He stared at the permission slip in his hand. Aunt May had already signed it, and as he handed it over to the guard, they gave it a quick scan and then handed it back.
First, he was given an Oscorp camera, which he would have to return at the end of the tour. They would verify that he hadn't taken any unauthorized photos, and the approved pictures would then be copied onto a memory card and sent to the school.
A few moments later, he was handed a security pass, complete with a lanyard. "Peter Parker, Age 18. Senior Year Photography Project. Document and Photograph Work Placement for Oscorp." was printed on the pass. Clipping it to the lanyard, he hung it around his neck and stood waiting with the rest, taking quick snaps of the building.
It was fascinating being in Oscorp. He had seen the publicity pictures on the web, heard stories about the interior from Harry, and had even been promised a tour by Norman, though he was always brushed off whenever he brought it up. But now, he was finally seeing the bustling lab that was the beating heart of Oscorp.
The only downside was that Peter had to follow Gwen and Flash around, watching as the sycophants and suck-ups pointed and made fun of the "nerds." But he didn't care.
Flash's father was on the board, and Gwen had interned here for the past year already. She was smart, and Flash had been trying to get into her good graces for ages.
Peter wondered if Flash's slight against him was because of that.
Gwen, Felicia, Jean, and Cindy were the most attractive girls in school, and they were all friends. Not that it mattered. Peter knew Flash would find something else to use against him.
It was tough, watching someone dumber than a pet rock slide into a life and job Peter would have done anything to have. But he couldn't—he wouldn't—feel sorry for himself.
He had the best grades in class, even higher than Gwen's. He would graduate as valedictorian, and Flash could never take that from him.
As the first part of the tour wound down, they headed toward the food court at the bottom of the building. A section had been roped off to avoid interrupting the everyday workers. The students talked and chatted while eating.
Flash and his followers, unimpressed by the labs, sat on tables, laughing obnoxiously at passersby. Even they recognized the boss's son and gave them a wide berth. It didn't stop them, though, and Peter could see the strained, embarrassed looks they were given.
Peter was enjoying his lunch, a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich washed down by a small carton of apple juice. He was idly looking around when he felt the impact and the wetness. Flash had launched a soda at him, shouting, "Oops!"
While he and his cronies laughed, Peter was soaked, dark sticky liquid pouring from his lunchbox. Wiping himself down as best he could, Peter swore under his breath and headed to the bathroom to clean off.
He swore at the mirror, knowing he only had six more months of Flash's nonsense before he'd be free.
He had his own life planned after school, and Flash wouldn't be part of it. Even if he had to take a lesser internship at Hammer Industries to avoid him.
He knew there was no hope of an internship at Stark Industries. People from all over the world gave up well-paying jobs just to work there; a high school kid had no chance.
As he mopped the soda from his clothes and washed his face, he didn't notice the thin web dangling above him.
There was a faint tickle on the back of his neck as a bright red and blue spider landed on him.
As he straightened up, he felt something on the back of his neck. Without thinking, he brought his hand up to check and felt a sharp pain where the itch had been.
Gasping as a sudden electric jolt shot through him, he crumpled to one knee. His legs went weak, his hands tingled, and then went numb.
Struggling to stand, he feebly reached for the door, hoping and praying someone would hear his attempted cries for help.
He struggled weakly as he felt someone tugging at his clothes. He was sure someone said his name over and over, but he couldn't focus—everything was so bright and so loud.
He was sure someone rummaged through his things. He felt something wet splash on him and barely registered that he'd been sick.
"Damn, get him outta here. If Osborn sees him, we're screwed," a rough voice said.
Peter felt the rough hands of a few people lift him up. Suddenly, the bright light of the outdoors blinded him.
They hoisted him and tossed him into the trash at the back of the building, where he struggled to rise.
Through half-open eyes, Peter began to make his way toward the street, falling several times as he gasped and groaned, his body unresponsive.
He knew there were people around; he could hear the heavy thud of their footfalls. But as he tried to call out, his tongue was numb and his voice slurred.
"Hey, kid?" Peter's mind was still reeling, nausea and cramps twisting his body. He was too far gone to reply.
Pain, nausea, and bright, pulsing light assaulted his senses.
Wherever he was, the smell was horrendous, like hot, raw garbage mixed with sewage.
"Yeah, he's a tweaker. Tag him and bring him in with the rest."
A cold liquid poured into his veins, bringing relief from the sensory overload.
Peter hoped someone had found him and was taking him to get help. He had heard rumors of gangs that kidnapped kids for organ harvesting. But he was powerless to fight back.
Peter was manhandled onto a table. He tried to speak, but his mouth felt stuffed with cotton. He tried to fight back, but his muscles screamed at him to stop.
His skin felt raw, and every fiber of the hospital gown he wore felt like sharp knives against his flesh.
Each breath filled his lungs with the cloying scent of the woman nearby. He could smell her fragrance, and it wasn't perfume. She was excited, and it was almost palpable, a thick taste on his tongue.
The scent of disinfectant filled his nostrils, and he hoped this was a hospital. He hoped he would wake up again.
He felt a sharp prick on his arm, and the world went black.
With the boy finally strapped down and sedated, the technician sat down at his computer to begin recording.
"Test subject is a young male, appears to be between fifteen and twenty. Pubic growth indicates maturity. Marking as upper teens."
He paused, swiveling his chair around.
"Visible inspection suggests this is not a homeless person. Subject shows no visible trauma, is a healthy weight, and is clean-shaven."
He sighed. If the crew had grabbed some rich kid, things could go south quickly. But that wasn't his problem—what happened next was.
"Okay. Physical parameters are all green. Test Subject Fifteen Gamma. Alien Subject Delta. Bonding test in five, four, three, two, and one."
Poor bastard, thought the tech as he activated the mechanical table. It swung around into the testing area. Doesn't even look twenty.
With the table locked in place, a tube extended down and hovered over the boy's chest. The technician flicked another switch, watching as a glass-reinforced box slid open.
The test subject instinctively moved toward the unconscious boy, flowing over the smooth panel and flopping onto his body.
Equipment of all types recorded the interactions between boy and alien.
They hoped to unlock the secrets of bonding, to finally report a successful integration of symbiote and man.
Flowing over and under the gown, the alien covered the young boy's scrawny frame, hooking microscopic tendrils into his brain and nervous system, forming a symbiotic relationship. The boy's eyes flickered as the process began.
Barely registering the screens, the technician checked his phone. Alarms would sound if anything went wrong.
With each previous subject, the boy's heart rate and neural activity would spike. If bonding succeeded, they would then level out.
So far, all attempts had killed the host—except for two, but they never talked about those.
Once the heart rate reached over two hundred beats per minute, bonding failed, and the host died, or the creature would dissolve the brain, leaving an empty skull.
This was trial 64, and this time, the symbiote seemed to hesitate. It sensed something wrong.
Unseen, a chemical reaction began in Peter's cells, modified by the spider toxin that altered his DNA. As the symbiote coated the cells, it was pulled into the reaction.
Its DNA was being broken down and reformed with the boy's, host and symbiote merging into one.
The symbiote screeched in agony as it was digested by the enzyme. It fought to stay whole, seeking refuge in the host's body, but there was none.
It released a toxin to kill the host, but even that was absorbed and transformed. The symbiote shrieked as its own cells turned against it.
The technician watched in mild shock as the alien seemed to integrate with the boy's body. This was new.
At first, the boy's heart rate slowed, and then his brainwave activity stabilized. Finally, the seizures subsided.
Thermal cameras confirmed the symbiote had assimilated completely, and the boy's now taut, wiry muscles glistened with a sheen of sweat.
The technician shook his head. He was about to press the intercom when a thump against the glass made him jump.
Turning, he saw the boy standing, staring at him with eyes as black as pitch.
The boy wound up a punch and shattered the glass, covering them both in broken pieces.
The technician let out a strangled scream as the creature reached for him with a black-clawed hand.
"WE ARE VENOM!"