A secure, frequency-hopping satellite channel hummed with suppressed fury.
"Listen, Director, I'm done. I'm pulling the plug."
"The new head of Osborn is an utter, certifiable idiot. I mean, what the actual hell?"
On the other end, sitting in a darkened office overlooking the Potomac, Nick Fury let the wave of profanity wash over him. His single, focused eye remained on a screen streaming data about one Aaron—a man who had appeared from nowhere, swung across Manhattan like a carnival attraction, befriended a major defense contractor's CEO, and then, in a single, baffling move, apparently acquired controlling interest in a multi-billion-dollar tech conglomerate.
"Romanoff," Fury's voice was a low rumble, a calming counterpoint to her static-laced anger. "Let's apply some logic. Is it more likely that a man who accomplished all that in under seventy-two hours is an 'idiot,' or is it possible your… particular approach failed to resonate?"
Natasha Romanoff, leaning against a grimy brick wall in a Queens alley, scowled. "My 'approach' is field-tested across five continents. It's not the approach."
"Maybe he just doesn't like redheads," Fury offered, the barest hint of dry amusement in his tone. "Or maybe he saw the three layers of cover you were wearing before you even opened your mouth. Norman Osborn is a paranoid, ruthless genius. Eleanor Bishop is a shark in a pantsuit. They didn't get where they are by being easily charmed. This Aaron individual assessed you, found you wanting for his purposes, and removed you with a pretext so insultingly arbitrary it was a message in itself. Think on that."
Natasha's jaw tightened. The 'left foot' dismissal. It had felt like a performance. A brutal, public one designed to humiliate and establish a bizarre, absolute authority. "I am not re-engaging with that arrogant son of a—"
"Good," Fury cut in smoothly. "You're reassigned. Primary objective shifts back to Stark Industries. Pepper Potts has cleared a junior administrative position for a 'Natalie Rushman.' Stark's… proclivities are well-documented and predictable. Should be a straightforward infiltration. Try not to get fired for stepping on a crack in the sidewalk."
Natasha rolled her eyes, the motion wasted on the empty alley. Should have been there from the start. Tony Stark was a known quantity—brilliant, ego-driven, vulnerable to a well-crafted persona. "Fine. But I'm telling you, Fury, there's something off about this Aaron. He moves… wrong. He sees things he shouldn't."
"Duly noted. He's now a Person of Interest, file designation 'Aether.' Your report is the opening entry. We'll have other assets keep a distant watch. Now, get to Malibu. And Romanoff? Try to keep the property damage below seven figures this time."
She ended the call with a sharp stab of her thumb. "I hate entitled, cryptic rich guys," she muttered to the stale city air.
No sooner had the words left her lips than the high-tech satellite phone in her hand gave a cheerful, incongruous bloop. The screen flickered, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo was replaced by the pixelated, yellow circle of Pac-Man. The little digital icon began zipping around her screen, gobbling up application icons—secure comms, encrypted files, biometric scanners—with a series of cheerful wakka-wakka sounds before turning to give her a pixelated, grinning wink.
Then, the screen died. Utterly. Not a low-power flicker, but the deep, absolute black of a bricked device.
Natasha stared at the dead slab of plastic and composite in her palm. Her brow, usually a masterclass in controlled expression, furrowed in pure, unadulterated confusion.
What.
This was Level-7 hardware, hardened against EMP, network intrusion, and brute-force decryption. It didn't have games. It didn't get viruses. It especially didn't get taunted by 80s arcade ghosts.
A cold, prickling sensation, entirely separate from the chill of the alley, traced its way up her spine. The arbitrary firing. The impossible knowledge of her lead foot. Now this. Coincidence was a fairy tale for amateurs.
With a snarl of frustration that was equal parts anger and a rare, professional dread, she hurled the useless device against the opposite wall. It shattered with a satisfyingly destructive crunch.
"Even the goddamn tech is mocking me!"
****
Back in the sterile opulence of the Osborn executive suite, Norman stood with a deferential hunch that was becoming habitual. "My most profound apologies, sir. A full internal audit has been initiated. The individual who allowed 'Natalie Rushman' onto the candidate list has been identified and terminated. Security protocols have been quadruple-checked. It will not happen again."
He was sweating, but it was the cold sweat of a man who had seen miracles and knew the cost of failing the miracle-worker. His own private, exhaustive medical scans that morning had confirmed it: the Osborn genetic curse, the ticking clock in every cell of his body, was simply… gone. Erased. The relief was oceanic, and it had solidified his loyalty into something akin to religious fervor. Now, he needed to secure the same grace for Harry.
Aaron, seated behind the desk that had so recently been Norman's throne, gave a dismissive wave. "The candidate list comes to me directly for pre-screening from now on. And that woman—'Rushman,' or whatever her real name is—is permanently barred from any Osborn property, subsidiary, or partner facility. Is that clear?"
"Crystal, sir." Norman nodded, the order etched into his mental priority list.
"Now," Aaron continued, his tone shifting to one of expectation. "The acquisitions I requested yesterday."
"Already in progress, sir. A preliminary batch has been secured and is in holding. If you'd like to inspect…?"
"Lead the way."
Aaron stood, and Felicia, who had been observing the exchange with the intense focus of a scholar deciphering a new language, fell into step. She maintained a perfect professional mask, her mind racing to categorize this new task. A secret acquisition? Sensitive tech? Biological samples for a black project?
Norman led them not to a high-tech lab or a secure vault, but to a climate-controlled, nondescript storage room deep in the building's sub-levels. Inside, on several long steel tables, sat an array of containers that made Felicia's carefully constructed hypotheses stutter and collapse.
There were terrariums and insect cages. She saw several species of geckos clinging to glass, their eyes large and unblinking. A separate enclosure held chameleons, their skin a dull brown against the mulch. Delicate containers held what looked like large, iridescent beetles. A small, darkened cage housed a cluster of bats, hanging silently. Several aquariums contained sleek, pale salamanders with feathery external gills—axolotls. On another table sat a collection of advanced-looking goggles and monocles, the kind she associated with military R&D—infrared and thermal imaging devices.
Felicia's internal database scrambled for context. Geckos? Osborn had no public herpetology division. Bats? Was this virology? The imaging tech made sense for a defense contractor, but why was it here, piled next to… bugs?
She glanced at Norman, whose expression was one of studious neutrality, and then at Aaron, whose face held a look of quiet, almost hungry anticipation. This was not a corporate strategy session. This felt ritualistic.
"You may wait outside," Aaron said, his voice leaving no room for discussion.
Norman bowed his head slightly and ushered a bewildered Felicia back into the corridor. The heavy door sealed shut behind them, its locks engaging with a series of solid clunks.
Alone in the room, Aaron's demeanor shifted entirely. The corporate mask fell away, replaced by the focused intensity of a craftsman at his bench. His Superior Cognitive Matrix had already mapped the room, confirming the absence of any active surveillance—Norman had, indeed, been thorough.
He moved along the tables, his Enhanced Sensory Array drinking in the details: the slow blink of a gecko, the chemical signature of the axolotl's water, the faint ultrasonic chatter of the bats, the unique chitinous composition of the tiger beetles.
"Time to clock in," he murmured to himself, extending his right hand.
The Primal Furnace responded. The singularity in his palm seemed to deepen, its event horizon swelling subtly. There was no sound, no dramatic flash of light. One by one, the containers and their contents simply… vanished. The glass terrariums, the metal cages, the advanced goggles—all were consumed by the absolute darkness in his hand, leaving the steel tables bare.
Inside him, the Furnace worked, disassembling not just matter, but the fundamental concepts encoded within: regenerative cellular mechanisms, specialized photoreception, acoustic biomimicry, adaptive chromatophores, thermal radiation detection.
Streams of complex, multifaceted energy—cool blues for the reptiles, pulsating ambers for the insects, deep purples for the sonar-capable mammals—erupted from his palm and flowed into his system. The upgrades were more intricate this time, weaving into his existing biological framework, enhancing and specializing.
[Advanced Photoreceptive Integration (Gecko/Chameleon): Retinal structure enhanced with specialized rod cells and tunable chromatophores. Can see clearly in near-total darkness (0.0001 lux). Gain ability to consciously alter skin pigmentation and texture for limited active camouflage. Dynamic vision and light sensitivity increased by a factor of 400. Merges with existing Hyper-Spectrum Vision… Integration complete.]**
[Bio-Sonar Emission & Processing (Bat): Larynx and auditory cortex modified. Can emit focused, high-frequency sound pulses and interpret the returning echoes to construct a detailed three-dimensional sound-map of surroundings, effective in total darkness or through obfuscating mediums. Range: approximately 100 meters.]**
[Cellular Regenerative Catalyst (Axolotl): Latent regenerative ability significantly augmented. Can now regenerate complex tissues—muscle, dermis, minor bone structures—over a period of hours to days, depending on severity. Dramatically increased recovery rate from systemic trauma and resistance to scarring.]**
[Extreme Velocity Processing (Tiger Beetle): Neural synaptic speed and visual processing calibrated for hyper-acceleration. Can track and react to objects moving at supersonic speeds within a limited field of view. Enhances overall reaction time threshold.]**
[Thermal/Infrared Spectrum Analysis (Imaging Tech): Dermal receptors and optical nerves upgraded to directly perceive and interpret thermal radiation and infrared signatures. Can see heat gradients through certain materials, track residual thermal footprints, and identify energy sources. Merges with Enhanced Sensory Array… Integration complete.]**
Aaron let out a slow breath, feeling the new systems calibrate. The world in the dim storage room was now a symphony of data: he could hear the shape of the air ducts, see the heat bleeding from the lights in the ceiling, feel the potential for his skin to shift and blend. He was becoming a more comprehensive sensor suite, a more resilient organism.
He flexed his hand, watching as, with a thought, the skin on his forearm subtly shifted color to match the grey of the steel table beside him. It was a crude mimicry now, but the potential was there.
One step at a time, he thought, the hunger of the Furnace a quiet, agreeable echo within. One concept at a time.