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Spending the day in a convention center in the heart of the city is not at all how Norman Osborn planned to spend his day. In fact, he had signed this particular obligation off to two of his senior employees. Specifically so he didn’t have to sit through what was, at best, a twelve-hour day.
The youth are undoubtedly the foundation of the future — Norman is not obtuse to that. Oscorp goes to great lengths to encourage scientific education in young minds. Could he list every initiative? Not exactly. That is the responsibility of the departments designed to handle outreach. Some roles are simply not that of a CEO. This is supposed to be one of them.
He had always operated under the assumption that others in his position agreed. Events like the Science Bowl, career fairs, robotics competitions — these were for representatives, not executives. For faces, not decision makers. And yet, a text that comes in just past midday proves otherwise.
MACY: rep at the science bowl in manhattan just told me stark and hammer showed up to recruit
MACY: potts there too apparently
Justin Hammer barely registers. The man is a dimwit who has been punching above his weight for years, surviving longer than logic ever justified. Norman spares him little more than a passing dismissal.
Stark, on the other hand, gives him pause. Especially when you factor in Pepper Potts — the beautiful CEO of Stark Industries, and the far sharper half of her and Tony. Stark Industries doesn’t usually attend events like this. Norman has always attributed that to arrogance. They do not need to recruit. Talent comes to them. Even if, in Norman’s opinion, much of that interest is fueled by proximity to the so called Avengers rather than actual innovation.
Which is probably why he finds himself standing from a twelve-thirty meeting fifteen minutes in, leaving a table full of suits mid-sentence. He does not offer an explanation. He doesn’t need to. If there is a change in typically observed patterns, he will figure out what variable has changed. There is very little point in calling himself a man of science if he’s not willing to run his own research of sorts.
He enters the convention center with Macy at his side, expression already set into something pleasant and controlled as he loops the freshly printed badge around his neck. He hadn’t been expected, but status tends to smooth most inconveniences.
“Joseph,” he says, stepping in beside the Oscorp representative, arms folding neatly across his chest as his gaze begins to map the room.
“Mr. Osborn!” Joseph startles, turning quickly. Macy must have forgotten to mention they were crashing.
“You just missed the kid everyone’s been obsessing over,” Joseph says, attention flicking back toward the stage. “They handed all the kids a pile of junk — scrap materials, basic compounds — told them to build something useful. This kid…” He shakes his head. “He turned it into something insane. I’ve been trying to get a word in, but Stark’s had him locked down all day. Heard he and Potts even ran Hammer out when he tried.”
The corner of Norman’s mouth shifts — not quite a smile, but close enough to pass as one. Joseph had been selected for this assignment for a reason. He gathers quickly. Talks easily. Gets close. From the quality of what he’s reporting, that decision feels justified.
“Without being obvious,” Norman says evenly, “point him out.”
Joseph points immediately.
Norman almost sighs. There is the briefest of moments where he considers slapping him upside the head. He does not, lucky for Joseph. Fortunately, the trio in question has their backs turned and don’t notice a thing.
“What’s his name?” Norman asks, attention settling instead on the boy — slight frame, curly brown hair, posture that reads more focused than restless.
“Peter Parker. Midtown School of Science and Technology.”
For a moment, it looks like the kid just might look over his shoulder at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t. Would've been pretty impressive if he’d heard them all the way from here.
There’s something not fully formed behind what Joseph just said. Something that settles on the tip of Norman’s tongue, just out of reach. His gaze shifts briefly to Macy, and based on her paused expression, she’s thinking it too.
“Midtown,” Norman repeats, quieter now, more to himself than anyone else. The word rolls once, twice, as he searches for the connection he knows is there.
“Isn’t that the school that was in the building the day that —” Macy trails off, but Norman doesn’t need her to finish.
He fills it in easily.
The day one of their more… volatile experiments, slipped its containment.
Norman remembers that day with an extremely unpleasant clarity. It’s not often that his staff go around losing illegal work. Once the incident had been reported to him, his day had been spent drafting statements, rewriting them, and then drafting them all over again. Explaining, in incredibly careful language, how genetically engineered spiders had escaped into a building full of employees and two school field trips. Luckily, it had been handled. The spider was recovered — unfortunately dead just a few floors down — and no injuries had been reported. So they kept it quiet, sweeping the whole thing under the rug.
His thoughts roll around to Spider-Man before he can stop them.
The only loose thread. The only variable that never quite resolved. His team had insisted the emergence of a spider-themed vigilante in Queens several days later was coincidence. Norman had allowed it, it was easier to do that. The cleanest way to put the whole situation behind them and forget it ever happened. However, he’s never been entirely convinced.
But that is not why he is here. Even if Peter Parker had been in that building that day, he would have been one of many. The likelihood of him being Spider-Man was slim, but now that the even slightest possibility existed, Norman would be paying very close attention for the rest of the event. Which was probably going to prove to be difficult when this was a boy currently standing between Pepper Potts and Tony Stark.
For the next twenty minutes, while a girl on stage drones through what he considers a painfully average presentation, Stark and Potts haven’t moved more than a step away from the kid. They aren’t circulating the crows. They aren’t engaging with any students or recruiters – outside the MIT representative. They’re… stationary. Stuck to Peter Parker like glue.
Norman does not need a degree in behavioral science to read what’s in front of him. Tony’s arm rests easily across the boy’s shoulders, not protective — familiar. Pepper’s expression softens in a way Norman has only ever seen directed at Stark himself. The boy talks with his hands, quick, animated, completely at ease. Whatever the conversation is, it has nothing to do with internships or future prospects.
It clicks.
The press release. A child welcomed into the Stark household. No name. No details. Carefully controlled so they could do things like this. Support their kid without too much suspicion. Said kid being a supposed genius is truly no surprise. Tony Stark wouldn’t adopt someone average now, would he?
Norman’s mouth curves faintly, something thoughtful settling in behind it. The man has always been a little… off. Brilliant, yes. But guided more by instinct than discipline. This whole thing tracks. If Norman could trade Harry in for a better kid, he would. Perhaps he should look into it.
For the next two hours, Norman wastes his time speaking to the students that still linger in the building. His mind is, of course, elsewhere, but hey — this was an opportunity to look like the better CEO. To posture Oscorp, and himself, over Stark Industries while the top five finalists are working in separate rooms to prepare their final presentations. If he is going to spend his afternoon in a convention center waiting around, it will not be unproductive.
Still, his awareness never strays far.
“Recruiters, we ask that you begin making your way to conference room C for the final five presentations,” the announcer finally calls over the PA system.
Norman exhales slowly through his nose, already shifting in the right direction. He was finally going to see what had the Starks and Justin Hammer in such a tizzy.
The first three presentations are good. Genuinely.
The senior from Midtown Tech presents a medication dispenser system that syncs directly with the user's smartwatch to ensure they get the proper dosage. It was a clean concept, practical application — though it lacks a bit of structure, and originality isn’t exactly its strong suit — but the vision is there. Especially for someone only eighteen.
When she finally exits, Peter Parker steps into the room.
“H-hello, I’m Peter Parker, from Midtown School of Science and Technology, and I’m representing the sophomore class.”
The boy smiles, nerves bleeding through the edges of his voice. It’s not crippling — just human. Norman watches the way he shifts his weight, the way his hands hover like they don’t quite know where to settle.
Stark should have coached that out of him. Harry knows better than to get in front of people and let them see you sweat. Perhaps his offspring is alright after all… in some areas at least.
“Today I’m presenting a project that I like to call WALA — name still in progress,” he adds quickly, grimacing, “— it stands for web-applicated liquid adhesive. Being from Queens, I’ve always been really inspired by Spider-Man. I’m not sure if any of you have ever seen his webs up close, but it’s sort of a common occurrence where I’m from with his frequent criminal capturing and all. And after seeing it, I got to thinking… a flexibly strong adhesive that can patch skin together and dissolve temporarily would make for a really good emergency bandage.”
That.
That has Norman’s full attention.
He shifts forward slightly in his seat, posture tightening with interest rather than effort. It isn’t just the originality — though that alone would have been enough. It’s the direction. The specificity. The immediate alignment with something Norman has spent the last nearly two years trying to understand, replicate, control.
Spider-Man.
If the prototype functions as described, this is exactly the kind of project Oscorp would fund. More importantly, it exists completely outside Stark Industries’ current market. That alone makes it valuable.
“So this here,” Peter continues, holding up a small cartridge — roughly the size of a spray paint can, “is the canister the webbing releases from. It could be sold in travel or value sizes later, but this felt like a solid starting point. You hold it about six inches away from the wound and spray the adhesive across the surface area.”
Normans watches with rapt interest as Peter grows more and more confident in his presentation. It was by far the most brilliant project thus far by a long shot.
“I’ve got this dummy here that I’ve already added some fake wounds to,” Peter says, producing it with a quick efficiency that doesn’t match the nerves from earlier. He tears into the surface — simulated blood begins to seep. “And now, I’ll demonstrate.”
He sprays and the effect is immediate. The bleeding stops completely. The white webbing darkens as blood presses against it, contained beneath the surface but never breaking through. No leakage. No spread. Containment without compression failure.
It’s remarkable.
“It’s not just great for patching wounds,” Peter continues, momentum building now that he’s in it, “but in cases of severe trauma — like maimed or severed limbs — or even something like a stab wound where the object needs to stay in place until surgical removal… WALA can stabilize that.”
He gestures to each example on the dummy, grinning at the judges and then to the couple that Norman knows is sitting in the back row watching their kid completely secure limbs in place and keep a knife from being jostled around.
“Along with the web fluid, I also created a dissolver that would be sold alongside it,” Peter says, holding up a second canister — slimmer, more refined. “Once applied, it breaks down the adhesive cleanly. No residue, non-toxic, no strong odor.”
His own teams have worked through variations of this problem. They’ve come close — close enough to be frustrating — but never quite right. Something always falls short. Tensile strength inconsistent. Adhesion either too aggressive or not enough. Dissolvers that either fail or overcorrect.
And this kid had two hours, limited materials, and he’s not approximating it — he’s matching it.
Norman’s smile stills, because now it isn’t just impressive. It’s improbable.
This project can’t be inspired by. It has to be derived from.
“Macy,” he murmurs, not taking his eyes off the stage, “have someone at headquarters send over the list of students present during the… incident.”
Six minutes later, his phone vibrates softly in his hand.
Peter Parker indeed had been present. In fact, he’d been flagged as a point of concern when the tour guide had marked him missing for several minutes.
His eyes flick back to the boy on stage as Peter wraps up his final points, voice steadier now, confidence settling into place like it had always belonged there. Norman watches the way he presents — the ease, the familiarity with the material — and the conclusion comes quietly, but firmly.
Ninety percent.
That is where he lands.
Either that is Spider-Man standing in front of him… or the most remarkable coincidence Norman has encountered in years. And Norman Osborn does not build his empire on coincidence. He builds it on patterns. On cause and effect. On understanding exactly where things begin.
And this?
This began with his spider.
His attention sharpens.
Tony Stark adopting a child who just might be one of New York’s most persistent vigilantes… It isn’t just interesting — it’s irritating. The pieces are aligning too neatly, and Norman finds he doesn’t particularly like where they land.
If anyone has a claim to Spider-Man…
It should be him.
The final presentation comes and goes without him retaining a word of it. His focus fractures inward, cycling through angles, approaches, outcomes. What to say. How to say it. How to confirm what he already knows without tipping his hand too early.
By the time the panel dismisses the room to deliberate, he still hasn’t settled on the perfect entry point. No matter. He doesn’t need perfect, he just needs Joseph and Macy to distract Stark and Potts long enough for him to get a chance to talk to the kid.
“Peter Parker.”
The name leaves him smoothly as he closes the remaining distance between them.
Peter blinks, glancing over his shoulder as if there might be another version of him standing somewhere behind. His finger lifts toward his chest, uncertainty written plainly across his face.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Norman replies easily. “Walk with me for a moment.”
His hands slip into his pockets as he turns, already expecting the boy to follow. He doesn’t.
“I—” Peter hesitates, scratching at the back of his neck, weight shifting. “I should probably stay here. My… my parents are meeting me. Plus, uh — stranger danger and all that.”
Norman hums, something faintly amused ghosting across his expression.
“Your parents are currently occupied in the conference room with my associates,” he says, tone even, unhurried. “I offered to come keep you company.”
The lie rolls off his tongue easily. All his lies do. Except this time, it doesn’t land. Peter doesn’t move an inch. If anything, he seems to root himself more firmly in place, uncertainty edging into his features and moving closer to resistance.
“I think it would be in your best interest to speak with me,” he suggests.
A beat.
Then —
“Spider-Man.”
The word is barely above a murmur.
But it lands exactly where he intends it to.
All color drains from Peter’s face. His eyes widen. There’s a break in his composure. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
There it is.
“I — what — I think you’ve got the wrong person,” Peter finally manages, words tripping over themselves just slightly as his gaze darts toward the exit.
“I don’t think I do,” Norman replies, stepping closer. Not necessarily aggressive, just enough to apply pressure. “Tell me… how was your field trip to Oscorp?”
Peter swallows. Hard.
His fingers flex against his thighs, a nervous tell he either hasn’t noticed or hasn’t learned to hide.
“Incredibly boring, sir,” he says quickly. “You should probably talk to your team about that.”
Deflection.
Expected. Especially of a Stark son.
“And the spider?” Norman continues, tone unchanged. “The one that bit you. Was that boring as well?”
A tilt of his head. Just enough.
“You know you killed her.”
Peter freezes.
“We never did get to use her for the research we intended,” Norman goes on, almost conversational now. “Though I imagine we could… readjust.”
“I—I’m not Spider-Man, sir,” Peter insists, firmer this time, clinging to it. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
Norman studies him for a moment — really studies him — the micro-expressions, the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds eye contact just a second too long before breaking it.
No. He doesn’t believe him. And Norman Osborn is rarely wrong about things like this.
“Unfortunately,” he says, taking another measured step forward, “I don’t believe you.”
“W-Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Osborn,” Peter counters, trying for steady and almost getting there. “I’m just a high schooler. I can’t be Spider-Man. I have homework, and tests, and finals.”
Norman smiles — not warmly. “A high schooler who was present in my building the day a highly specialized specimen went missing,” he says. “A high schooler who can, apparently, replicate a compound my own teams have yet to perfect.”
“It sounds to me,” Peter shoots back, a flicker of something sharper breaking through the nerves, “like you’ve got a containment problem and subpar employees. I mean, I’m just a kid, but experiments probably shouldn’t be getting out, right? Isn’t that something you’re supposed to report?”
Ah. There is that Stark influence again.
Norman’s smile deepens just slightly, more teeth this time. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to be intentional.
“Tell me,” he says, voice lowering again, “did Stark adopt you before… or after he realized what you are?”
Peter opens his mouth.
Closes it.
And then a throat clears behind him.
It’s Pepper Potts.
The look on Norman’s face shifts instantly, the scowl smoothing out into something far more palatable. Controlled. Polished. Pleasant in a way that never quite reaches his eyes. They’d been speaking low enough that she likely hadn’t caught the specifics, but he’s not arrogant enough to assume the boy won’t report every word the second he’s out of earshot. Which is… concerning, but nothing he can’t figure out.
“Miss Potts,” he greets smoothly. “I was just taking a moment to speak with your — son here. He’s quite impressive.”
He angles a smile toward Peter that’s meant to read warm. It isn’t, though.
Pepper’s heels click sharply against the floor as she closes the distance, slipping between them with practiced ease. Her arm comes up without hesitation, an open invitation. Peter takes it immediately, folding into her side like instinct. Neither of them take their eyes off Norman.
As if he might lunge.
He almost smiles at that.
“We’re very proud of him,” she says warmly, but her gaze is anything but. It’s precise. Measuring. Cold in a way that makes it very clear she’s already decided he’s a problem.
A shame, really. The first time he has her full attention outside of a meeting room, and it’s under these circumstances.
“If that’s all,” she continues, one brow lifting just slightly, “you’re excused.”
“I look forward to speaking with you again, Peter,” he says, letting just enough weight sit beneath the words to make it clear they are not a suggestion.
“If you’d like to speak with Peter,” Pepper cuts in immediately, that same polite smile sharpening into something far more dangerous, “you can coordinate that through me or my fiancé.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Miss Potts,” Norman replies, tone smooth as glass. His eyes shift back to Peter, studying the way the boy presses just a fraction closer into her side.
Fear.
Good.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he adds lightly.
Then he turns, already satisfied.
By the time he makes it back to the car — long after the awards have been handed out, after Peter Parker has taken first place exactly as expected — Norman is already three steps ahead of the room he’s leaving behind.
He doesn’t expect company.
Which is why the sight of a man leaning against his car earns a brief pause.
Broad shoulders. Solid stance. Recognition comes a second later. Stark’s security, of course.
Norman smooths his expression again, stepping forward like nothing about this is out of place.
“I think you’ve got the wrong car,” he says easily, pressing the fob.
The car chirps. The man doesn’t move. Not even a flicker.
“I don’t,” the man replies, pushing off the hood with an unhurried kind of certainty. “Just figured I’d pass along a message.”
Norman says nothing, but his attention doesn’t stray from the man in front of him.
“Whatever you’re walking away from today thinking,” the man continues, “you’d be better off letting it go.”
There’s no theatrics in it. No raised voice. Just fact.
“Stark Industries takes threats seriously. And between them and the Avengers?” He gives a slight shake of his head. “Not a fight you want.”
Norman considers him for a moment. Then nods.
“Understood.”
It’s not entirely untrue. He understands perfectly. He simply doesn’t agree.
The Avengers posture as heroes. Stark hides behind legacy and optics. Power dressed up as morality. It doesn’t impress him.
“I’m glad,” the man says.
He pats the hood twice — deliberate, not friendly — before stepping away.
“You have a good night, Mr. Osborn.”
Norman watches him go. Then, slowly, he turns back to his car, gaze distant for just a second as everything settles into place.
This just got interesting.
Later that night, while he’s sitting in his office working on a new project — understanding the limitations of enhanced individuals — there’s a tap on his window.
Which… is odd.
He’s thirty seven floors up and doesn’t often get visitors through that particular… entrance.
He shouldn’t be surprised when he’s met with the Iron Man suit.
The gauntlet raises and fires — not at him, but at the weakest point in the glass. The window shatters instantly. Good to know the bulletproof design isn’t repulsor-proof. He’ll have to look into that.
“You can send me the bill for that — itemized, please,” Tony says as the faceplate retracts, metal folding away to reveal his expression. “Something about Oscorp just screams shady business.”
With the barrier gone, the suit glides inside and sets Tony down like this is just another casual visit.
Despite the ease he projects, Norman sees it immediately.
Stark is bothered.
“To what do I owe the… pleasure?” Norman asks, stepping carefully over broken glass as he makes his way back behind his desk.
“I’m so glad you asked,” Stark grins, already making himself comfortable — perched right on the edge of Norman’s desk, fingers drifting toward the nearest object.
Norman’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t tell him to stop.
“We heard you’ve taken a recent interest in spiders —”
We.
Norman notes it.
“— and being the philanthropist I am, I figured I’d save you the trouble and bring one to you.” Tony glances toward the double doors. “Nat?”
Norman’s brows lift before he smooths them back down.
No one gets through his security.
No one.
And yet —
The doors open.
Natasha Romanoff slips inside wordlessly. No smile. No pleasantries. Just an intimidating presence that makes him mildly uncomfortable. Even from where he stands behind his desk, Norman clocks at least three visible weapons. Which means there are probably many more.
“The world’s deadliest spider,” Tony continues lightly. “Knows at least thirty different ways to kill a man—”
“Fifty-six,” Natasha corrects, twirling a blade between her fingers as she finally gives Norman something resembling a smile. “And that’s just with my hands.”
Norman swallows.
Straightens.
“I’m afraid that’s not the spider I’m interested in,” he says, attempting to keep his voice measured. His eyes flick briefly to Stark. “I believe you know the one I mean. Intelligent. Quick-witted. About this tall—”
Everything shifts.
A blade presses to his throat.
The Iron Man suit hums to life behind Stark, multiple weapons locking onto him in an instant.
Tony, for all the commotion, doesn’t move from his perch on the desk. His casual mask is gone now — replaced with something much angrier and rooted in protection.
“This is how quickly I can have you killed,” Tony says quietly. “One word to my AI and you die and your whole company comes crashing down with you.”
A beat.
“What do you think of the headline? Oscorp and its founder, blown up by its own illegal experiments.” He smiles, all teeth and no warmth.
“A tragic story,” Tony continues, tapping twice against the desk. “Press would love it. The great Norman Osborn taken down by his own ambition.”
Another beat.
“Wanna hear the word?”
The blade at his throat presses just a fraction deeper. Any more and it breaks skin.
Norman exhales slowly.
“No,” he says evenly. “I don’t care to hear the word.”
“Good answer.” Tony slides off the desk and steps closer.
Now it’s close. Too close for comfort. He can smell the coffee lingering on the man’s breath and feel the anger radiating off him. With Natasha at his back and Stark in front. There were no exits. No angles. No leverage.
“Let me make this very clear,” Tony says, voice low. “If you so much as think about Peter the wrong way, we’ll know.”
The knife presses tighter.
“If you even consider touching him, I will end your life and your legacy before you understand what’s happening. Do you understand?”
Norman nods once, throat tight against the blade.
“I understand.”
“You might not be interested in my capabilities,” Natasha adds from behind him, voice calm, the blade pressing once more — just enough to remind him it’s still there. “But you’ll find if you’re not careful, you’ll be the subject of them.”
The pressure disappears.
Tony steps back, already turning for the window.
“You have a good night, Norm,” he says, that same easy grin snapping back into place like nothing as the suit forms around him again.
And then he’s flying out of the window. Silence crashing in after him. Norman stands there for a second too long, staring at the empty space. He’s left him with the deadliest assassin in the wor—
He turns.
The room is empty. Natasha is gone and all that remains is broken glass and the faint echo of a threat that wasn’t empty.
Norman exhales slowly, reaching for his laptop before stopping himself.
No.
He closes it instead, letting the adrenaline bleed out of his system in careful, controlled increments. He’ll revisit this… Later.