Personal Grudges

Michael walked out of the venue to find Elizabeth already waiting with the car at the entrance. She opened the rear door for her boss and said, "Tonight wasn't so dull after all, was it, sir?"

"A minor diversion," Michael said calmly, as if he hadn't just been threatened by a madman loaded with explosives but had watched an impromptu performance. "Nothing serious."

"I suppose so."

Elizabeth slid back into the driver's seat, started the car, and merged onto the main road.

"Shall I take you straight home now?"

"No, head to the company first," Michael said. "You don't have to wait for me; you can go on ahead. I have some personal matters to handle."

***

The Osborn residence, living room.

The night had grown deep, yet the vast house felt eerily empty. Every room was dark, the only light coming from the fireplace in the living room. Flames crackled and leaped, casting wavering, abstract shadows of the furniture across the carpet and walls.

After finally shaking off that annoying Spider-Man, the Green Goblin had come straight back here. He tore off his mask in the living room, revealing Norman Osborn's twisted, furious face. He hurled the demonic mask onto the dark red carpet, his emotions clearly running high.

Nothing tonight had gone according to his plans. Thanks to that irritating web-head—he now knew it was that kid Peter Parker—he'd failed to eliminate his target. They'd clashed and chased each other across nearly all of Manhattan before he managed to lose that pesky wall-crawler. Worse still, Michael Passo seemed to have somehow figured out his true identity. Though he doubted the man had solid proof linking the Green Goblin to Norman Osborn, it was enough to raise alarm.

But how was that possible? He'd only become the Green Goblin a day ago, thanks to the Oz serum, and this was his first real outing. The lab where he'd injected himself had been blown to rubble by the rampaging Goblin on the spot. Anyone who knew the truth was either dead or injured, and the one in the best shape was still unconscious in the ICU. As far as he knew, he was the only person in the world aware that Norman Osborn had taken the Oz serum.

Norman Osborn paced restlessly across the living room.

Tonight, his son Harry Osborn was staying over at a classmate's house—which was actually the norm for Harry—so Norman had the whole place to himself. It was a convenient opportunity for action. The fact that Michael Passo knew something made the situation urgent. Maybe he should speed up his plans. Maybe he should strike again right now, make another attempt on Michael Passo's life.

Norman Osborn suddenly froze.

He whipped his head around to find a tall, black figure standing in the living room, appearing as if from nowhere. The silhouette, hidden beneath gleaming black armor, stood in the center of the carpet. Firelight flickered across the polished metal, and a V-shaped visor glowed with a deep, eerie blue light, exuding a mountain-like pressure.

"Who are you?" Norman asked instinctively.

No answer. The figure strode forward without a word and thrust out a palm. No technique, no flourish—just a plain, simple push. Yet it left Norman, with his enhanced reflexes, feeling utterly unable to evade. The overwhelming, almost unreasonable force poured into the armor on his upper body like a mountain flood, sending him hurtling through the air like a green cannonball, crashing through a wall and tumbling into the study.

Michael, still in his armor, ducked through the dusty hole in the wall and stepped into the study.

"I get it now," Norman said, scrambling to his feet, glaring venomously at the V-shaped visor. "Passo sent you, didn't he? You're that brat's lackey?"

Still no reply. The figure clearly wasn't the type to waste words, showing no interest in conversation.

Norman flicked two shurikens. The custom blades spun through the air, carving green trails as they struck Michael's helmet and chest armor, sparking faintly. With a low roar, Norman charged forward, feinting with his left fist while driving his right straight in. The Oz serum had pushed his arm strength to nearly twenty tons—enough to shatter reinforced concrete.

Michael sidestepped and deflected, effortlessly neutralizing the Green Goblin's three consecutive strikes. Before the fourth could land, he grabbed Norman's forearm and drove his elbow into the man's face. The steel-reinforced blow connected solidly with Norman's nose, sending blood streaming down.

Norman roared like a wounded beast and lifted his leg to kick, but Michael anticipated it, stomping his raised foot back down. Spreading his fingers, Michael fired a pulse from his palm at Norman's abdomen. At 10% power, the shockwave slammed into the Goblin's belly armor, launching him into the air again as the force rattled his internal organs. His body smashed through a bookshelf against the wall, rolling into a hidden room behind it amid a cloud of dust.

Yes, Norman Osborn had a secret room hidden behind the bookshelf in his study. Ever since he'd become the Green Goblin a day ago, he'd stolen a Glider and a stash of spare shurikens, bombs, and other weapons from his own company, secretly moving them here as a base of operations.

Norman struggled to his feet, glaring venomously at the figure slowly stepping into the room. An icy pressure intensified with the black armor's approach, making Norman feel as if his windpipe were constricted. He instinctively shrank back, still seated, and quickly pressed a hidden remote button on his wrist. The Glider parked in the room activated, responding to its master's call as it extended its blades and lunged toward the doorway.

Michael spun, delivering a roundhouse kick that struck the Glider's side just as it closed in, throwing it off balance and sending it careening away. The Glider's AI adjusted its thrusters to reacquire the target, but Michael followed up with a pulse cannon blast, shredding it into flaming pieces that scattered across the floor.

Michael's gaze returned to Norman.

Taking the chance, Norman vaulted over a cluttered silver table, rolling to a rack full of weapons. He swept an armful of Pumpkin Bombs from the shelf and turned back, his face twisted in a snarl.

"I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing," he growled, "but you'll pay dearly for daring to mess with the Green Goblin!"

With both arms, he hurled seven or eight Pumpkin Bombs into the air. They spun, their eerie green light shining through their squinting eyes and grinning mouths.

Green fire erupted in an instant. The swelling fireball swallowed the black armor whole, the deafening explosion mingling with the Green Goblin's mad, twisted laughter.

But his grin froze in less than a second.

The green fireball paused at its peak, then began to contract as if rewinding. The blinding flames swirled like a vortex, visibly shrinking into a complex, circular Magic Circle. The circle hovered in Michael's hand like a 3D projection, every line seeming to burn fiercely.

Norman Osborn's smile vanished, replaced by shock and terror.

"What the hell are you?" he asked instinctively.

Still no answer.

Michael made a "release" gesture with his right hand. The Magic Circle spun at high speed, spewing the absorbed green fire back out like a surging tide. Norman Osborn's eyes widened as he let out a thunderous roar of "No!" before his entire form was swallowed by the merciless flames.

***

New Jersey, a long-abandoned military camp, deep beneath a warehouse.

This place had been forgotten for years, with no one setting foot on its grounds for ages. But few knew that this desolate camp had once birthed a great legend and had been the birthplace of S.H.I.E.L.D.—a starting point.

Years later, at this very moment. A squad of heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, led by two Level Seven Agents, stormed into the camp. In one cobweb-covered, abandoned warehouse, they found a secret elevator that was still powered. The elevator carried the entire team straight down to the building's base.

Nine kilometers above, aboard the Helicarrier, Nick Fury monitored the operation through the squad's body cameras. He watched the elevator doors slide open, revealing a pitch-black, silent space. White lights flickered on intelligently as the agents entered, illuminating rows of old-fashioned, retro equipment. Countless machine parts hummed in low unison, and an antique console, straight out of a last-century film set, sat in the center of the room.

Aboard the Helicarrier, Deputy Director Hill frowned beside Fury. "These are just relics. Why would anyone hide a bunch of old junk in such a concealed space? What does it mean?"

Unlike her, Director Fury's expression was grim, as if they were facing a massive problem.

"It means that guy wasn't lying," Nick Fury replied, almost to himself. "And it means we might be dealing with the toughest situation S.H.I.E.L.D. has faced since its founding."

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