When Eddie came back that afternoon and saw that the new home he had just moved into had already had half of it blown apart, he was stunned. After cleaning up what they could and calling people in for repairs, the whole group ended up temporarily moving back into Eddie's place instead.
A few days later, the Daily Bugle ran another special feature, this time focused entirely on Oscorp.
Oscorp at Dusk: The Fall of a Philanthropic Giant, or the Unmasking of a Corporate Monster?
The full spread carried photos of Norman Osborn conducting illegal gene-splicing experiments in his underground lab, along with hard proof of his financial ties to organized crime and a mountain of other criminal evidence.
The article laid out in detail how Oscorp had stolen outside technology, treated human lives as disposable, and, in carefully worded terms, strongly suggested that the terrorist known as the Green Goblin, the same one who had attacked civilians, was none other than Norman Osborn himself.
At the same time, another announcement hit Wall Street like an earthquake:
Oscorp had been jointly seized by the FBI and the NYPD. Hundreds of executives were taken in overnight for questioning. A military-industrial titan that had once stood shoulder to shoulder with Stark Industries collapsed in a single night.
A lot of investors simply broke down on the spot.
At Midtown High, outside the front gates.
Clark walked toward school with Eddie, Peter, and the others, backpacks over their shoulders.
Just as they reached the entrance, a stretch Lincoln rolled to a stop in front of the school. The door opened, and Harry stepped out.
He looked hollowed out.
The sudden drop from everything he had been to everything he was now had hit him hard.
The moment the surrounding students saw him, they slowed down and began whispering among themselves. The rich kids who used to orbit him and flatter him now avoided him like he was contagious.
"Did you hear? His dad was some kind of murderer..."
"They're saying he ran."
"Oscorp's finished. He's nobody now..."
"He used to act like such a big shot. Look at him now."
Each whisper cut into Harry's already collapsing state of mind like another knife. He stood there with his fists clenched, trembling uncontrollably.
"Harry..." Peter said under his breath, his chest tightening.
No matter what Norman Osborn had done, no matter how close he had come to murdering his aunt and uncle, Harry had not been part of it.
In his own way, Harry was a victim too.
Peter couldn't make himself hate him.
Clark reached into his backpack, pulled out a blueberry pie his mother had made, and stepped past Peter toward Harry.
Under the eyes of half the school, Clark said nothing dramatic. No empty comfort. No pity. No visible sympathy.
He simply held out the pie.
"My mom baked this this morning. She always says sweet stuff helps when you're having a bad day."
His tone was calm, as if the Green Goblin had never attacked their house. As if none of the ugliness that had happened even existed.
Harry stared blankly at the pie now pressed into his hands, then looked up at Clark's clear, steady eyes.
After the collapse of his family, his father's disappearance, the police seizures, and everyone around him turning cold overnight, this slice of blueberry pie was somehow the only piece of kindness he'd received in the whole city that wasn't tied to money or strings.
"Clark... I..." Harry's eyes reddened, but no words came out. He just started eating.
Clark lightly patted him on the shoulder and said nothing more.
He knew Harry wasn't the kind of person who would blindly devote himself to avenging his father.
From farther back, Peter and the others all quietly let out a breath.
Of course, if Harry ever did come looking for revenge, Clark wouldn't mind.
Worst case, he could always launch a second Harry satellite and give Earth a future tourist attraction called the Father-Son Planetary Exhibit.
As for S.H.I.E.L.D., their decades-old mission involving America's most famous frozen relic had finally moved into its next phase.
Captain America had successfully thawed out, and he had already been transferred into their rehabilitation facilities.
The room prepared for him was deliberately old-fashioned. A radio on the bedside table was even playing an old baseball game.
On the hospital bed, broad-shouldered, blond-haired, blue-eyed Steve Rogers, America's favorite super-soldier, a man who had spent nearly seventy years asleep, finally opened his eyes in the fall of 2008.
The confusion in his gaze lasted only a moment before it hardened into alertness.
He stayed still in bed and started gathering information with his ears.
Everything around him felt right...
Except the radio.
Hydra, he thought, you're getting sloppy.
Steve decided to play along.
Not long after, a woman dressed in a wartime-style nurse's uniform walked in.
"Good morning, Captain. How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
Steve sat up slowly, already studying the room, already looking for the best escape route.
"Pretty good," he said. "Except the radio broadcast gave you away. Whoever you are, you're not fooling me."
He exploded into motion and drove a punch at the "nurse."
Luckily, she was actually an agent in disguise and managed to avoid the first hit. She immediately tried to explain.
"No! Captain, please calm down!" At the same time, she reached for the alarm.
"Who are you? Where am I?!"
Steve didn't give her the chance to finish hitting the button. He followed with another strike and dropped her unconscious.
His earlier observations had already told him exactly where to break through. He drove an elbow straight into the weakest-looking wall section.
The fake panel shattered, exposing a one-way observation window and several modern S.H.I.E.L.D. agents beyond it.
"Alarm! Target is awake! Target is unstable! Call for backup!" one of the agents shouted.
Steve took in their sleek tactical uniforms and the unfamiliar rifles in their hands, and his suspicion only deepened.
So Hydra had advanced even further.
"You won't hold me!"
Even without his shield or any weapon at all, Captain America was a weapon.
Two brutal hooks dropped the agents in front of him, though he very deliberately did not kill them. Then he charged through the opening and kept running.
The more of the facility he saw, the more dangerous it all felt. None of this belonged to his era.
"Stop him! Do not fire! Repeat, do not fire!" Nick Fury's voice came booming through the building over the speakers.
Steve fought his way past wave after wave of agents trying to intercept him, until at last he burst out of the building.
Then his feet hit the pavement.
He looked up.
And froze.
This wasn't Europe.
It wasn't the New York he remembered either.
This was Times Square in 2008.
It was more advanced in every direction, but he could still tell where he was.
The giant LED billboards. The cars, sleeker and faster than anything he had known. The small devices people carried in their hands. The sheer overload of it all washed over a man who was, functionally, nearly a hundred years old.
Steve stood dazed in the middle of the intersection while cars screeched to a stop around him. Drivers leaned out their windows to shout, but he barely heard them.
His understanding of the world shattered in that single second.