The first scream came from a janitor. "Officer down. Looks like—uh—spider web?"
He'd gone to check the men's restroom near sub-level C, muttering about a clogged sink, only to find one of Oscorp's security officers suspended upside down in a glistening cocoon of webbing. The man's muffled curses echoed off the tiles. The janitor froze, dropped his mop, and sprinted for the nearest alarm switch.
The hum of servers dissolved into red strobe light.
The sleek, clinical corridors of Oscorp transformed into arteries pulsing with sirens.
Metal doors locked, security shutters descended.
The first flash of crimson splashed across Felicia's face like war paint. "Well," she muttered, pulling her mask down. "Guess subtlety's dead."
Peter stood beside her, tense and instinctive, his eyes already scanning for exits. Overhead, alarms barked codes—"Containment Protocol. All personnel report to your assigned station."
The echo of boots thundered closer.
Felicia and Peter had almost made it back to the elevator when the first wave came.
Six guards. Flashlights slicing through the gloom.
The guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn. The lead officer barked, "Hands where I can see them!"
Peter moved first.
He flicked one of Ricochet's disks—a small, silver puck—down the corridor. It bounced once, twice, and then cracked against the wall, sending out a concussive wave that shattered the nearest security camera in a shower of sparks.
Before the guards could react, Peter moved. Fast. Not Spider-Man level fast—he couldn't risk that—but quick enough. One guard went down from a sweep to the knee, another from a body blow that left him groaning. Peter caught a baton mid-swing, disarmed the man, and pushed him against the wall with just enough restraint.
"Sorry about this," Peter muttered, using the man's jacket to tie his hands behind his back.
Felicia, crouched by the corner, muttered through her earpiece, "You sure you just want to knock them out? It'd make cleanup easier."
"Not my style," he hissed.
"Cute."
Felicia, meanwhile, flowed through the chaos like smoke. Her heel caught one guard's wrist, snapping the stun baton free; she flipped it and drove it into another man's ribs. The air smelled of ozone and panic.
"Remind me to never play laser tag with you two," Ethan's voice crackled in their comms.
The lights flickered. Somewhere above them, the gala was erupting in confused shouts.
Back in the top floor's shadows, Ethan ducked behind Norman's desk as the office door slammed open again. Norman's phone was in his hand, barking orders—"I don't care how, just fix the goddamn blackout!"
Then, as quickly as he'd come, Norman stormed out, his shoes hammering the marble. The door hissed shut.
Ethan exhaled.
Ethan quickly got up and accessed Norman's computer, and scrolled through the cascading red warnings.
Security breach detected — Sub-Level Containment Failure.
He barely flinched. "Of course they found him," he murmured, typing faster. "Can't web a man to a toilet forever."
"Moron," he muttered, and slid out from hiding. His fingers danced over the intercom console, activating the internal line. He flipped the voice changer integrated into his comm rig, adjusting it until his own voice warped—rich, low, and perfectly Norman Osborn.
"Control," he said into the mic, the mimic flawless. "Someone is in the power grid. Do a hard reset. Kill all power. Full shutdown. Restart the grid after ten seconds. We can't risk an overload with guests upstairs. Move now!"
The response crackled: "Understood, sir."
"Good little drones." Ethan smirked, disconnecting.
He switched frequencies and keyed into the comms channel shared with Peter and Felicia.
"All right, listen up. The upper levels had a blackout, but the lower level runs on an independent power source. The entire system is about to go dark. Ten-second blackout window, maybe fifteen if they panic. Make it count."
Felicia's voice came back cool, almost lazy. "So, standard Friday night, then."
Peter grunted. "Define 'make it count.'"
"Knock out whoever's left, then find the emergency service hatch in the west corridor. It'll be a long climb, but it'll lead you back toward the gala floor. I'll meet you there."
He killed the line.
Felicia exhaled through her nose, the pulse in her neck steady. "You heard the kid. Showtime."
She pulled out and thumbed a tiny switch.
"Hope this still works," she murmured as she pressed the switch.
Earlier, when they first arrived at the gala, Felicia had been wearing a beautiful pendant with a black gem on it. As she was talking and schmoozing with the guest as a cover, she discreetly unclasped the black gem pendant that had been hanging around her neck all evening. She'd dropped it into a trash can upstairs half an hour ago, just before heading to the sublevels.
Upstairs, in the glittering heart of the gala, the trash can in question beeped once—then discharged a contained EMP burst. The effect was immediate.
Every chandelier dimmed. The string quartet gasped mid-note. Gasps turned into shrieks as the entire ballroom went black.
Phones died. Earpieces fizzled. Panic bloomed like wildfire.
The head of security swore into his dead comms, signaling to every guard near the exits. "Priority one—protect the dignitaries! Move it!"
Taking the stage, the head of security tried to calm the scene. "Ladies and gentlemen, please calm down. There was a small incident with the building's power grid, and it's being fixed as we speak. Power should be back soon, and you'll have an interesting story to tell others, so please, for now, stay calm."
Due to the words of the head of security, half the building's muscle redirected upward.
Down below, the emergency lights sputtered. Red beams died, shadows surged.
Ethan's fake "power-cycle" command executed across the grid—an intentional dead zone.
Felicia grinned in the dark. "There's our cue."
Peter barely saw her move. One moment, she was beside him, the next she was a silhouette weaving through the guards as their flashlights blinked out. A strike to the throat, a kick to the ribs. The chaos disoriented everyone except her.
Peter moved in sync, subduing the last two, ensuring each one stayed alive. He hated this part—the efficiency, the ease—but adrenaline overrode guilt.
The lights flared back to life. Every guard lay unconscious or bound.
Felicia brushed her hair from her face, grinning. "I'm starting to see the appeal of this partnership."
Peter straightened, trying not to look impressed. "You're welcome."
"I wasn't thanking you."
He shot her a look. "Can we go now?"
"Please."
They slipped through the service hatch, climbing into the maintenance crawlspace. Above, muffled shouts echoed—the gala unraveling in the dark.
Ethan was already on the move, leaving Norman's office. The corridors flashing red light turned off as the system rebooted. He reached the elevator junction and glanced toward the private shaft.
A voice cut through the intercom—harsh, furious, real this time. Norman's, "Lock every exit and check all the guests. I want to know who's behind this."
Ethan froze for a moment, listening. Norman's voice carried the kind of rage that didn't bode well.
He smiled faintly as he said over the comms. "Change of plans. Before heading down, meet me on the floor above the gala."
Then he slipped into the service elevator and took it down to the floor in question.