The insistent, rhythmic buzzing tore through the fabric of a deep, dreamless sleep. Aaron surfaced into consciousness not with grogginess, but with an instantaneous, hyper-aware assessment of his surroundings. Before he even opened his eyes, his Expanded Sensory Array and Pheromonal & Chemical Analysis painted a vivid picture of the space beyond the townhouse door.
Two distinct biological signatures. One, a bright, effervescent cocktail of youthful excitement, impatience, and a hint of expensive strawberry shampoo: Kate. The other, a more complex blend: controlled stress, a subtle, high-end floral perfume (Chanel No. 5), and the underlying, clean scent of salt air, likely from a morning drive along the coast. Eleanor.
His enhanced hearing picked up a whispered, urgent exchange.
"Kate, stop it! It's barely noon. He could be resting. We can't just—"
"But Mom! He said to come by anytime! And look, the sun's right there! It's practically afternoon!"
A soft sigh. "That is not how that works, young lady. Patience is a virtue you desperately need to cultivate."
Patience, Aaron mused, stretching. A luxury he could scarcely afford, but one his new landlord's daughter clearly lacked. He rose, moving through the minimalist space with the silent efficiency his new body afforded. A quick, focused burst of photon emission from his palm provided a sterile light to wash by, followed by a precise application of controlled electrostatic energy to dry himself, a trick he was refining. He dressed in the simple, high-quality clothes Eleanor had discreetly provided.
When he opened the door, he was met with the scene his senses had already constructed. Eleanor, poised and apologetic in a sharp business suit. Kate, practically vibrating in a designer tracksuit, her face a mask of attempted innocence that failed utterly.
"Mr. Aaron, my sincerest apologies," Eleanor began, her voice smooth. "Kate was… insistent. She wished to begin her 'training reconnaissance' immediately."
Kate rolled her eyes so hard Aaron feared they might get stuck. "You said you were coming too! And it's not that early!"
Aaron glanced up at the sun, hanging high in a sky still streaked with the odd, lingering greenish tint from the previous day.
"Quite the lie-in," he remarked dryly. "Doesn't the illustrious Miss Bishop have an academy to attend?"
Kate puffed out her chest. "Please. I finished this semester's curriculum weeks ago. Hanging out with kids who think calculus is hard is boring. Mom's signing me up for real training! Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, fencing…" She listed them like a grocery list. "Once I master them all, I'll be ready to fight evil, just like you!"
Aaron's expression turned thoughtful. "I'd advise against using me as a template."
"Why?" Kate demanded, her brow furrowing.
"Because I'm not a 'hero' in the paragon sense. I'm more of a… free agent. An independent operator. My moral compass has some… interesting declinations." He gave a slight, enigmatic shrug. "You'd be better off with a more traditional role model. Captain America, perhaps. His ethical framework is notoriously rigid."
Kate looked skeptical, but before she could argue, Aaron yawned, the gesture only half-feigned. The integration of the biological upgrades was still settling, a deep cellular hum beneath his skin. "Since you're both here, and clearly equipped with vehicular transport, would you mind giving me a lift?"
Eleanor's smile was immediate and genuine.
"Of course. It would be our pleasure." Proximity to Aaron was an asset she was keen to cultivate, both for Kate's unpredictable future and for the security of her own company in a world that now clearly contained such beings.
"Destination?" she asked as they settled into the plush interior of her armored sedan.
"Oscorp."
Eleanor's hands paused for a fraction of a second on the wheel before she smoothly pulled into traffic.
"A significant player. Do you have business there? An interview, perhaps?" Her tone was carefully neutral, but a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossed her features in the rearview mirror.
"In a manner of speaking," Aaron replied, watching the city blur past. Applying for the position of majority stakeholder and de facto sovereign definitely counts as an interview.
The drive was filled with Kate's relentless stream of consciousness. She leaped from debating the tactical merits of Batman's no-kill rule ("He just creates more work for himself!") to a detailed review of every hot dog vendor from Battery Park to Harlem. Aaron responded with monosyllables or hums, his focus inward, running probability scenarios for his impending meeting with Norman.
When they arrived at the monolithic Osborn Tower, the scene at the main entrance gave them pause. A double line of severe-looking individuals in dark suits and earpieces formed a corridor from the curb to the gleaming glass doors. Mid-level executives in expensive wool coats stood stiffly among them, their faces fixed in expressions of professional deference.
Eleanor's lips pursed. "It seems you've picked an inopportune day. That's a full corporate reception line. The board must be welcoming a head of state or a Pentagon delegation. I doubt HR is conducting interviews."
Aaron simply unbuckled his seatbelt. "We'll see."
"Wait, Aaron, maybe we should—" Eleanor began, but he was already out of the car, closing the door with a soft thud.
From the safety of the sedan, mother and daughter watched, tense. Kate's eyes were wide. "They're gonna shoo him away, right? Or… or tackle him? Should we call someone?"
Eleanor didn't answer, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Then, the impossible happened. Norman Osborn himself, flanked by his grim-faced head of security and a wiry, anxious-looking man who was likely the COO, broke from the line and strode toward Aaron.
There was no confrontation.
Instead, Norman extended his hand. They shook. Words were exchanged, Aaron's posture relaxed and faintly disapproving, Norman's bearing oddly… conciliatory. Then, the entourage pivoted. Aaron, to Eleanor and Kate's stunned disbelief, took the lead, walking toward the building as if he owned the pavement. Norman fell in step a respectful half-pace behind, his head slightly inclined as if listening to instruction.
The rows of suits and executives parted like a sea before a stone.
Kate's jaw was practically on her lap. "Did… did he just become the President of Oscorp?"
Eleanor could only stare, her mind scrambling to update her mental file on Aaron. This was beyond a powerful meta-human. This was influence of a staggering, quiet kind.
Inside the tower, the atmosphere was one of hushed, bewildered reverence. Aaron ignored the stares, following Norman directly to the executive elevator and up to the penthouse office—a vast, cold space of steel, glass, and minimalist art that screamed of calculated power.
Once the heavy doors hissed shut, Norman's corporate mask slipped, replaced by a look of cautious anxiety. "My apologies, sir. I… researched some historical footage of diplomatic receptions in your native region. I believed a formal welcome was appropriate. It won't happen again."
Aaron waved a dismissive hand, his anger at the spectacle already cooled by the sheer absurdity of it. "Forget it. Just don't make a habit of turning my arrivals into a parade. I prefer anonymity."
"Understood." Norman visibly relaxed. He hesitated, then gestured toward a sleek console. "There is another matter. As per your… ascension, it's customary for the principal executive to have a dedicated assistant. To manage schedules, filter communications, handle logistical minutiae. I've taken the liberty of vetting several candidates. They're waiting in the auxiliary conference room. If you have time for brief interviews…?"
Aaron considered. A personal interface with the corporate machinery made sense. It would keep Norman focused on the macro tasks—consolidating power, reverse-engineering the healing accelerant, executing the acquisition list—while providing Aaron with a direct, deniable channel. "Send them in one at a time."
Norman nodded, placing a thin dossier on the obsidian desk.
"Their profiles. I'll have the first candidate brought up." He left with a deferential nod, the door sealing behind him with a sound like a vault closing.
Aaron sat in Norman's imposing chair—his chair now—and opened the dossier. The first page contained a standard HR headshot, but the woman in the photograph was anything but standard. Pale, almost platinum blonde hair fell in a perfect wave over one shoulder. Striking blue eyes held a confidence that bordered on challenge. The name below: Felicia Hardy.
He scanned the attached summary.
Age: 21. Education: Parismatic, a mix of prestigious European finishing schools and listed courses in business administration and linguistics.
Previous Employment: Vague, referencing "discretionary private liaison work for high-net-worth European clients."
The attached documents were… thorough. Exceedingly so. A full medical panel, including genetic screening markers and metabolic baselines. A psych eval that noted "exceptionally high adaptive intelligence and situational awareness." A note in Norman's handwriting read: Background shows gaps. Likely skilled in information acquisition and social engineering. High risk, high potential utility. Recommend direct oversight.
Aaron's eyebrow arched. This wasn't a secretary candidate; this was a potential asset—or a very beautiful, very sharp thorn. He remembered her now, a ghost from fragmented memories of another timeline: Felicia, often adjacent to Harry Osborn's world. A woman who knew how to navigate shadows.
Intrigued, he flipped to the next candidate's profile. His eyes scanned the page, and his relaxed posture instantly stiffened. The name, the listed previous employer—a subsidiary shell company he recognized from a deep-web intelligence scrape he'd performed the night before—it was a front, and not a very good one. Hydra.
The profile picture smiled blandly back at him.
A cold smirk touched his lips. Norman, you clever, paranoid bastard. This wasn't an oversight. This was a test. A way to see if Aaron could spot the infiltrator himself. Or perhaps it was Norman's idea of a first gift—a problem to be solved, demonstrating his new master's capability.
He closed the dossier. The game within the game was already beginning. He leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"Interesting."
The word hung in the sterile air of the office. The first candidate, Felicia, would be enlightening. The second… would be a message.