Chapter Text
The Raft was a cold place; dank and rusting after nearly a decade and a half of exposure to the pressures and corrosion of the North Atlantic Ocean. The facility was soon to be retired— replaced by the latest, cutting-edge Ultramax facility being built in Wakanda. Peter never liked these places. He came often though, because he thought, if anything, a little less isolation and a little more humanity might just be the key ingredient to rehabilitating these so-called ‘supervillains.’ It was one thing for the Fantastic Four to banish Galactus to the far edge of reality, or for the Avengers to use lethal force against Thanos and his Black Order, but these guys? They were still people— not otherworldly gods, not Mad Titans— just people who had lost their way.
Peter’s ‘rogues’ (“the usual suspects” as Captain Stacy had always called them) were all in the same wing of the Raft. He’d called in a favor with Nick Fury to arrange it so. It was the least Fury could do, after everything he and Gwen had done for the newly-reinstated Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. He liked visiting them– at least, he felt it was his responsibility to do so— and that was reason enough. He waved to the agent manning the checkpoint to Block 5.
“Hey-y, Snobby Bobby,” Peter said. “I’m here for the party.”
Agent Bob looked up, unamused. “Oh, hey Parker. You know I still need your clearance card and code number, right?” Bobby had become such a stickler for the rules and regulations ever since he was deprogrammed from HYDRA.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Peter said, rummaging in his pockets. He knew he’d seen his card recently… Last week? He turned his pockets out. Three dollars, a rubberband, some dryer lint… and a S.H.I.E.L.D. security card that had clearly been through a few too many rounds in the laundry. “Shit, uhh… Will this do?” He knew his clearance code by heart. “Code is Bravo Echo November, 0-4-1-8-1-6.” He’d never forget that one. He’d been with Gwen on her birthday the day Uncle Ben died— the day he let Uncle Ben die… Agent Bob swiped his keycard. There was a buzz and a red light. He swiped it again; buzzer, red light. A third swipe. No buzzer, and a green light! The doors hissed as they slid open.
“Get that card replaced, Parker,” the Agent said. “You got lucky this time.”
“Thanks Bobby,” Pete said. “I’ll tell Osborn you said hi!”
Norman’s cell was the last on Block 5, affectionately dubbed ‘The Spiders’ Web.’ Each time he visited one of his usual suspects was like walking through a living museum of his own hallmark achievements… and his greatest failures. He strode past Tom Ewing, the “Firefly,” who gave him a snarl and hocked an awfully green loogie at the blast-proof glass barrier. Was he getting an infection? He’d have to make sure the Raft’s medics were seeing to that. He stopped by Mac Gargan, the “Scorpion” who once tried to kill J. Jonah Jameson after the latter had convinced Gargan to try and replicate the accident that gave Peter his powers.
“Hey Mac,” Peter said. “How’s therapy going?”
Mac’s head cocked. “Parker,” he said, “have you killed that bastard Jameson yet?”
Peter sighed. “No Mac, and you know I’m not gonna do that. Have you been working with Dr. Shafir at all lately?”
“That whore tried to drug me up,” Mac said. “I don’t trust her.”
“Now Mac, that’s not how we talk about women whose job it is to help us out, is it?”
Gargan paused for a second. “Well– uh, no, I-I guess not. I’m sorry, Parker… will you tell her I’m sorry for me?”
Peter smiled, “I’ll make sure you get a chance to tell her yourself, OK? She’s only trying to help; maybe let her do her job next time.”
Gargan shifted uncomfortably. “I-I’ll try. Uh, thanks, Parker.”
“Anytime,” Peter said, giving Gargan a thumbs-up, and continuing along his way. He passed an empty cell with the name “Wilson Fisk, INMATE 5-0-1-9-6-7” marked above it. Fisk had serious connections, and his lawyers were always finding new and extravagant ways to get him out of prison. Last Peter had heard, Fisk was setting up shop in Madripoor, far away from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s jurisdiction.
Peter found Norman, in his cell, waiting for him. He stood like a gnarled and knotted old sycamore, his limbs all crooked from years of brutal conflict with Spider-Man and the Ghost-Spider. Norman wore the same sickening grin as when he had shot Aunt May through the spine— the same one as when he had forced Harry to submerge himself in Goblin Formula, which had poisoned Harry to his death. That smile haunted Peter’s dreams, and recently, the dreams had been getting worse.
“Peter, Peter,” Norman’s voice croaked through his scarred vocal chords. “It’s so good to see you. How’s May? Still… kickin’, is she?” He laughed— a haunting sound.
“She’s good, Norm.” Peter said flatly. “Walking is still hard, but the doctors say she’s making good progress. She’s strong, my old May.”
Norman’s posture softened for a moment, and Peter saw the old Norman Osborn, the one who had been his mentor years ago, who had been his best friend’s father. “Oh, my, well, Peter, that's wonderful news. And Gwen is she—”
“She’s fine.” Pete said. “Norman I came because—”
“Because your dreams are turning into Nightmares,” he said. "And your nightmares become like terrors." In an instant, the old Norman Osborn was gone. The color drained from his face, and that crooked, damnable smile returned. Peter was sure now, he was speaking to the Green Goblin. All the paternal softness of the Norman he knew was replaced by the sadistic nihilism of the monster he’d become. Peter was stunned. Did Norman have some connection that Peter was unaware of? It was possible; the man was a genius, and the Goblin inside was shrewd. “Oh, I know all about your dreams, Peter. You see, I get them too. It’s from my formula, you know? You were exposed to it, weren’t you? When poor Harry had his little dip?” He punctuated the word with a pop of his lips. Peter thought back. Had he been exposed? He and Gwen had been there the night Norman killed his son. It was Gwen who jumped in after Harry, not Peter— she was sick for weeks afterward, but Doctors Banner and Strange had both examined her and found no permanent side effects— her spider-genomics had saved her life.
“You’re lying, Goblin,” Peter said. “Who are you working with? A.I.M.? Hydra?” He knew he was reaching, but he also knew that Norman Osborn loved proving people wrong.
“HA!” Norman’s laugh echoed in his cell. “Those two-bits? No, Peter, no. You’re just becoming like me— just like me.” Osborn’s smile returned, sending a chill through Peter. “I hope young Miss Gwen has what it takes to put you in here— oh what a day that should be.”
Peter turned away. “Burn in hell, Goblin,” he said. And stalked out of Block 5, as the Green Goblin cackled behind him. It was true that Peter had been suffering from night terrors. He would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and screaming. In his dreams he saw Norman— standing over the corpse of Harry Osborn— grasping Aunt May by the throat as he threatened to drop her off of his jet-powered glider— saw him each and every time they had clashed over the years— then he saw Norman standing over his own lifeless body, driving a wrist-mounted knife straight into Gwen's spine: a killing blow. Norman had taken almost everything from Peter. He'd killed his best friend; he'd paralyzed Aunt May; he would NOT let him take away his one remaining sanctuary in this life— he would not let him take Gwen from him.
As Peter passed by Gargan again, he turned to where the disgraced Dr. Otto Octavius should have been— instead of the Doctor, sitting on his stool was a sign that read: INMATE #03-19-63, Dr O. OCTAVIUS ON TEMPORARY SUPERVISED RELEASE PENDING CONSULTATION ON PROJECT: ANUBIS. Peter didn’t like the sound of that, but he couldn’t think about anything except what Osborn had said. “You’re just becoming like me… just like me.” Norman had been a good man— flawed, but good— and whatever caused him to become the Green Goblin… could it be happening to Peter somehow? The two had been in countless bloody exchanges with each other; each of them now ran through Peter’s mind. Could it be blood-borne—? no, the Goblin Formula wasn’t a pathogen, it was a poison. Could Osborn have dosed him somehow? It had been over a year since their last encounter; Peter had been feeling strange lately, and there was never any telling what kind of horrible plot Norman Osborn was going to enact in Peter’s life. It couldn't be true; Osborn was a manipulative sociopath, and would use anything possible to latch on to, and try to undermine Peter's confidence in himself.
He exited Block 5. He nodded to Agent Bobby, and the blast doors closed behind him— he could still hear Norman's croaking laugh behind him...