, no seven, eleven... more than a dozen just this week!"
His mathematical skills clearly suffered when he was excited, but John didn't correct him. The enthusiasm behind Peter's confusion was too precious to interrupt with mundane concerns about accuracy.
"Hey, why don't you have to go to Sergeant Marlene's lectures?" Peter's voice took on a note of genuine envy. "They're so boring! Three hours of proper police procedure and community relations protocol and 'remember that you represent the NYPD when you're in costume.' I keep falling asleep and then she gives me extra homework!"
John's shoulders shook slightly—the armor's equivalent of suppressed laughter. The image of Spider-Man trying to stay awake during mandatory sensitivity training was almost too perfect to be real.
"What should we buy for tonight?" Peter's attention span moved on to their evening plans with the speed of a hummingbird changing flowers. "Oh, right, snacks for movie night! Do you like potato chips? What about burgers? Gwen said she wanted to try that new place with the impossible burgers, but I told her nothing's impossible when you have superpowers, so the name doesn't make sense, but she just laughed at me and said I was missing the point entirely..."
John nodded absently, his mind already drifting to more pleasant thoughts. He was only half-listening to Peter's cheerful rambling, instead thinking about where to take Gwen on their date that evening. They had talked about the new art exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, or perhaps a quiet dinner at that Italian restaurant she had mentioned liking. Maybe a walk through Central Park under the stars, away from the constant demands of their heroic responsibilities...
Just then, two small children wearing hand-made paper masks—one featuring Spider-Man's distinctive web pattern, the other attempting to recreate Kamen Rider Kuuga's insect-like design—ran past them on the sidewalk. Their laughter rang out like silver bells as they chased each other, their small voices raised in play-acting dialogue about fighting crime and protecting the innocent.
"I'm gonna web the bad guys!" the Spider-Man child declared, making elaborate throwing motions with his tiny hands.
"And I'm gonna punch them with my super strength!" the Kamen Rider child responded, throwing careful punches at imaginary villains.
Their parents followed behind at a more sedate pace, smiling indulgently at their children's enthusiasm while occasionally calling out warnings about watching for traffic and staying on the sidewalk.
Not far away, a street musician had set up on the corner with a battered guitar and an open case that already contained a surprising number of bills and coins. His voice carried clearly over the ambient noise of the neighborhood as he sang an improvised song about their heroic deeds—something about "heroes in red who keep us safe at night, swinging through the sky and shining armor bright."
The melody was simple but catchy, and several passersby had stopped to listen, some even humming along with the chorus. A few teenagers had started an impromptu dance, their movements energetic if not particularly coordinated.
"Oh, wow," Peter said, his voice suddenly full of wonder and a kind of humble amazement that made John's chest tighten with unexpected emotion. His mask turned toward the children, then the musician, then the small crowd of people who had gathered to listen and smile. "They love us so much."
There was something almost childlike in Peter's tone, as if he still couldn't quite believe that their actions had inspired such genuine affection from the community they served. For all his wise-cracking and confident web-slinging, moments like this revealed the young man beneath the mask—someone who had never quite gotten used to being loved for who he was rather than what he could do.
John was about to respond with something appropriately reassuring when his enhanced hearing caught something that made him pause. His helmet tilted slightly, the mechanical beetle above them shifting position as if it too had detected the same sound.
"Peter, do you hear that?" John's voice carried a note of concern that immediately got his partner's attention.
Peter fell silent for the first time in the conversation, his own enhanced senses focusing beyond the immediate sounds of children playing and street musicians performing. After a moment of concentrated listening, his posture shifted from relaxed enthusiasm to alert tension.
"Ah, yeah. I think... I think it's sirens." Peter's voice had lost its cheerful rambling quality, replaced by the focused clarity that meant Spider-Man was taking over from Peter Parker. "Multiple units, maybe three or four blocks away. Moving fast."
The sound was still distant, but growing closer—the distinctive wail of emergency vehicles responding to something serious. In a city like New York, sirens were as common as taxi horns, but these had an urgency that suggested something beyond routine calls.
John straightened, his casual evening stroll posture shifting into the alert readiness of Kamen Rider. The mechanical beetle descended slightly, its sensors extending as it began scanning radio frequencies for police communications.
"Let's go take a look," John said, and there was no question in his voice. Whatever was happening, wherever those sirens were heading, two heroes had just decided to make it their business.
The street musician's song about heroic deeds continued behind them as they prepared to discover what new challenge the city had decided to present to its guardians. The children in their paper masks looked up from their play, watching with wide eyes as their heroes prepared to become the legends they had been pretending to be.
Another page was about to turn in the ongoing story of Queens' protectors, and neither John nor Peter had any idea what adventures the next chapter would bring.
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