LIGHTNOVELWORLD Chapter 13: Peter's Hesitation
Oscorp Tower loomed against the morning skyline like a fortress under siege. The chaos from the previous night lingered in every corner, from the shattered glass in the lobby to the scorch marks on the walls. Armed guards patrolled with nervous energy, their fingers twitching near their triggers.
Norman Osborn stood in the executive boardroom, staring out at the city below. His reflection in the glass betrayed his frustration—his jaw tight, his fists clenched. Behind him, the holographic projection of Mac Gargan flickered, a menacing reminder of Oscorp's greatest failure.
"You want him alive, Mr. Osborn?" Alaric Kane's voice broke the silence. The private investigator leaned casually against the table, his tone laced with skepticism. "With all due respect, bringing him in alive might not be the best move. The man's barely human anymore."
Norman turned, his piercing gaze locking onto Alaric. "Alive," he said, his voice cold and unwavering. "He's not just a man—he's an asset. A valuable one. We created him, and we'll control him again."
Alaric smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of doubt. "Control doesn't seem to be in his vocabulary anymore."
Norman slammed a hand onto the table, silencing the room. "I don't care what it takes. Oscorp is not going to be remembered for unleashing a monster. Fix this."
Before Alaric could respond, the conference phone buzzed. One of Norman's aides answered, her expression shifting to alarm. "Sir, we've received a tip from someone claiming to know Gargan's movements. It's… a former associate. A man named Heller."
Norman's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Track him down. If he knows anything, I want every word out of his mouth."
The midday sun beat down as Peter Parker walked along the cracked sidewalks of Queens, his thoughts a storm of guilt and unease. The images from last night wouldn't leave his mind—Gargan's raw power, the destruction, the fury in his voice. And worst of all, Peter's own inaction. He had the power to intervene, but he didn't.
"This is all my fault," Peter muttered under his breath, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "If I'd done something—anything—maybe…"
But the thought trailed off, replaced by the memory of Gargan's glowing eyes locking onto his. Peter shivered, the raw intensity of that moment still fresh.
Peter slipped through a chain-link fence into an abandoned industrial park, the skeletal remains of warehouses standing like forgotten giants. He glanced around, ensuring he was alone, before pulling his backpack off his shoulder. Inside was a small camera on a tripod, something he'd grabbed from home to document his experiments.
"Alright," Peter muttered, setting up the camera and adjusting the angle. "Let's figure this out."
He flexed his fingers, the faint tingling in his palms a constant reminder of his abilities. Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out and curled his fingers into a fist. A thin strand of webbing shot out, latching onto a nearby metal beam. Peter grinned despite himself.
"Okay, that's something," he said, giving the web a tentative tug. It held firm.
Emboldened, Peter climbed onto a stack of crates and aimed for a higher beam. The web shot out again, and this time he swung—briefly. The exhilaration of weightlessness was cut short as the web snapped, sending him crashing onto the concrete below.
Peter groaned, clutching his side as he sat up. "Not my best idea," he muttered, wincing.
Undeterred, he tried again. And again. Each attempt was slightly better than the last, though far from graceful. By the fourth try, Peter managed a short swing between two beams, the air rushing past him in a way that made his heart race.
For a brief moment, he felt alive. The fear, the guilt—all of it faded as he soared through the empty warehouse. But reality caught up quickly. A miscalculation sent him crashing into a pile of rusted barrels, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
Peter lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. His chest heaved as he caught his breath, the faint ache in his muscles a reminder of his limits.
"This isn't a game," he whispered to himself, sitting up slowly. "If I mess up out there, it's not just me who gets hurt."
He packed up his camera, glancing at the footage briefly. The joy on his face during those fleeting moments of success was unmistakable, but so was the frustration after every failure.
As Peter left the warehouse, the weight of responsibility settled over him once more. The exhilaration of swinging through the air had given him a glimpse of what was possible, but it also made the stakes clearer. This wasn't just about powers—it was about choices.
And Peter wasn't sure he was ready to make them.
By the following day, the midday sun glared down on the bustling city streets, casting long shadows as pedestrians navigated their daily routines. Oscorp's sleek delivery trucks rolled down the boulevard, carrying valuable tech hidden beneath reinforced panels. Security guards, armed and alert, flanked the convoy on motorcycles, their presence a clear signal: Stay away.
But Scorpion didn't care.
From a nearby rooftop, Gargan crouched, his hulking form silhouetted against the sky. His scaly skin gleamed like armor, and the grotesque, tail-like appendage that had formed from his transformation twitched erratically. His glowing eyes scanned the street below, locking onto the Oscorp convoy with a predatory focus.
"This time, Osborn," Gargan muttered, his voice guttural and raw, "you'll pay for what you've done."
With an ear-splitting roar, Gargan leapt from the rooftop, landing directly in the path of the lead truck. The pavement cracked beneath his feet, sending a shockwave through the street. The truck swerved, the driver slamming on the brakes, but it was too late. Gargan's tail whipped forward, piercing the engine block and rendering the vehicle useless.
Screams erupted from the crowd as civilians fled in every direction. The security guards sprang into action, raising their weapons and shouting orders. "Hold your ground! Protect the convoy!"
Gargan sneered, his lips curling into a feral grin. "You think you can stop me?" he growled, his voice reverberating through the street. With a swipe of his massive tail, he sent two guards flying into a nearby storefront. The sound of shattering glass and the groans of injured men filled the air.
The second truck attempted to maneuver around the chaos, but Gargan was faster. He vaulted onto its roof, his claws tearing through the metal like paper. With a roar of triumph, he ripped the reinforced panels off, exposing the crates of Oscorp technology hidden inside. He grabbed a glowing device and tossed it aside, smashing it to the ground in a burst of sparks.
The remaining guards opened fire, their bullets ricocheting harmlessly off his hardened skin. Gargan laughed, a guttural sound that sent chills down the spines of anyone still watching. "Bullets? That's the best you've got?"
From a distance, Heller watched the carnage unfold, his heart sinking. "Mac…" he whispered, his voice trembling. He stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Mac, stop this! You're better than this!"
Scorpion froze, his head snapping toward Heller. His glowing eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, the rage in his expression faltered. But then the anger surged back, and he snarled. "Better? Better?! Look at me, Heller!" He gestured to his mutated body, his voice breaking. "This is what Osborn turned me into! There's no 'better' left."
Heller swallowed hard, desperation lacing his tone. "This isn't the way to fix it. You're only proving him right."
Gargan's tail lashed out, narrowly missing Heller as it embedded itself in a nearby lamppost, splitting it in two. "You don't get to tell me how to fix this!" he roared. "Stay out of my way, Heller. Next time, I won't miss."
As sirens wailed in the distance, signaling the arrival of more security forces, Gargan turned and disappeared into the chaos, leaving behind a street littered with destruction, injured guards, and terrified civilians.
Peter's walk home was interrupted by the distant sound of screaming and shattering glass. His spider-sense prickled at the back of his neck, a sharp, insistent warning that made him stop in his tracks. He turned toward the commotion, his heart sinking as he saw smoke rising above the rooftops.
What now?
Against his better judgment, Peter darted down an alley, moving closer to the source of the chaos. He peeked around a corner and froze at the sight before him: overturned Oscorp trucks, shattered glass, and civilians trapped amidst the wreckage. Security guards were yelling orders, and paramedics were trying to navigate the carnage.
Peter's chest tightened as he saw a young woman pinned beneath a piece of debris. Her cries for help cut through the noise, and Peter's instincts took over. Ducking into the shadows, he pulled his hoodie tighter around his face and made his way toward her.
"Hang on," he said softly, crouching beside her. She looked up at him, her face pale and tear-streaked. "I'm going to get you out."
Using his enhanced strength, Peter lifted the debris just enough for the woman to crawl free. She stumbled into the arms of a nearby paramedic, her sobs of relief barely audible over the chaos.
Peter's spider-sense flared again, and he turned just in time to see a man trapped inside an overturned car. Flames licked at the edges of the vehicle, and the man pounded on the window, his face twisted in fear.
Peter moved quickly, yanking the car door off its hinges and pulling the man to safety. "Go!" he urged, waving him toward the medics.
As he turned to leave, Peter felt the spider-sense buzz even stronger—a warning that chilled him to the bone. Slowly, he looked up and locked eyes with the source of the destruction: Scorpion.
Gargan's glowing eyes narrowed as he took a step toward Peter, his tail twitching ominously. "You again," he growled. "I knew there was something off about you."
Peter's breath hitched. He backed away, his mind racing. He remembers me. From Oscorp.
"Got a little fight in you, huh?" Gargan sneered, his grin feral. "Let's see what you've got."
Before Peter could respond, Gargan lunged. Peter barely dodged, his reflexes saving him as Gargan's tail struck the ground where he'd been standing. The force of the blow cracked the pavement, sending shards of concrete flying.
Peter scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. "I'm just trying to help!" he shouted, his voice trembling.
Gargan laughed darkly. "Help? You're just a scared kid playing hero. Stay out of my way, or I'll make you regret it."
Peter's mind raced. He wasn't ready for this—not against someone like Gargan. He turned and shot a web at a nearby lamppost, swinging away clumsily. Gargan watched him go, his expression a mix of curiosity and contempt.
"Interesting," Scorpion muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Very interesting."
Peter landed in an alley several blocks away, his chest heaving as he leaned against the wall. His hands were shaking, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of fear and guilt.
"I can't do this," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm not a hero. I'm just a kid."
But the memory of the civilians he'd saved lingered, a faint glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming darkness.
Later that evening, the bell above the café door chimed softly as Peter stepped inside, his shoulders slumped and his face drawn. The cozy atmosphere was a stark contrast to the chaos he'd just witnessed, but he needed this—just a moment to breathe. The hum of quiet conversation, the whir of the espresso machine, and the faint aroma of coffee beans offered a fleeting sense of normalcy.
Peter approached the counter, his voice barely above a whisper as he ordered a blended mocha. While waiting, he tapped his fingers nervously against the counter, his mind replaying the encounter with Gargan. The weight of what had just happened hung heavily over him, making it hard to focus on anything else.
As he turned to find a seat, his heart sank. Sitting by the window, a familiar face lit up at the sight of him—Gwen Stacy. Her blonde hair glowed in the afternoon sunlight, and her blue eyes locked onto Peter with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Peter!" she called, waving him over.
He hesitated, considering the exit, but there was no way out without passing her. Forcing a weak smile, he shuffled over to her table.
"Hey, Gwen," he said, trying to sound casual as he slid into the seat across from her. His hands gripped his cup tightly, the cool condensation grounding him.
Gwen tilted her head, studying him. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Peter chuckled nervously, averting his gaze. "Yeah, just… tired. School's been rough, you know?"
Gwen wasn't buying it. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Come on, Parker. I know you better than that. You've been acting weird for weeks now. What's going on?"
Peter's chest tightened. He stirred his drink with the straw, avoiding her piercing gaze. "It's nothing, really. Just... life stuff."
"Life stuff?" Gwen repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's the best you've got?"
Peter hesitated, feeling the walls closing in. He wanted to tell her—wanted to unload the tangled mess of emotions swirling inside him. But how could he? How could he explain the things he'd seen, the powers he barely understood, and the weight of the responsibility that came with them?
"It's complicated," he muttered finally, his voice barely audible.
Gwen sighed, sitting back in her chair. "You're shutting me out, Pete. I get it—everyone has their secrets. But if something's really bothering you, you don't have to go through it alone."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time since sitting down. There was no judgment in her expression—just genuine concern.
Peter opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he took a long sip of his drink, hoping it would mask his silence.
Gwen changed the subject, sensing his discomfort. "So, Liz was raving about how great you were at the academic club meeting yesterday. She said you're like a science whiz or something."
Peter managed a faint smile. "Liz exaggerates. I just like science."
"Modest as always," Gwen said with a grin. "But seriously, you should give yourself more credit. You're one of the smartest people I know."
Peter chuckled softly, the compliment warming him slightly despite his internal turmoil. "Thanks, Gwen. That means a lot."
The conversation drifted to lighter topics—school projects, shared classes, and the latest gossip from Midtown High. For a brief moment, Peter felt normal again, the weight on his shoulders easing just enough to let him breathe.
But as the conversation waned, Gwen's curiosity resurfaced. "You know," she said carefully, "I couldn't help but notice you've… changed lately. Not just the zoning out thing. You seem… different. Physically, I mean."
Peter stiffened, his spider-sense buzzing faintly—a reminder of how close she was getting to the truth. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tense.
Gwen shrugged, her tone casual but probing. "I don't know. You're faster in gym class, stronger than I remember. And you seem… jumpier, like you're always on edge."
Peter forced a laugh, trying to brush it off. "Guess I've been working out more. You know, boxing and stuff."
"Boxing?" Gwen echoed, her brow furrowing. "Since when?"
Peter's mind raced for a plausible excuse, but before he could answer, the barista called out Gwen's name, signaling her drink was ready. She stood, giving him a lingering look.
"You don't have to tell me everything, Pete," she said softly, her tone almost apologetic. "But just know that if you ever want to talk… I'm here."
Peter nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks, Gwen. I'll keep that in mind."
She offered him a small smile before heading to the counter. Peter watched her go, a mix of gratitude and guilt churning in his chest. He wanted to let her in, but the thought of exposing her to the chaos in his life was too much to bear.
By the time Gwen returned with her drink, Peter was gone. The seat across from her was empty, his half-finished cup the only sign he'd been there at all. She sighed, sipping her drink as she stared out the window, her mind swirling with unanswered questions.
In the dim, abandoned facility on the outskirts of the city, Scorpion paced like a caged animal. His scaly skin glistened under the faint light, and his grotesque tail twitched uncontrollably, striking the floor with sporadic bursts of force.
His breathing was labored, his body trembling as the transformation pushed him further toward madness. He stared at his reflection in a shattered piece of glass, his distorted features barely recognizable. "Osborn did this," he growled. "He made me into this… thing."
Despite the pain coursing through him, his resolve hardened. "But this thing will be his end," he snarled, his voice a guttural rasp. "Norman Osborn… you won't escape me next time."
The flickering light overhead cast shadows across the room as Scorpion clenched his fists, his determination burning brighter than ever—no matter the cost.