"It's almost exactly what I imagined. That's awesome," Harry said, staring at the armor before him.
The black suit was very different from the exaggerated prototype he'd seen before. He reached out and brushed a hand across its surface. "Turn on the display."
Ding dong.
A faint chime echoed, and a translucent screen appeared before his eyes: Unregistered item detected: Basic Armor Suit (30). Would you like to exchange it for system points?
"No," Harry replied silently, without hesitation.
This armor was a modification of the old Green Goblin suit, though sleeker—its design closer to the second-generation Goblin armor from the classic Spider-Man timeline.
"Finally, it's not green anymore," Harry muttered, still bitter about that color.
"Of course," Dr. Carl said proudly, admiring his work. "As the Osborne family's personal weapons consultant, it's my duty to follow your preferences."
Indeed, Dr. Carl's hidden identity was that of a weapons engineer. More than a decade ago, Oscorp had been deeply tied to the military, specializing in biological weapons research. Dr. Carl had been one of the senior scientists.
"Personally, I never liked green either," he said, eyes distant. "But your father insisted. Said green symbolized vitality."
"Doctor," Harry interrupted softly.
"Ah! My apologies, Harry," Dr. Carl chuckled, returning from his reverie. "When you get old, the past sneaks up on you."
He gestured toward the armor. "This version keeps the same core materials—durable, abrasion-resistant, bulletproof. Even a sniper round would only leave a mark. I've kept the strength-enhancement and self-healing systems, and I've improved flexibility around the joints, as you requested. Oh, and there's more."
Dr. Carl pressed a button on the wall. The armor descended from its mount and began to rotate slowly. As it turned ninety degrees, a hidden compartment slid open.
Cre-eak—
Something emerged from the space—a sleek, black flying board.
"I miniaturized the prototype and kept the weapons system intact," Dr. Carl said with a grin. "It can hit speeds of up to several hundred kilometers per hour, carry a full-grown person, and handle significant weight. I even installed an AI interface—it'll respond directly to your neural commands."
"Looks familiar," Harry murmured, crouching to touch the armor.
It really did. The new glider resembled the one from the old Goblin tech almost perfectly. For a moment, Harry wondered whether Dr. Carl could build a full Iron Man–style suit next—but that would need a Stark arc reactor, something Oscorp didn't have.
"Since the armor's just finished, we haven't run a proper test yet," Dr. Carl reminded him.
"In that case," Harry said, straightening up, "I'll do the test myself."
"Harry, that's risky. Let one of the pilots handle it," Dr. Carl urged.
"No need. I trust myself." Harry paused, then added with a faint smile, "Someone once said—act first, talk later."
"…All right," Dr. Carl sighed. "But take Max with you."
The old scientist's bond with the Osborn family went deeper than simple loyalty; he saw Harry almost as his own son.
"Sure," Harry said.
Putting on the armor was surprisingly easy—almost like dressing normally, just with a few smart features.
"I haven't added biometric recognition yet, so your subjective control is important," Dr. Carl said, handing him a black mask that left only his forehead and hair exposed. He pointed to the glider. "I magnetized the surface, and your boots are specially designed to stay locked in."
The magnetization didn't matter much to Harry—he had Spider-Man's electrostatic grip now, able to cling effortlessly.
He activated the glider and guided it to hover in front of him, stepping onto it with one foot. It was perfectly stable—no sense of imbalance at all.
"Whoa," Harry grinned beneath the mask. "Max, let's go."
He shot forward into a side tunnel, a streak of black slicing through the air. Max, now surrounded by flickering blue lightning, nodded to Dr. Carl and took off after him.
"Haha, I really am getting old," Dr. Carl chuckled softly, watching them go.
High above the skyline, Harry streaked across New York on his glider, the wind whipping past. Below him stretched the gray sprawl of the city.
Daytime New York lacked the magic of its nights. At night, the city shone like a sea of stars. By day, it was just crowds of office workers hurrying to their jobs. Still, one sight stood out—the flash of red and blue swinging through the canyons of steel: New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
"Hey! Who brought their kid's toy up here? Don't you know this is Spider-Man's turf?"
That teasing, familiar voice made Harry slow his flight. He turned, hovering in the air, and saw Spider-Man crouched on a rooftop, one hand holding a web line.
"Spider-Man?" Harry's voice came out processed through the mask—cold and distorted.
"That's right," Spider-Man quipped, pointing at himself. "Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."
"Well, this city belongs to me now," Harry said darkly. "And as for you… heh, get lost."