171. Beneath the Boiler Room. (Patreon)

Harry Osborn POV:

If someone told me that the heart of Parker Industries was hidden behind a boiler room that smelled like iron, steam and old New York grime, I would’ve laughed in their face.

I wasn’t laughing now.

The AV-49 Wraith set us down with surgical precision on a private landing pad on top of the New York Facility. We went to the other side of the facility. That part didn’t look like a headquarters. No glass towers like the front. No dramatic logos. Just reinforced concrete, industrial silence and an oppressive sense that everything here existed for a reason.

Peter stepped off first, casual as ever, hands in his jacket pockets like he hadn’t just arrived in a stealth gunship that could probably erase a city block if it sneezed wrong. Gwen followed, graceful, calm and radiating strength in that quiet way she used to.

“This,” Peter said as we walked, “is where Parker Defense Solutions stopped being a bad idea and started being everyone else’s problem.”

I swallowed. We passed assembly lines where incomprehensible machines slept rather than worked, dormant giants wrapped in shadows. Walls slid aside at Peter’s presence. Floors hummed faintly underfoot.

Eventually, we reached it.

The boiler room.

It was hot. Loud. Pipes crisscrossed the ceiling like veins, steam hissing rhythmically. The smell hit me immediately. Metal, heat, oil.

“…You brought me here,” I said slowly, “to kill me and dump the body, didn’t you?”

Gwen snorted. Peter didn’t even look offended.

“Harry, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have noticed. I could kill you with a touch.” Peter said, walking up to a row of ancient-looking boilers. “Stand back.”

He grabbed a valve. Then another. Then a third one that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War.

The floor shifted.

One of the boilers split down the middle, panels sliding apart with a low mechanical growl. Behind it was an elevator shaft glowing faint blue.

I stared. “Of course it’s a secret elevator.”

“Hidden in and beyond plain sight.” Peter said cheerfully as we stepped inside. “Works every time.”

The doors sealed and we began descending.

“Okay,” I said, gripping the rail as the shaft sank deeper than any building had a right to. “I’ve heard rumors. Online conspiracy nonsense. Something about a god forge at the sublevels of Parker Defense Solutions Building now HQ of Parker Industries.”

Peter grimaced. “Ugh. I hate that name.”

“So it’s true?”

“It’s not a god forge,” He corrected. “It’s a Celestial Forge. Important distinction.”

“That somehow makes it worse.” I deadpanned.

The doors opened.

And my brain promptly failed to process reality.

The subterranean level stretched out like the inside of a cathedral built by engineers with a god complex except this was all Peter's doing. Machines the size of small houses. Rivers of light flowing through conduits. Holograms layered over physical space like living equations.

At the center, stood something beyond human comprehension. Something vast. Something.... Beyond.

I took one step toward it.

Peter grabbed my collar and yanked me back. “Nope. Don’t stare at the Forge. It stares back. If you can't handle it your mind is toast. And yes I can make gods.”

I looked at Peter dumbfoundedly.

“…I was kidding about the god part.” Adds Peter with a smile.

“It's because he hasn't tried to yet.” Gwen said lightly.

We moved quickly after that.

“Peter,” I asked as we walked, “how in the hell has none of this been stolen?”

“Oh, there have been attempts.” He replied. “By idiots. Briefly.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He ticked things off on his fingers. “Super soldiers with actual energy weapons. Not laser pew-pew nonsense. Monofilament nets that can slice through even Vibranium. Pressure sensitive floors that fire lasers upward when they detect unfamiliar life signs and body mass. Nerve gas chambers.”

I blinked. “Plural?”

“Nano-dissimilation bots. Tesla coils disguised as furniture and Bonsai. Vibranium-S foam traps. Spike pits.”

Gwen added, “The spikes are also Vibranium-S.”

Peter nodded. “Poison darts. Poison Goo. Sticky goo. Less sticky goo. And my personal favorite. Shit-covered spike pits.”

I stopped walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Psychological warfare mixed with deadly pathogens from rotting shit.” He said seriously. “No one climbs out of those and survives as they go to Septic shock.”

I stared at Peter with horror. Gwen patted my arm to reassure me.

“You’re safe.” She said. “The whole facility is air-gapped. No external network access. Emergency comms are flares only.”

“…Of course they are.” I groaned.

We reached a sealed section marked MEDICAL RESEARCH WING.

Peter placed his hand on the panel. The door hissed open.

Lights flickered on, revealing a pristine medical wing that buzzed with quiet life.

“It’s a little dusty.” Peter said apologetically. “We don’t really use it much.”

“You have an entire sci-fi hospital underground and you don’t use it?”

“I’m physically immortal,” Peter said. “And Gwen heals fast enough to be annoying.”

Gwen smiled sweetly. “Soon I’ll take the Regen serum too.”

I raised a finger. “Just to be clear. I don’t want immortality. I just want… normal. You know. Die later. Not live till the heat death of the universe."

Peter paused. “You know the term heat death of the universe?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Okay. Continue.”

Peter activated a long cylindrical pod made of shimmering light.

“Strip.” He said.

Gwen and Peter immediately turned around.

I scoffed. “Like you won’t see everything once I’m floating in there like a frog in formaldehyde.”

Gwen glanced back. “It’s not glass. Forcefield.”

“…I hate that you corrected that.”

I stepped inside. The cylinder sealed, an oxygen mask lowering over my face as warm medical fluid rose around me.

The world drifted away.

Peter POV:

Harry’s genome unfolded before me in cascading holograms. Damaged. Cursed.

Retroviral Hypodysplasia lit up like a warning flare. Inherent genes nested deep in Harry's genetic code.

Gwen leaned against the console. “I’m not a science person,” She said, “but… that looks fixable.”

“It is.” I replied. “Technically.”

She frowned. “That ‘technically’ scares me.”

“Editing genetics means hitting every cell at once. I can do that.” I zoomed in. “The problem is where these markers are.”

I isolated the sequence.

Gwen stared intently.

“If I overwrite them directly,” I said, “Harry ceases to exist. New body. New face. Blank mind. Man-sized toddler.”

She looked back at the tank. “So… that’s not an option.”

“No.” I paused. “But there’s another way.”

I pulled up medical records. Decades, centuries deep.

“The Osborn Curse only exists in his direct bloodline,” I continued. “Deactivate the genes. Don’t delete them. Turn Harry into a carrier.”

Gwen’s eyes widened. “So he lives?”

“He lives,” I said. “And unless he does something very uncomfortable and illegal, like Alabama style illegal, his kids will too, if he can find someone to marry. Emphasis on the if.”

She smiled, relief trembling through her. “Do it. Also, have faith in him.”

I tapped the console.

A blue liquid flowed into the tank.

Gwen clasped her hands together, whispering a prayer. Not to gods, not to fate, but to the fragile hope of a friend who just wanted time.

And for the first time in a long while, I let myself believe we could give it to him.