Chapter 34: The Hardy Connection
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Arsenal597
Getting sticky.
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The vibe inside Oscorp Tower is different from the moment I step into the lobby. It's subtle—nothing dramatic like alarms or guards sprinting around—but it's there all the same, humming under the polished marble and glass like a live wire someone forgot to insulate. Conversations dip when I pass. Eyes linger a half-second longer than usual. Even the air feels tighter, filtered and sterile in a way that presses against the back of my throat.
One of the secretaries—the same one who's given me trouble every single time I've come in—locks onto me almost immediately. She doesn't frown this time. Doesn't make a show of checking credentials or asking me to wait. She just straightens, smooths her skirt, and says, "Mr. Osborn is expecting you," like she's been rehearsing the line. The emphasis isn't on expecting. It's on you.
Yeah. I bet he is.
I'd thought about messaging him on the way over, something short and controlled. Break-in handled. I'm fine. We'll talk later. But that would've been pointless. Either the security guards already told him or he's reviewed the footage himself. Norman doesn't strike me as the type to wait for summaries when he can see things with his own eyes. Either way, he knows I got involved. At least this way, I don't have to explain how I found out in the first place. The conversation is going to be heated enough without me digging that hole too.
I move toward the elevators, shoulders tight, every step measured. My body wants to go. Not run—just move. The adrenaline hasn't fully burned off yet, and even with the aches settling in, I feel like a coiled spring that's been left wound too long. My ribs protest when I breathe too deep. My shoulder tugs when I shift my weight. The smaller injuries—the kind you don't feel until later—are already making themselves known.
The scratches on my face sting when I move my jaw the wrong way. Felicia hadn't held back. Not that I blame her. Still, explaining those is going to be a nightmare.
Oh, shit. MJ.
If I see her before they heal, I'm dead. No, worse—questioned. I could try the cat excuse. I mean, technically not a lie. Just… aggressively incomplete. But she's not stupid, and she's especially not stupid when it comes to me. She'll clock the angle, the spacing, the fact that cats don't usually leave marks like that.
If I play it right, maybe I can dodge it. Act casual. Change the subject. Pretend I didn't notice her noticing.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside alone. The mirrors don't help. I look rougher than I feel, which is saying something. Jacket zipped higher than usual. Collar pulled up just enough to shadow my jaw. I keep my head slightly down, more out of habit than necessity. The doors close with a soft thunk that sounds too final for my liking.
The ride up takes forever.
Every second stretches, the numbers ticking by at a pace that feels deliberately slow. My leg bounces once before I force it still. I flex my fingers, then stop when my knuckles twinge. My mind keeps circling the same points, picking at them like loose threads. Red Vulture. The archive. The Jackal mask. Norman knowing—or not knowing—how much of this.
I keep telling myself to stay focused. Controlled. This isn't a confrontation; it's a conversation. But that's a lie, and I know it. Norman doesn't do neutral conversations. Neither do I, apparently.
When the doors finally open, the smell hits me first.
Chemicals. Cleaners. Ozone, faint but unmistakable. It's the same smell that always hangs around this level, sharp and clinical, like the building itself is reminding you that this is where things get taken apart and put back together wrong. The janitor is just finishing up his rounds, pushing the cart toward the far end of the hall. He gives me a nod—not friendly, not hostile. Professional. I've noticed him before. He does four rounds on the floors throughout the day, per shift. More if it's a medical or containment level. This one stays on schedule. Always has.
That detail sticks in my head longer than it should.
I step off the elevator, shoes whispering against the polished floor, and the hum of the building settles around me again. The lights here are brighter, harsher. No decorative warmth. Just function. Efficiency. Everything about Oscorp feels designed to make people feel small without realizing why.
Norman is waiting by the security desk.
Not pacing. Not seated. Just standing there, hands folded behind his back, posture straight in that way that never looks stiff on him. He doesn't turn right away when I approach. He doesn't need to. He knows exactly when I step onto the floor. The guards don't say a word. They don't need to either.
I slow, just a fraction.
The distance between us feels longer than it is, every step echoing a little louder than it should. I can feel the weight of his attention before he finally looks at me, sharp and assessing, like he's already running through a list of questions and deciding which ones hurt the most.
He takes in the jacket. The way I'm favoring one side. The marks I didn't quite manage to hide.
Then he speaks:
"Peter."
He says it warm enough to pass for friendly, but there's weight behind it. Conviction. The kind that doesn't raise its voice because it doesn't need to.
"Why didn't you call?"
"Battery died," I shrug, pitching it casually even though my shoulders are tight as hell. "Hey, you got a minute to talk?"
"Always."
That word lands heavier than it should.
Norman turns and gestures for me to follow, already moving before I do, like the answer was never in question. We pass through a secured door and into one of the smaller examination rooms tucked behind the labs—less surgical suite, more private workspace. Glass walls with the opacity dialed just low enough to blur silhouettes outside. A long metal table. A chair I've sat in more times than I can count. The door seals shut behind us with a quiet hiss that makes the room feel even smaller.
Norman doesn't sit. He never does when he's worried.
"Take your jacket off," he says, tone even. Then, after a beat, "Shirt too."
I hesitate just long enough to make the silence stretch.
"How'd you know?" I ask, already unzipping the jacket.
"You're not hard to read, son," he replies, matter-of-fact. "The scratches and your posture give you away. That, and the fact you walked in here like you're bracing for impact."
Fair.
I shrug out of the jacket and tug my shirt over my head, the fabric catching briefly on a sore spot along my ribs. I bite back the reaction, but Norman clocks it immediately. His jaw tightens as he steps closer, eyes sharp, cataloging damage like it's second nature. Bruising already blooming dark along my side. Scratches across my chest and shoulder—angry, uneven lines that scream talons more than fists.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
"What in God's name happened back there?" he asks.
"Cat burglar and a rabid angry bird making an appearance," I say. "That's what happened."
Norman's head snaps up. "Toomes was there?" The word comes out rougher than he probably intended. "Is he—"
"No," I cut in quickly. "He wasn't. I thought it was him at first, but no… different one."
He blinks. Once. Processes. "A different one?"
"Yeah." I roll my shoulder experimentally, wince when it pulls. "This Vulture was faster. Red feathers. Metal talons and claws. Meaner build, too. I had a hell of a time keeping up with them."
Norman stares at me like I've just rewritten a chapter of reality he thought he understood. "You're telling me there's another one."
"I'm telling you there's at least another one."
"That's—" He stops himself, scrubs a hand over his face, then looks at me again, all sharp edges and restrained fury. "How did you manage to keep up on foot?"
I glance down at my discarded shirt, then over to my bag sitting against the wall. "I didn't."
I cross the room, crouch, and unzip it, fingers brushing against cracked concrete dust and damp fabric before closing around the familiar shapes. When I turn back, I hold the web shooters up between us.
Norman freezes.
For just a second, the mask slips. Not anger. Not fear. Something closer to awe mixed with dread.
"You got them working?" he asks quietly.
"Last night," I say. "After I stormed out of the lab."
His eyes flick up, sharp. "You went somewhere else."
"Doctor Octavius's lab," I admit. "I needed space. And answers."
Norman doesn't interrupt, which is how I know he's holding himself back.
"There was a guy there at that robbery I stopped the other night. He had this glue-like substance he made. I had a piece of it and decided to analyze it. Turns out, it held the missing key to the web formula I was looking for."
Norman picks one of the shooters up, turning it carefully in his hands like it might bite him. "And you tested this in the field," he says flatly.
"I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice," he snaps, then reins it in, voice dropping again. "You chose to engage."
"I chose not to let people die," I counter, heat creeping in despite myself. "I chose not to let a flying psychopath tear through Manhattan unchecked. Even if it was a cat burglar, I didn't want to take a chance considering the last time your penthouse got broke into."
"This cat burglar… who was it?"
"That's not important right now. She did tell me something interesting though." My jaw clenches as I say it. I really hope he wasn't hiding this from me. "Apparently, she broke into the Archives on September twentieth."
"And she wasn't caught?" Norman raises a brow, showing no sign of acknowledgment. "I should speak with Smythe about increasing security there.."
"That's not all… she said a guy in a Jackal mask was there, looking for the same thing she was. And to top it off, that's when the other Vulture showed up and attacked her. Apparently, the Jackal guy is the one controlling them."
"That thing was in the archive?" his fingers clench into fists. "Why didn't Smythe tell me?"
"You had no clue about this?"
"Peter, I swear to you." Norman pauses, taking in a breath. "I had no idea this had happened. Not one bit." His hands drop from fists to his sides, but the tension hasn't left his shoulders. He's trying to process it, trying to reconcile what he thought he knew with what I just dumped on him. His gaze roams over the scratches, the bruises, the tensed muscles that scream fight more than caution.
"You're sure?" I ask, voice low, almost quiet enough that it's me double-checking if I missed something. There's a difference between being certain and hoping you're not about to step into a trap you didn't see coming. Norman meets my eyes, sharp as a blade, and nods once, stiff.
"I'm sure. This… archive incident. The Jackal. That Vulture. None of it was in any of my reports, nothing flagged by security. Smythe didn't know, or he would have told me. I promise you, Peter—if I'd known…" His voice trails off, but it's heavy, weighted with guilt that's more than just parental. It's the kind of responsibility that sits like a brick on your chest when someone you care about walks into danger.
I swallow, trying to keep my own frustration in check. The last thing I need is for this to turn into a yelling match about "why wasn't I told?" Because it won't help anyone. Still, my stomach twists. "So this guy in the Jackal mask, controlling these… experiments, sending Vultures after people… he's been doing this right under your nose?"
Norman steps closer, the angle of his body commanding, but not threatening. It's the kind of presence that makes the air itself feel sharper. "Under my nose? Maybe. But you have to understand, Peter… Oscorp is vast. Security is precise, yes, but it isn't omnipotent. A man with knowledge, with… ability, can slip between the cracks if he's careful. The question is—how much have you uncovered on your own?" His eyes narrow slightly. Not in accusation, but in calculation.
I shift my weight, pulling the shooters closer to my chest.
"Enough to know that this Jackal is the one after my father's research."
"This girl, what's her connection to this? What was she in the archive for?"
"Norman, do you know who Walter Hardy is?" The reaction he gives me is enough. His face drains of color, and I can see his hands tremble at the sight. "How do you know him?"
"Shortly after you came to see me upon waking from your coma, I was approached by someone. They demanded to know where the spider was."
"What?"
"In an effort to keep the spider out of the wrong hands, I hired Walter Hardy to steal the spider from the Oscorp facility it was being kept at. That way, if someone were to go looking for it, they wouldn't be able to have it. The night you were attacked by Toomes, I had tried contacting Walter. He didn't answer. I haven't heard from him since that night, and I've been trying to figure out what had happened."
"You were still keeping stuff from me." I say, narrowing my eyes. "I thought we agreed to be honest with each other."
"Peter, you must understand." Norman takes a step towards me. "Despite my intentions to help you, I have a responsibility to Oscorp. Your father. And most importantly, keeping my employees safe. Walter Hardy was not supposed to be involved with this."
"Well he is, Norman. He's missing, and according to the girl… Jackal has him somewhere."
"This girl… who is she?"
I'm not sure whether to tell him or not. On one hand, if I do… I'm outing Felicia and potentially damaging the little trust we've built. If I don't, I won't be able to help her to the best of my ability. Fuck it, I'm going to have to take a chance here.
"His daughter."
"Felicia?" Norman's eyes widened. "No… it can't be."
"How can't it be?" I ask, throwing my hands up.
"Walter went into retirement to keep Felicia safe. He didn't want to take a chance of putting her in danger. When he helped steal the spider, he was worried his daughter might be put in danger if we were found out." He sighed, placing his face into his hands. "I've put so many people in danger. I am so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." I shake my head, standing up. "I was told once that being sorry doesn't help. Do something about it."
"You're right," Norman composes himself. "What can I do to help?"
"For starters, I'd like that upgrade to my suit you were talking about last night. The undersuit." I shrug. "Secondly, finish patching me up Doc."
"I meant in regards to everything else."
"Find me everything you can on Toomes. I think if I can track him down, I can get a read on where Jackal is. If I'm lucky, we can get to Walter before something bad happens to him."
"I'll speak with Smythe when we're done, find out why I wasn't notified about the attack in the Archive."
"Good. Because I'd like to know as well."
Smythe came off as a creep at times, preferring his machines over humans. Do I like him? Not particularly, but he did help me. I may not like being treated like a variable, or being used as a guinea pig for that matter — but there was a purpose to that. Why wouldn't Smythe tell Norman about the Archive attack?
Is it because he wants to keep Norman out of it? To prove he can handle things without him? I'd like to think that's why. It's cleaner. Easier. But the thought doesn't settle, just keeps circling like it's looking for somewhere worse to land. The adrenaline finally starts to burn off, leaving that hollowed-out feeling behind my eyes. Everything feels heavier. Slower. Two hours of sleep is not going to cut it right now.
Norman gestures toward the table, already pulling on gloves. I sit, muscles protesting as soon as I shift my weight. He works in silence at first, methodical but not detached. This isn't a doctor at work—it's someone taking inventory, making sure all the pieces are still there.
He cleans the scratches on my face first. The antiseptic stings, sharp enough to pull a hiss out of me before I can stop it. Norman notices, of course. He always does. He doesn't comment, just steadies my chin with two fingers and keeps going, careful but firm. The smaller cuts don't look like much, but they burn in that irritating way that refuses to be ignored.
Then his attention moves lower.
The slashes are ugly—angry red lines where talons tore through skin instead of stopping where they should have. Norman's jaw tightens again, just a fraction.
"What happened to your shoulders?" he asks, eyes flicking up to meet mine before dropping back to the damage.
I try not to wince as he disinfects them. I fail.
"He came from behind and pinned me with his talons."
Norman pauses, the bottle hovering in his hand.
"How'd you get free?"
I snort before I can help it. It hurts. Worth it.
"Hit him with a dumpster."
He looks at me over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed.
"A dumpster?"
"Yeah." I grin, lopsided. "Would you believe I wanted him to smell as bad as he looked?"
"I'd say you're enjoying yourself," Norman scoffs, going back to work. "Don't become reckless because you feel invincible. You're not."
"I know."
The words come out automatically, and they're true enough. I know I can bleed. I know I can break. I know that one bad angle, one second too slow, and this all ends differently. What I don't say—what I keep locked behind my teeth—is that when I wear that mask, the world makes sense in a way it never has before. The fear sharpens instead of paralyzing. The noise quiets. I move, and the city moves with me. It's the most alive I've ever felt. Like I finally clicked into place.
I don't say it because he won't understand. Or maybe he'll understand too well.
Norman finishes cleaning the wounds, his touch careful as he applies salve and fresh bandages. The slashes on my chest get reinforced, layered like he's trying to make up for the fact that he can't rewind time. He wraps my shoulders last, adjusting the tension just enough that it supports without constricting. I roll one experimentally. It aches, but it holds.
"Try not to tear these open," he says. "That's not a suggestion."
"Yes, sir."
He gives me a look. I shut up.
When he's done, he strips the gloves off and drops them into the disposal, then finally—finally—sits.
"I'm going to speak with Smythe," he says, already back to business. "Tonight. Whatever reason he had for keeping this from me, I want to hear it from him directly."
"Good," I say. "Because I'd like to know as well."
He nods, then gestures toward the jacket draped over the chair. "Leave that here. We'll patch it up. Add the extra armor we discussed. The undersuit will be finished by tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I arch a brow. "You work fast."
"I don't sleep much," he replies dryly.
Fair.
I slide off the table, moving slower now. The room feels warmer than it did earlier, or maybe that's just the exhaustion finally catching up. I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, then pause.
"Thanks, Norman," I say. I mean it. "I really do."
He looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then he nods. "Get some rest, Peter. We'll need you thinking clearly."
I head for the door, the quiet hiss of it opening sounding louder than before. As I step out into the hall, the building hums around me again, indifferent and vast. My body feels held together with tape and stubbornness, but it's enough. It has to be.
As I make my way back toward the elevator, one thought keeps slipping through the cracks, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Somewhere out there, Walter Hardy is still missing. Somewhere dark and hidden and wrong. I don't know where he is. I don't know what's been done to him.
I just hope he's still holding on.
Meanwhile...
The lab was quiet in the way only underground places ever were—no windows, no sense of time, just the constant, low hum of machinery breathing somewhere deep in the walls. Stainless steel counters gleamed under cold fluorescent lights, scattered with instruments that looked less like tools and more like intentions. Jackal moved through it without hurry, hands clasped behind his back, boots clicking softly against the polished floor as though the building itself were listening for him.
He passed containment tanks, sealed rooms, reinforced doors marked with warnings no one ever intended to obey. Every so often, something inside the walls shifted or thudded, a reminder that the word lab was doing a lot of heavy lifting down here. Jackal didn't look at any of it for long. None of it mattered yet.
At the far end of the lab, past a security door that slid open at his approach, the light thinned. The corridor beyond was narrow and deliberately underlit, the bulbs recessed high above, casting long shadows that swallowed the floor. This was where the experiments that didn't behave were kept. The ones that screamed. The ones that broke.
Jackal walked slowly, savoring the echo of his footsteps.
The cell at the end of the hall was occupied.
Walter Hardy barely looked like the man he'd once been. He sat slumped against the back wall, wrists shackled above his head, chains rattling softly as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His face was swollen, split in more than one place, dried blood flaking against his skin. One eye was nearly swollen shut. His clothes hung off him in tatters, the fabric dark with old stains that hadn't been cleaned in days. Weeks. The smell of antiseptic barely masked the copper beneath it.
But when Jackal stopped in front of the cell, Walter lifted his head.
His eyes were still sharp.
Contempt burned in them, bright and stubborn, even as his body trembled from exhaustion. It was the only part of him that hadn't been taken yet.
"How are we feeling, Walter?" Jackal asked pleasantly. "You don't look too well."
Walter dragged in a breath that turned into a cough halfway through. His shoulders shook as he fought it down, chains clinking softly. "Go—go to hell," he rasped.
Jackal smiled beneath the mask. "I come in peace," he said. "I have news for you."
He reached to the side, unfolded a metal chair, and dragged it across the concrete floor, the screeching sound echoing down the corridor like a warning. He set it just outside the cell and sat, crossing one leg over the other, posture relaxed, patient.
"Your daughter is following in your footsteps."
The words landed wrong. Not like a blow—worse. They slipped past the pain, past the exhaustion, straight into something still alive inside Walter.
His head snapped up.
"…Felicia?" The name came out broken. "You—" His breathing hitched. "You don't get to say her name."
Jackal tilted his head. "Oh, but I do. She's quite talented. Slippery. Clever. Resourceful." He leaned forward slightly. "Just like her father."
Walter's hands clenched into fists, chains biting into his wrists.
"She's not a part of this," he said, voice shaking.
Jackal chuckled softly.
"Oh, but isn't she?" He tapped a finger against the arm of the chair. "Funny thing about footsteps, Walter. They're easy to follow. Especially when someone doesn't realize they're leaving them behind."
Walter swallowed hard. His chest heaved. Weeks of isolation, pain, and degradation had worn him down to something fragile, something frayed. But this—this was different. This reached into him and twisted.
"What do you want?" he growled.
"I want you to understand," Jackal replied calmly. "This isn't punishment. It's progression. You had your time. Your legend. Your careful little retirement." He gestured vaguely at the cell. "And now… the next chapter."
Walter shook his head, a harsh, broken sound escaping him. "She has nothing to do with this."
"Ah." Jackal leaned back. "But she does. Because Jimmy has noticed her."
The name hit like ice.
Walter's breath caught in his throat, eyes widening despite himself. Fear—real fear—flickered there, raw and unguarded.
"No," he whispered. "Not him."
Jackal's voice softened, almost sympathetic.
"You remember Jimmy? Red feathers. Metal talons. So very enthusiastic." He smiled. "He was the one who brought you to me, after all."
Walter's body tensed violently, muscles screaming in protest as he pulled against the chains. Memories flashed behind his eyes—wings blotting out the light, claws digging in, the sound of air tearing apart as he was lifted screaming into the sky.
"If Jimmy has his way," Jackal continued, conversational, "he'll deal with her personally. He's been itching for another test. Something… hands-on."
Rage surged up through the fear, hot and desperate. Walter roared, voice cracking as he yanked at the restraints.
"You leave her alone! You hear me?! She's not part of this!"
Jackal stood, unhurried.
"Oh, Walter. It's only a matter of time before you're reunited. Father and daughter. A touching moment." He stepped closer to the bars, his shadow stretching over Walter's broken form. "But if Jimmy is involved… well. I wouldn't expect miracles."
Walter's strength finally broke through the pain. He slammed himself forward, chains rattling violently, screaming until his throat burned.
"STAY AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!"
Jackal turned away, already walking back down the corridor.
"YOU HEAR ME?!" Walter screamed after him, voice shredded, desperate, furious, alive in a way he hadn't been in weeks. "STAY AWAY FROM HER!"
The echoes chased Jackal down the hall, fading slowly, leaving Walter alone in the dark—with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the crushing realization that everything he'd tried to protect was slipping through his fingers.
AN: Hello everybody, how are you doing? So, I did a little bit of work on the story and figured out the timeline of events. It did require me to go through and do some minor edits to get everything lined up, but I should be good now. In a shocking turn of events, the overall story of Absolute Spider-Man has occurred over the course of 5 weeks. Mind you, this is accounting for Chapters 35-43 at least, as I am working on 43 currently. Normally I stay five chapters ahead, but I'll be honest, I got hit with the writing bug the other night and wrote out 4 whole chapters in the course of a day. In that case, I generally would post another chapter to keep up. The chapters that I wrote are some major ones in term of events. So rather than dropping them all at once, I intend on doing it sporadically over the next couple weeks. This will be the first chapter over the next three to four weeks that is dropped.
We are approximately in the last 10-15 percent of the Vulture arc, roughly. Until I know exactly how many chapters this rounds out to, that number is probably wrong! But yeah, I am actively trying to get the Vulture arc resolved by the end of February, even if the chapters are not released publicly by then. (I'd like to. Just depends on how things roll going forward)
Official timeline of Absolute Spider-Man:
SI's Universe:
June 6th, 2025: SI dies in a car wreck on the way to work
Absolute universe:
August 12th, 2024: Peter is bitten by the spider and falls into a three week coma.
September 2-8 (Chapters 1-7)
September 9-14 (Chapters 8-13)
September 16-20 (Chapters 14-22)
September 24 (Chapter 23)
September 25-October 6 (Chapters 24-26)
October 7 (Chapters 27-30)
October 8 (Chapters 31-37)
October 9 (Chapter 38-current)
That being said, some of the more formal complaints made about this story regarding Peter's powers and seeming weak, when put into perspective with this timeline makes things seem a little funnier in that regard. SI Peter has been awake from the coma for 5 weeks. So, in the span of a little over a month, Peter has gone from being in a coma to being Spider-Man now. He only had 15 days with May before she was killed. In 5 weeks, he's fought Adrian Toomes' Vulture, Shocker, and now Jimmy Natale's Vulture (yes, that's the Red Vulture). 10 days is what it took in-story for Peter's powers to be fully emerged without the addition of the web shooters.
It's funny to think that's all occurred in that timespan, but that is how it's gone down.
Onto more important things, though:
The next arc will be the Morbius and Hammerhead storyline. Morbius will be the biggest threat in the storyline, with Hammerhead acting as a secondary antagonist. Very excited to show that off when the time comes.
I will attempt to get another chapter or two out this week.
Please let me know what you guys think, it does help motivate me to keep writing!
Want to see more? I do have a Patreon where you can get up to 5 chapters early access and get to see artwork commissions I've gotten for the story, as well as first looks at original projects I have in the works. (Same username: Arsenal597)
Join my discord server where you can talk about the story. Link will be below!
I'll catch you guys later!
This story is cross-posted on Ao3, FF, and QQ.
discord. gg /dQkeJPkxdD
https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597
One of the secretaries—the same one who's given me trouble every single time I've come in—locks onto me almost immediately. She doesn't frown this time. Doesn't make a show of checking credentials or asking me to wait. She just straightens, smooths her skirt, and says, "Mr. Osborn is expecting you," like she's been rehearsing the line. The emphasis isn't on expecting. It's on you.
Yeah. I bet he is.
I'd thought about messaging him on the way over, something short and controlled. Break-in handled. I'm fine. We'll talk later. But that would've been pointless. Either the security guards already told him or he's reviewed the footage himself. Norman doesn't strike me as the type to wait for summaries when he can see things with his own eyes. Either way, he knows I got involved. At least this way, I don't have to explain how I found out in the first place. The conversation is going to be heated enough without me digging that hole too.
I move toward the elevators, shoulders tight, every step measured. My body wants to go. Not run—just move. The adrenaline hasn't fully burned off yet, and even with the aches settling in, I feel like a coiled spring that's been left wound too long. My ribs protest when I breathe too deep. My shoulder tugs when I shift my weight. The smaller injuries—the kind you don't feel until later—are already making themselves known.
The scratches on my face sting when I move my jaw the wrong way. Felicia hadn't held back. Not that I blame her. Still, explaining those is going to be a nightmare.
Oh, shit. MJ.
If I see her before they heal, I'm dead. No, worse—questioned. I could try the cat excuse. I mean, technically not a lie. Just… aggressively incomplete. But she's not stupid, and she's especially not stupid when it comes to me. She'll clock the angle, the spacing, the fact that cats don't usually leave marks like that.
If I play it right, maybe I can dodge it. Act casual. Change the subject. Pretend I didn't notice her noticing.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside alone. The mirrors don't help. I look rougher than I feel, which is saying something. Jacket zipped higher than usual. Collar pulled up just enough to shadow my jaw. I keep my head slightly down, more out of habit than necessity. The doors close with a soft thunk that sounds too final for my liking.
The ride up takes forever.
Every second stretches, the numbers ticking by at a pace that feels deliberately slow. My leg bounces once before I force it still. I flex my fingers, then stop when my knuckles twinge. My mind keeps circling the same points, picking at them like loose threads. Red Vulture. The archive. The Jackal mask. Norman knowing—or not knowing—how much of this.
I keep telling myself to stay focused. Controlled. This isn't a confrontation; it's a conversation. But that's a lie, and I know it. Norman doesn't do neutral conversations. Neither do I, apparently.
When the doors finally open, the smell hits me first.
Chemicals. Cleaners. Ozone, faint but unmistakable. It's the same smell that always hangs around this level, sharp and clinical, like the building itself is reminding you that this is where things get taken apart and put back together wrong. The janitor is just finishing up his rounds, pushing the cart toward the far end of the hall. He gives me a nod—not friendly, not hostile. Professional. I've noticed him before. He does four rounds on the floors throughout the day, per shift. More if it's a medical or containment level. This one stays on schedule. Always has.
That detail sticks in my head longer than it should.
I step off the elevator, shoes whispering against the polished floor, and the hum of the building settles around me again. The lights here are brighter, harsher. No decorative warmth. Just function. Efficiency. Everything about Oscorp feels designed to make people feel small without realizing why.
Norman is waiting by the security desk.
Not pacing. Not seated. Just standing there, hands folded behind his back, posture straight in that way that never looks stiff on him. He doesn't turn right away when I approach. He doesn't need to. He knows exactly when I step onto the floor. The guards don't say a word. They don't need to either.
I slow, just a fraction.
The distance between us feels longer than it is, every step echoing a little louder than it should. I can feel the weight of his attention before he finally looks at me, sharp and assessing, like he's already running through a list of questions and deciding which ones hurt the most.
He takes in the jacket. The way I'm favoring one side. The marks I didn't quite manage to hide.
Then he speaks:
"Peter."
He says it warm enough to pass for friendly, but there's weight behind it. Conviction. The kind that doesn't raise its voice because it doesn't need to.
"Why didn't you call?"
"Battery died," I shrug, pitching it casually even though my shoulders are tight as hell. "Hey, you got a minute to talk?"
"Always."
That word lands heavier than it should.
Norman turns and gestures for me to follow, already moving before I do, like the answer was never in question. We pass through a secured door and into one of the smaller examination rooms tucked behind the labs—less surgical suite, more private workspace. Glass walls with the opacity dialed just low enough to blur silhouettes outside. A long metal table. A chair I've sat in more times than I can count. The door seals shut behind us with a quiet hiss that makes the room feel even smaller.
Norman doesn't sit. He never does when he's worried.
"Take your jacket off," he says, tone even. Then, after a beat, "Shirt too."
I hesitate just long enough to make the silence stretch.
"How'd you know?" I ask, already unzipping the jacket.
"You're not hard to read, son," he replies, matter-of-fact. "The scratches and your posture give you away. That, and the fact you walked in here like you're bracing for impact."
Fair.
I shrug out of the jacket and tug my shirt over my head, the fabric catching briefly on a sore spot along my ribs. I bite back the reaction, but Norman clocks it immediately. His jaw tightens as he steps closer, eyes sharp, cataloging damage like it's second nature. Bruising already blooming dark along my side. Scratches across my chest and shoulder—angry, uneven lines that scream talons more than fists.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
"What in God's name happened back there?" he asks.
"Cat burglar and a rabid angry bird making an appearance," I say. "That's what happened."
Norman's head snaps up. "Toomes was there?" The word comes out rougher than he probably intended. "Is he—"
"No," I cut in quickly. "He wasn't. I thought it was him at first, but no… different one."
He blinks. Once. Processes. "A different one?"
"Yeah." I roll my shoulder experimentally, wince when it pulls. "This Vulture was faster. Red feathers. Metal talons and claws. Meaner build, too. I had a hell of a time keeping up with them."
Norman stares at me like I've just rewritten a chapter of reality he thought he understood. "You're telling me there's another one."
"I'm telling you there's at least another one."
"That's—" He stops himself, scrubs a hand over his face, then looks at me again, all sharp edges and restrained fury. "How did you manage to keep up on foot?"
I glance down at my discarded shirt, then over to my bag sitting against the wall. "I didn't."
I cross the room, crouch, and unzip it, fingers brushing against cracked concrete dust and damp fabric before closing around the familiar shapes. When I turn back, I hold the web shooters up between us.
Norman freezes.
For just a second, the mask slips. Not anger. Not fear. Something closer to awe mixed with dread.
"You got them working?" he asks quietly.
"Last night," I say. "After I stormed out of the lab."
His eyes flick up, sharp. "You went somewhere else."
"Doctor Octavius's lab," I admit. "I needed space. And answers."
Norman doesn't interrupt, which is how I know he's holding himself back.
"There was a guy there at that robbery I stopped the other night. He had this glue-like substance he made. I had a piece of it and decided to analyze it. Turns out, it held the missing key to the web formula I was looking for."
Norman picks one of the shooters up, turning it carefully in his hands like it might bite him. "And you tested this in the field," he says flatly.
"I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice," he snaps, then reins it in, voice dropping again. "You chose to engage."
"I chose not to let people die," I counter, heat creeping in despite myself. "I chose not to let a flying psychopath tear through Manhattan unchecked. Even if it was a cat burglar, I didn't want to take a chance considering the last time your penthouse got broke into."
"This cat burglar… who was it?"
"That's not important right now. She did tell me something interesting though." My jaw clenches as I say it. I really hope he wasn't hiding this from me. "Apparently, she broke into the Archives on September twentieth."
"And she wasn't caught?" Norman raises a brow, showing no sign of acknowledgment. "I should speak with Smythe about increasing security there.."
"That's not all… she said a guy in a Jackal mask was there, looking for the same thing she was. And to top it off, that's when the other Vulture showed up and attacked her. Apparently, the Jackal guy is the one controlling them."
"That thing was in the archive?" his fingers clench into fists. "Why didn't Smythe tell me?"
"You had no clue about this?"
"Peter, I swear to you." Norman pauses, taking in a breath. "I had no idea this had happened. Not one bit." His hands drop from fists to his sides, but the tension hasn't left his shoulders. He's trying to process it, trying to reconcile what he thought he knew with what I just dumped on him. His gaze roams over the scratches, the bruises, the tensed muscles that scream fight more than caution.
"You're sure?" I ask, voice low, almost quiet enough that it's me double-checking if I missed something. There's a difference between being certain and hoping you're not about to step into a trap you didn't see coming. Norman meets my eyes, sharp as a blade, and nods once, stiff.
"I'm sure. This… archive incident. The Jackal. That Vulture. None of it was in any of my reports, nothing flagged by security. Smythe didn't know, or he would have told me. I promise you, Peter—if I'd known…" His voice trails off, but it's heavy, weighted with guilt that's more than just parental. It's the kind of responsibility that sits like a brick on your chest when someone you care about walks into danger.
I swallow, trying to keep my own frustration in check. The last thing I need is for this to turn into a yelling match about "why wasn't I told?" Because it won't help anyone. Still, my stomach twists. "So this guy in the Jackal mask, controlling these… experiments, sending Vultures after people… he's been doing this right under your nose?"
Norman steps closer, the angle of his body commanding, but not threatening. It's the kind of presence that makes the air itself feel sharper. "Under my nose? Maybe. But you have to understand, Peter… Oscorp is vast. Security is precise, yes, but it isn't omnipotent. A man with knowledge, with… ability, can slip between the cracks if he's careful. The question is—how much have you uncovered on your own?" His eyes narrow slightly. Not in accusation, but in calculation.
I shift my weight, pulling the shooters closer to my chest.
"Enough to know that this Jackal is the one after my father's research."
"This girl, what's her connection to this? What was she in the archive for?"
"Norman, do you know who Walter Hardy is?" The reaction he gives me is enough. His face drains of color, and I can see his hands tremble at the sight. "How do you know him?"
"Shortly after you came to see me upon waking from your coma, I was approached by someone. They demanded to know where the spider was."
"What?"
"In an effort to keep the spider out of the wrong hands, I hired Walter Hardy to steal the spider from the Oscorp facility it was being kept at. That way, if someone were to go looking for it, they wouldn't be able to have it. The night you were attacked by Toomes, I had tried contacting Walter. He didn't answer. I haven't heard from him since that night, and I've been trying to figure out what had happened."
"You were still keeping stuff from me." I say, narrowing my eyes. "I thought we agreed to be honest with each other."
"Peter, you must understand." Norman takes a step towards me. "Despite my intentions to help you, I have a responsibility to Oscorp. Your father. And most importantly, keeping my employees safe. Walter Hardy was not supposed to be involved with this."
"Well he is, Norman. He's missing, and according to the girl… Jackal has him somewhere."
"This girl… who is she?"
I'm not sure whether to tell him or not. On one hand, if I do… I'm outing Felicia and potentially damaging the little trust we've built. If I don't, I won't be able to help her to the best of my ability. Fuck it, I'm going to have to take a chance here.
"His daughter."
"Felicia?" Norman's eyes widened. "No… it can't be."
"How can't it be?" I ask, throwing my hands up.
"Walter went into retirement to keep Felicia safe. He didn't want to take a chance of putting her in danger. When he helped steal the spider, he was worried his daughter might be put in danger if we were found out." He sighed, placing his face into his hands. "I've put so many people in danger. I am so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." I shake my head, standing up. "I was told once that being sorry doesn't help. Do something about it."
"You're right," Norman composes himself. "What can I do to help?"
"For starters, I'd like that upgrade to my suit you were talking about last night. The undersuit." I shrug. "Secondly, finish patching me up Doc."
"I meant in regards to everything else."
"Find me everything you can on Toomes. I think if I can track him down, I can get a read on where Jackal is. If I'm lucky, we can get to Walter before something bad happens to him."
"I'll speak with Smythe when we're done, find out why I wasn't notified about the attack in the Archive."
"Good. Because I'd like to know as well."
Smythe came off as a creep at times, preferring his machines over humans. Do I like him? Not particularly, but he did help me. I may not like being treated like a variable, or being used as a guinea pig for that matter — but there was a purpose to that. Why wouldn't Smythe tell Norman about the Archive attack?
Is it because he wants to keep Norman out of it? To prove he can handle things without him? I'd like to think that's why. It's cleaner. Easier. But the thought doesn't settle, just keeps circling like it's looking for somewhere worse to land. The adrenaline finally starts to burn off, leaving that hollowed-out feeling behind my eyes. Everything feels heavier. Slower. Two hours of sleep is not going to cut it right now.
Norman gestures toward the table, already pulling on gloves. I sit, muscles protesting as soon as I shift my weight. He works in silence at first, methodical but not detached. This isn't a doctor at work—it's someone taking inventory, making sure all the pieces are still there.
He cleans the scratches on my face first. The antiseptic stings, sharp enough to pull a hiss out of me before I can stop it. Norman notices, of course. He always does. He doesn't comment, just steadies my chin with two fingers and keeps going, careful but firm. The smaller cuts don't look like much, but they burn in that irritating way that refuses to be ignored.
Then his attention moves lower.
The slashes are ugly—angry red lines where talons tore through skin instead of stopping where they should have. Norman's jaw tightens again, just a fraction.
"What happened to your shoulders?" he asks, eyes flicking up to meet mine before dropping back to the damage.
I try not to wince as he disinfects them. I fail.
"He came from behind and pinned me with his talons."
Norman pauses, the bottle hovering in his hand.
"How'd you get free?"
I snort before I can help it. It hurts. Worth it.
"Hit him with a dumpster."
He looks at me over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed.
"A dumpster?"
"Yeah." I grin, lopsided. "Would you believe I wanted him to smell as bad as he looked?"
"I'd say you're enjoying yourself," Norman scoffs, going back to work. "Don't become reckless because you feel invincible. You're not."
"I know."
The words come out automatically, and they're true enough. I know I can bleed. I know I can break. I know that one bad angle, one second too slow, and this all ends differently. What I don't say—what I keep locked behind my teeth—is that when I wear that mask, the world makes sense in a way it never has before. The fear sharpens instead of paralyzing. The noise quiets. I move, and the city moves with me. It's the most alive I've ever felt. Like I finally clicked into place.
I don't say it because he won't understand. Or maybe he'll understand too well.
Norman finishes cleaning the wounds, his touch careful as he applies salve and fresh bandages. The slashes on my chest get reinforced, layered like he's trying to make up for the fact that he can't rewind time. He wraps my shoulders last, adjusting the tension just enough that it supports without constricting. I roll one experimentally. It aches, but it holds.
"Try not to tear these open," he says. "That's not a suggestion."
"Yes, sir."
He gives me a look. I shut up.
When he's done, he strips the gloves off and drops them into the disposal, then finally—finally—sits.
"I'm going to speak with Smythe," he says, already back to business. "Tonight. Whatever reason he had for keeping this from me, I want to hear it from him directly."
"Good," I say. "Because I'd like to know as well."
He nods, then gestures toward the jacket draped over the chair. "Leave that here. We'll patch it up. Add the extra armor we discussed. The undersuit will be finished by tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I arch a brow. "You work fast."
"I don't sleep much," he replies dryly.
Fair.
I slide off the table, moving slower now. The room feels warmer than it did earlier, or maybe that's just the exhaustion finally catching up. I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, then pause.
"Thanks, Norman," I say. I mean it. "I really do."
He looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then he nods. "Get some rest, Peter. We'll need you thinking clearly."
I head for the door, the quiet hiss of it opening sounding louder than before. As I step out into the hall, the building hums around me again, indifferent and vast. My body feels held together with tape and stubbornness, but it's enough. It has to be.
As I make my way back toward the elevator, one thought keeps slipping through the cracks, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Somewhere out there, Walter Hardy is still missing. Somewhere dark and hidden and wrong. I don't know where he is. I don't know what's been done to him.
I just hope he's still holding on.
Meanwhile...
The lab was quiet in the way only underground places ever were—no windows, no sense of time, just the constant, low hum of machinery breathing somewhere deep in the walls. Stainless steel counters gleamed under cold fluorescent lights, scattered with instruments that looked less like tools and more like intentions. Jackal moved through it without hurry, hands clasped behind his back, boots clicking softly against the polished floor as though the building itself were listening for him.
He passed containment tanks, sealed rooms, reinforced doors marked with warnings no one ever intended to obey. Every so often, something inside the walls shifted or thudded, a reminder that the word lab was doing a lot of heavy lifting down here. Jackal didn't look at any of it for long. None of it mattered yet.
At the far end of the lab, past a security door that slid open at his approach, the light thinned. The corridor beyond was narrow and deliberately underlit, the bulbs recessed high above, casting long shadows that swallowed the floor. This was where the experiments that didn't behave were kept. The ones that screamed. The ones that broke.
Jackal walked slowly, savoring the echo of his footsteps.
The cell at the end of the hall was occupied.
Walter Hardy barely looked like the man he'd once been. He sat slumped against the back wall, wrists shackled above his head, chains rattling softly as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His face was swollen, split in more than one place, dried blood flaking against his skin. One eye was nearly swollen shut. His clothes hung off him in tatters, the fabric dark with old stains that hadn't been cleaned in days. Weeks. The smell of antiseptic barely masked the copper beneath it.
But when Jackal stopped in front of the cell, Walter lifted his head.
His eyes were still sharp.
Contempt burned in them, bright and stubborn, even as his body trembled from exhaustion. It was the only part of him that hadn't been taken yet.
"How are we feeling, Walter?" Jackal asked pleasantly. "You don't look too well."
Walter dragged in a breath that turned into a cough halfway through. His shoulders shook as he fought it down, chains clinking softly. "Go—go to hell," he rasped.
Jackal smiled beneath the mask. "I come in peace," he said. "I have news for you."
He reached to the side, unfolded a metal chair, and dragged it across the concrete floor, the screeching sound echoing down the corridor like a warning. He set it just outside the cell and sat, crossing one leg over the other, posture relaxed, patient.
"Your daughter is following in your footsteps."
The words landed wrong. Not like a blow—worse. They slipped past the pain, past the exhaustion, straight into something still alive inside Walter.
His head snapped up.
"…Felicia?" The name came out broken. "You—" His breathing hitched. "You don't get to say her name."
Jackal tilted his head. "Oh, but I do. She's quite talented. Slippery. Clever. Resourceful." He leaned forward slightly. "Just like her father."
Walter's hands clenched into fists, chains biting into his wrists.
"She's not a part of this," he said, voice shaking.
Jackal chuckled softly.
"Oh, but isn't she?" He tapped a finger against the arm of the chair. "Funny thing about footsteps, Walter. They're easy to follow. Especially when someone doesn't realize they're leaving them behind."
Walter swallowed hard. His chest heaved. Weeks of isolation, pain, and degradation had worn him down to something fragile, something frayed. But this—this was different. This reached into him and twisted.
"What do you want?" he growled.
"I want you to understand," Jackal replied calmly. "This isn't punishment. It's progression. You had your time. Your legend. Your careful little retirement." He gestured vaguely at the cell. "And now… the next chapter."
Walter shook his head, a harsh, broken sound escaping him. "She has nothing to do with this."
"Ah." Jackal leaned back. "But she does. Because Jimmy has noticed her."
The name hit like ice.
Walter's breath caught in his throat, eyes widening despite himself. Fear—real fear—flickered there, raw and unguarded.
"No," he whispered. "Not him."
Jackal's voice softened, almost sympathetic.
"You remember Jimmy? Red feathers. Metal talons. So very enthusiastic." He smiled. "He was the one who brought you to me, after all."
Walter's body tensed violently, muscles screaming in protest as he pulled against the chains. Memories flashed behind his eyes—wings blotting out the light, claws digging in, the sound of air tearing apart as he was lifted screaming into the sky.
"If Jimmy has his way," Jackal continued, conversational, "he'll deal with her personally. He's been itching for another test. Something… hands-on."
Rage surged up through the fear, hot and desperate. Walter roared, voice cracking as he yanked at the restraints.
"You leave her alone! You hear me?! She's not part of this!"
Jackal stood, unhurried.
"Oh, Walter. It's only a matter of time before you're reunited. Father and daughter. A touching moment." He stepped closer to the bars, his shadow stretching over Walter's broken form. "But if Jimmy is involved… well. I wouldn't expect miracles."
Walter's strength finally broke through the pain. He slammed himself forward, chains rattling violently, screaming until his throat burned.
"STAY AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!"
Jackal turned away, already walking back down the corridor.
"YOU HEAR ME?!" Walter screamed after him, voice shredded, desperate, furious, alive in a way he hadn't been in weeks. "STAY AWAY FROM HER!"
The echoes chased Jackal down the hall, fading slowly, leaving Walter alone in the dark—with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the crushing realization that everything he'd tried to protect was slipping through his fingers.
AN: Hello everybody, how are you doing? So, I did a little bit of work on the story and figured out the timeline of events. It did require me to go through and do some minor edits to get everything lined up, but I should be good now. In a shocking turn of events, the overall story of Absolute Spider-Man has occurred over the course of 5 weeks. Mind you, this is accounting for Chapters 35-43 at least, as I am working on 43 currently. Normally I stay five chapters ahead, but I'll be honest, I got hit with the writing bug the other night and wrote out 4 whole chapters in the course of a day. In that case, I generally would post another chapter to keep up. The chapters that I wrote are some major ones in term of events. So rather than dropping them all at once, I intend on doing it sporadically over the next couple weeks. This will be the first chapter over the next three to four weeks that is dropped.
We are approximately in the last 10-15 percent of the Vulture arc, roughly. Until I know exactly how many chapters this rounds out to, that number is probably wrong! But yeah, I am actively trying to get the Vulture arc resolved by the end of February, even if the chapters are not released publicly by then. (I'd like to. Just depends on how things roll going forward)
Official timeline of Absolute Spider-Man:
SI's Universe:
June 6th, 2025: SI dies in a car wreck on the way to work
Absolute universe:
August 12th, 2024: Peter is bitten by the spider and falls into a three week coma.
September 2-8 (Chapters 1-7)
September 9-14 (Chapters 8-13)
September 16-20 (Chapters 14-22)
September 24 (Chapter 23)
September 25-October 6 (Chapters 24-26)
October 7 (Chapters 27-30)
October 8 (Chapters 31-37)
October 9 (Chapter 38-current)
That being said, some of the more formal complaints made about this story regarding Peter's powers and seeming weak, when put into perspective with this timeline makes things seem a little funnier in that regard. SI Peter has been awake from the coma for 5 weeks. So, in the span of a little over a month, Peter has gone from being in a coma to being Spider-Man now. He only had 15 days with May before she was killed. In 5 weeks, he's fought Adrian Toomes' Vulture, Shocker, and now Jimmy Natale's Vulture (yes, that's the Red Vulture). 10 days is what it took in-story for Peter's powers to be fully emerged without the addition of the web shooters.
It's funny to think that's all occurred in that timespan, but that is how it's gone down.
Onto more important things, though:
The next arc will be the Morbius and Hammerhead storyline. Morbius will be the biggest threat in the storyline, with Hammerhead acting as a secondary antagonist. Very excited to show that off when the time comes.
I will attempt to get another chapter or two out this week.
Please let me know what you guys think, it does help motivate me to keep writing!
Want to see more? I do have a Patreon where you can get up to 5 chapters early access and get to see artwork commissions I've gotten for the story, as well as first looks at original projects I have in the works. (Same username: Arsenal597)
Join my discord server where you can talk about the story. Link will be below!
I'll catch you guys later!
This story is cross-posted on Ao3, FF, and QQ.
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