He'd finished his morning briefings.
At noon, he joined Felicia for lunch at the private executive dining suite within the Oscorp Tower. The head chef, a former five-star culinary artist, had been personally sourced by Norman. The man had even gone to considerable lengths to secure a chef specializing in Szechuan cuisine for Aaron's exclusive use, a gesture that sometimes stirred a faint, complex nostalgia.
Though he could, theoretically, visit the places that echoed his past, Aaron understood this universe was not his own. Even revisiting familiar streets wouldn't bring back what was lost. More pressingly, drawing the attention of certain cosmic entities by probing the boundaries of reality was a risk he had no intention of taking.
After settling the day's affairs, Aaron left the tower with Felicia to find Kate. At the main entrance, however, he was intercepted.
It was one of the former board members—a man whose face Aaron recognized but whose name he'd never bothered to learn.
"Chairman!" the man called out, approaching with an ingratiating smile that didn't reach his nervous eyes. "I was wondering… might there still be a place for me at Oscorp?"
Aaron merely raised an eyebrow.
The man, portly and sweating slightly, rushed on. "The company is at a critical juncture! As a longtime member of the Oscorp family, my commitment to this institution runs deep! After some… reflection… I realized how misguided I was, allowing myself to be swayed by short-term thinking. I acted against the unity and stability of this great company!"
He placed a hand over his heart, the picture of remorse. "Therefore, I have decided to tie my fate to Oscorp's! Through thick and thin! No matter what outsiders may say or do, I wish to follow your lead and help steer the company forward! Of course, the old board structure is obsolete. I am willing to be a mere cog in the machine, a brick in the wall—whatever you need! There should be only one voice here, and it is yours, Chairman!"
The man's smile was a practiced thing, layers of obsequiousness stacked upon desperation.
Aaron shook his head slowly. "Has anyone ever told you you'd make an excellent Joker?"
The man didn't miss a beat, slapping his chest with feigned enthusiasm. "An astute observation, sir! In fact, I heard there's a major motion picture about the Clown Prince of Crime in development. You've inspired me! I shall pursue this new career path with vigor!"
Amusing, Aaron thought. This one has a certain… flexibility. The capacity for profound humiliation, the willingness to endure any indignity to achieve his goal. He has the makings of a survivor. Or a corpse.
Aaron kept his smile in place and clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. "But you've already signed the severance agreement. Our finance department is processing the buyout as we speak. The funds will be wired shortly, so you needn't worry about Oscorp's affairs any longer."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a pleasant, confidential tone that held no warmth. "Reinstatement to the board is, of course, impossible. But if you're truly eager to contribute, we might find a… custodial role. Somewhere."
With that, Aaron guided Felicia past him and out into the plaza.
He didn't believe for a second in the man's sudden repentance or any newfound loyalty to Oscorp. A moment's consideration presented two likely scenarios: either footage of Professor Connors's limb regeneration had leaked to the press, or word of Norman's discreet meetings with certain aging, ailing billionaires had spread. These vultures had realized Oscorp wasn't a sinking ship but a starship igniting its engines. And now they came scurrying back, hoping to reclaim a seat.
Absurd. That was his fortune now. Reach for it, and he'd take the hand. Stick a head out, and he'd take that too. No negotiations.
But that particular "fat rat"... Aaron's smile turned icy as they walked away. He was certain the man was still scheming.
It seemed he had been too lenient, not yet fully acclimated to the cutthroat etiquette of this new world.
His expression was neutral as he slid into the back of the waiting Rolls-Royce. Felicia, sensing the shift in his mood, moved to offer a distraction, her touch a familiar comfort.
Just as the car pulled away from the curb, a sharp CRACK echoed from the plaza behind them, followed by shouts of alarm.
"His phone exploded!""Director Kennedy—his head!""Call a medic! Now!""Boss? That man… he just…" Felicia stammered, pulling back slightly to glance out the rear window.
"Eyes forward," Aaron said, his voice calm. He didn't bother looking back. "He was irrelevant. A minor pest."
He knew precisely what had happened, as he was the cause. Making a phone battery combust? A simple matter of focused thought.
Everyone uses premium devices, but you cling to that outdated model. If it didn't fail, whose would?
A slight, targeted increase in thermal energy within the lithium cells, and… pop. Deeply satisfying. He'd even thoughtfully ensured the resultant energy surge was directed with fatal precision. If the man survived that, Aaron would have to suspect a latent healing factor.
They were halfway to their destination when Aaron's spider-sense screamed—a silent, electric chill up his spine. "Hold on!" he barked.
In one fluid motion, he wrapped an arm around Felicia and burst upward through the reinforced sunroof of the Rolls-Royce. His free hand shot a web-line to a nearby streetlamp, swinging them clear.
A fraction of a second later, a figure clad in garish red and black spandex dropped from the sky like a falling star. Twin katanas flashed in the afternoon light, shearing through the armored vehicle as if it were tinfoil. The Rolls-Royce split into two groaning halves, spilling its luxurious interior onto the asphalt.
"Whoa, nelly! Web-slinging, huh? Very arachnid-chic! Let me guess… Spider-Man? Or maybe… Moth-Man? No, too fuzzy. Web-Weaver? Silk-Slinger? Help me out here, pal!"
The man struck a theatrical pose, then immediately winced and grabbed his lower back. "Agh, crap. Pulled something. Note to self: stick the landing first, then do the cool guy quip."
Aaron, holding Felicia securely, looked down from his perch. "Deadpool."
The mercenary in red perked up, doing a little jig of delight. "The one and only! Wait, you know me? No way! Has my brand finally permeated the upper echelons of the morally ambiguous billionaire circuit? Should I start carrying a silver Sharpie for autographs? I could sign your forehead! Or your palm! Or, if you're into that whole 'tramp stamp' revival, I'm not judging!"
Even as his mouth ran at a machine-gun pace, Deadpool's body uncoiled into motion. He lunged forward, his earlier limp vanishing, a blur of red aimed straight at the streetlamp. The katanas hummed through the air, slicing the thick metal pole clean through as if it were a stalk of celery.
"Look, I know you're a fan, and this is awkward, but could you maybe just… hold still for a sec? One little swipe, I promise! My blades are super sharp, won't even tug! Just one hand! My client wants to send a message—'ease up on the competition' or something. Kept your head attached so you can keep generating revenue for him, apparently. Thoughtful, right? Million bucks for one hand! Easiest gig I've had all week! So, no hard feelings…"
Every slash and thrust of his swords was punctuated by a running commentary, a stream of consciousness that somehow kept perfect time with his lethal ballet. It was a dizzying, unnerving assault.
Aaron, however, moved with preternatural grace. Even burdened with Felicia, his enhanced agility and the constant, tingling guidance of his spider-sense allowed him to flow around Deadpool's attacks. He dodged, weaved, and swayed, the deadly blades passing within millimeters but never finding their mark.
"A million?" Aaron's voice cut through Deadpool's chatter, cold with indignation. "My hand is only worth a million? That's the real insult here." His mind raced.
Which idiot thought that was an appropriate bid? Oh, right. Kennedy. Well, that explains it. Some names just carry unfortunate karmic debt.
His gaze flicked to the wreckage of his custom, armored Rolls-Royce. A vein throbbed in his temple.
"And pay for my car!"
The words were a frozen snarl. In the midst of Deadpool's flurry, Aaron's free right hand snapped out. It moved not with brute force, but with impossible, serpentine precision. Between the crossing arcs of the twin katanas, his index and middle fingers, then his ring and pinky fingers, shot forward—not to block, but to catch.
Shink. Shink.
The keening song of the blades died abruptly.
Deadpool stumbled to a halt, his body frozen in a follow-through stance. He stared, his white eye-lenses widening in cartoonish disbelief. The unbreakable, monomolecular-edged katanas were now held fast, pinched immovably between Aaron's fingers, their razor edges halted mere inches from his skin.
For the first time since his arrival, Deadpool was utterly silent.
Then, from behind the mask, came a strangled, utterly sincere whisper:
"What the actual fuck?!!!"