244. Morpheus's Plight. (Patreon)

Peter Parker-65M POV:

Opening a dimensional portal isn't difficult.

Keeping it stable while transporting industrial equipment, medical samples, personnel, reactor components and enough high-grade materials to rewrite the technological trajectory of an entire planet?

That's where the poetry begins.

I stood in the middle of one of Oscorp’s newly acquired warehouses, my Dimensional Navigation Gauntlet connected through a lattice of hardlight conduits to the Vacuum Siphon Cores inside my suit and Gwen’s Iron Spider Mk. III.

A circular aperture opened in the center of the warehouse floor, light bending inward before splitting into shimmering blue geometry. Beyond it was home specifically one of my controlled logistics hubs where everything had already been prepped, catalogued, sterilized, sealed and triple-checked by Clanker because when you are moving world-altering technology between realities, “oops” is not a word one should allow to exist.

Peter-120703 stood near one of the support columns, speaking with Max Dillon and Dr. Connors. He was trying to look calm and he was failing badly.

Max Dillon looked much healthier than the version of him from my universe had before everything went spectacularly wrong. He had no powers here anymore, no electricity burning behind his eyes, no living storm beneath his skin as it was drained during his little misadventure in Earth-199999 but he still had the same overlooked intelligence and the instinct to spot danger when everyone else was too busy staring at miracles.

“Peter, listen,” Max said quietly, though of course I heard him perfectly. “I thought my absence during the power grid event would save Gwen’s life. It didn’t and I felt sad for that. I really did but now? Now I know the multiverse exists. I know I’m powerless but I can still feel the energy radiating off their suits.”

He glanced toward me.

“It dwarfs an Arc reactor by millions of times over. Anyone who can resurrect the dead and carry that kind of power around like spare batteries is not some benevolent saint.”

Peter-120703’s jaw tightened but he didn’t argue.

“I know, Max,” he said. “He’s doing this for personal reasons. Selfish reasons too.”

“The resurrection was also an experiment,” Peter continued. “He had no one left to resurrect because he succeeded where most of us fail. He kept his loved ones alive.”

Dr. Connors adjusted his glasses, his one arm held close to his body.

“Peter,” Connors said, “I am grateful you helped secure my release from Ravencroft. I am grateful Richard and Mary are alive again but we must understand the scale of what is happening.”

He looked toward the dimensional portal.

“The cancer treatments alone can reshape not merely the medical sector but the entire pharmaceutical economy. Much of that industry profits from long-term treatment structures, not cures.”

Helen Stacy, standing nearby with folded arms, listened closely.

Connors continued, “The opioid-independent painkillers are even more dangerous. Legal producers include nations like India, Australia, France, Turkey and Spain. Then there are illegal production networks tied to Afghanistan, Myanmar, Mexico, Laos and others.”

Max nodded grimly. “And illegal suppliers don’t just sell to street dealers. Some of that material finds its way into cheaper pharmaceutical supply chains through laundering networks.”

Connors turned to me as I approached.

“Oscorp is being pushed into a war against the pre-mandated laws of the entire industry.”

I smiled.

“Dr. Connors, you're seeing the world through the eyes of a spectator and a piece.”

I stepped beside Peter-120703 and looked toward the open portal. “I'm the player here.”

“I intend to cripple opioid dependence so thoroughly that within a year morphine becomes a collector’s item rather than a cornerstone.”

Peter-120703 looked at me like I had kicked a puppy.

“Relax,” I said. “The puppy was metaphorical.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It was not intended to, because there are no puppies.”

The portal stabilized fully and the first shipment came through.

The fusion reactor floated out first.

A silver sphere composed of thousands of triangular plates, suspended between two superconductive magnetic rings. It turned soundlessly, each component adjusting in tiny, precise movements like some mechanical star deciding whether to be born.

Howard Stacy whispered, “That thing powers cities?”

“Small ones.” I answered.

Philip blinked. “That’s a small reactor?”

“Yes.”

Simon whispered, “I love science.”

Next came the industrial fabrication units.

Six all-purpose industrial 3D printers, each large enough to manufacture vehicle chassis, surgical-grade implants, building-grade composites, or precision mechanical parts depending on feedstock. Then came sealed crates of smaller components, medicine samples, data cores, drug prototypes, and laboratory instruments escorted by scientists and security personnel.

Finally came the item that made the room stop breathing.

Two personnel in yellow hazmat suits stepped through the portal carrying an armored briefcase.

Behind them came a Spartan IV in full armor.

7 feet of white armor trimmed in blue-gray and his visor glowed like a piece of winter sky.

He stopped before me and saluted. “JANSEN-6758 reporting for duty, sir.”

“At ease, Spartan.”

Jansen relaxed by approximately two percent, which was considered casual by Spartan standards.

Dr. Connors stared up at him, fascinated and unsettled in equal measure.

“Incredible,” he whispered. “This is one of the genetically and cybernetically augmented super soldiers I’ve heard about?”

“Yes,” I replied, already reviewing the transfer protocol.

I didn’t elaborate because some things people understood better through silence.

Once the medical and industrial transfer was complete, I closed the first phase of the portal. Nonessential personnel were sent back, equipment was secured and the hazmat case remained.

“Everyone,” I said, “upper office. We have something sensitive to clarify.”

My wife gave me a look which I ignored it because I wasn't having this specific conversation with her again.

No, marriage is perfect. Deal with it.

George Stacy-120703 POV:

I was Captain of the NYPD for more than a decade before I died.

That kind of job changes your instincts.

You learn the difference between a man carrying contraband and a man carrying something that can make cities bleed. You learn how people move when they’re hiding drugs, guns, bodies, fear, guilt or orders.

The yellow suits told me one thing, the armored case told me another and the Spartan escort told me the third.

Whatever was inside that briefcase was dangerous, illegal or both. Probably both.

We gathered in a sparsely furnished upper office overlooking the warehouse floor. Folding chairs were dragged into place. Helen sat down beside me, Gwen and Peter stood near the window, Ben and May sat close together, still adjusting to being alive in a world that now had dimensional logistics. Dr. Connors and Max stood near the back, both trying very hard not to look as alarmed as they were.

Peter-65M placed several standard briefcases on the table first.

“These contain medicine samples, recorded medical data, trial summaries, safety reports and implementation frameworks for the approved medical technologies. Eos will distribute them according to researcher portfolio.”

Helen nodded slowly. “Good. Documentation first.”

Peter smiled. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

Then the two hazmat personnel stepped forward and placed the armored case on the table.

Peter’s demeanor changed instantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “what I am about to disclose is classified at the highest level. Any leak of this discussion will create difficulties for you. Not for me.”

The yellow-suited technicians unlocked the case and it opened with a hiss. Cold vapor spilled across the table. Inside was a single red vial, suspended in a containment cradle.

Peter rested one hand on the edge of the table. “This is Morpheus’s Plight.”

“A mythical name,” Gwen-65M muttered, “because he’s dramatic.”

Peter continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“It is a targeted viral ecological countermeasure designed to suppress illicit opioid production at the agricultural source. It affects specific opium-producing poppy lineages and prevents them from producing usable narcotic latex permanently.”

The room went so silent I could hear the air filtration system.

Connors looked horrified. “A viral agent?”

“Yes.” Peter corrected. “Designed with hard expiration parameters, containment limits and non-persistence safeguards.”

Helen spoke slowly. “You used this in your world?”

“Yes, to attack drug supply and dismantle the Golden Triangle and other major narcotic supply chains,” Peter said. “It crippled multiple syndicates more efficiently than drone strikes, raids, bribes and sanctions combined.”

Peter-120703 stared at him. “You talk about this like weather.”

Peter-65M looked at him. “Calamity is still a tool when properly aimed.”

That chilled me not because he sounded cruel but because he sounded sincere.

My daughter leaned forward.

“What about dimensional differences? Different plant genetics? Environmental variables? Mutation?”

Peter-65M smiled at her. “Good question, Miss Stacy.”

He motioned to the hazmat scientists.

“These two will conduct extensive analysis before anything is deployed. Cross-dimensional genetic compatibility, mutation drift, soil behavior, non-target exposure, containment failure, environmental degradation, all of it. Nothing is released unless it passes every safety threshold.”

May raised her hand slightly. “What about poppy seeds?”

Everyone looked at her and she looked mildly embarrassed but continued. “I like poppy seed and white sesame bagels.”

Gwen-65M smiled immediately. “I asked the same thing.”

Peter-65M sighed. “Repeatedly.”

“Because poppy seed bagels matter.”

He gave her a fond look. “Yes, dear.”

She turned to May. “He modified the framework so the affected crop line can survive as a common non-narcotic agricultural crop. Seeds stay, Bagels stay and the bakery industry stays untouched.”

May nodded firmly. “Oh. That's a relief.”

They discussed global agricultural sabotage with the tone of people deciding breakfast preferences. That was when I truly understood something about Peter-65M.

He wasn't casual because he didn’t understand the scale. He was casual because he understood it too well.

“Suppose this works. Suppose we reap the benefits. Suppose the opioid trade collapses, Oscorp becomes indispensable and everything goes according to your plan. Then suppose something slips. One leak, one whistleblower and one recording and suddenly the world learns this family had knowledge of a biological countermeasure used to reshape narcotics markets which means they can reshape the literal food market.”

Helen looked at me, expression grim.

I continued, “What happens to us? You have your world dancing on your palm. We don’t.”

Peter nodded once like a teacher pleased by a student asking the right question.

“Investment is a blind game,” he said. “I made it into certainty by breaking older trends and establishing new ones.”

He moved to the window overlooking the warehouse floor.

“In my world, civilian aviation was transformed through gravitic propulsion engines powered by portable fusion reactors. I don't make most of my income from selling fuel. I profit through maintenance, corporate shares, spare parts, repair bots, their support infrastructure and global dependency on my standardization.”

He turned back.

“People accept my systems because they increase profit while reducing cost. 10%-45% in many sectors. Cheap maintenance, reliable components and colossal production capability. My annual output can dwarf the combined industrial production of the G8 when necessary.”

No one spoke.

“This will be similar. Oscorp becomes indispensable to the pharmaceutical sector not because it holds a temporary patent but because it controls manufacturing ecosystems no one else can replicate.”

Helen frowned. “Even if formulas leak?”

“Even if formulas and blueprints leak,” Peter said. “Metamaterial synthesis alone would be a nightmare for this world. The necessary machinery doesn't exist here. Recreating the production chain would require centuries of continuous advancement without my shortcuts.”

Peter-120703 whispered, “So we’re safe because they need us.”

“Yes,” Peter-65M said. “And because I’m giving you Castaferrum drones.”

Max muttered, “Of course there are murder robots.”

“Security drones.” Peter corrected.

Gwen-65M added, “He calls them security drones. Everybody else calls them murder robots.”

Peter-65M ignored her again.

“They fall short of Spartans but not by much in conventional engagements. Enough to make hostile acquisition, kidnapping, coercive seizure or government overreach extremely unattractive.”

There it was.

Mob logic.

I had seen it all my life.

A man decides the world is out to get him, so he grows teeth. More teeth and sharper teeth. So many teeth that no one dares put a hand near his mouth.

The difference between Peter-65M and the mob bosses I had hunted was painfully simple.

They wanted next week’s profit while he wanted tomorrow’s survival.

The meeting continued another ten minutes where we discussed legal frameworks, oversight, liability shielding, international partnerships, environmental testing protocols, drug approvals and manufacturing chains.

He had answers for everything and that was frightening too.

When the others began to leave, Peter-65M called out.

“Gwen, Peter, George. Please wait.”

My daughter stopped. So did Peter and I.

His Gwen stayed without being asked because she's his wife which I respect.

Peter-65M looked at me.

“You know,” he said, “physically you differ from my father-in-law but behaviorally? Near exact copy.”

“So you noticed.”

“I notice everything. That's what has kept me alive all this time.”

I folded my arms. “That must get lonely.”

His smile didn't fade. "No because I'm not alone."

That was the first answer he’d given all day that sounded like a person instead of a system.

He tapped his glasses and replayed something.

It was my last words to Spider-Man atop Oscorp Tower. "Leave Gwen out of it."

“Was I wrong?” I asked.

Gwen whispered, “Dad…”

I looked at her. “Was I?”

Peter-65M didn’t answer immediately.

“That is the harrowing part,” he said softly. “In many universes, Gwen Stacy falls in love with Spider-Man. In many of those universes, it ends badly. In universes where Spider-Woman exists, Peter Parker often suffers after falling in love with her.”

He projected hundreds of panels into the air.

Gwen dead in Spider-Man’s arms.

Peter dead in Spider-Gwen’s arms.

Different worlds but the same grief.

My daughter covered her mouth while Peter looked like he’d been punched.

Peter-65M stood before those floating images like a man staring at an enemy he had sworn to murder.

“Do you understand the philosophical clash here?” he asked. “Predetermined tragedy dressed as character development.”

He swiped the images away.

“But there are outliers and my world is one of them.”

He looked toward his Gwen and something in his face softened.

“Money matters, security matters, protection matters, social systems matter and moral constraints matter. Lack any of them and fate finds leverage.”

Then he looked at Peter-120703.

“What you see as monopoly, I see as armor. I'm not giving Oscorp power for its own sake. I’m giving Peter tools. A way to save people that doesn't require him to bleed in alleys or until his heart collapses under guilt.”

Peter lowered his gaze and my Gwen grabbed his arm.

Peter-65M continued, “I'm destroying opioid addiction networks and opioid-based narcotic trade while preserving legitimate medicine and leaving bakeries untouched because my wife cares about bagels.”

Gwen-65M raised a finger. “And muffins.”

“And muffins.” He conceded.

“Where you see corporate dominance, I see a chance for your Peter to do better. To be better. To break free from his cage.”

My Gwen, despite tears still shining in her eyes, gave a tiny teasing smile. “Thank God I have enough brains for both of us.”

My nostrils flared.

Peter looked near tears and I turned to Gwen.

“Fine,” I said. “You can date the spider-themed idiot.”

Gwen threw herself into my arms, laughing and crying. “Thanks, Dad.”

Peter whispered, “Thank you, Captain Stacy.”

I rolled my eyes because if I didn’t I might start crying too.

Then I looked at Peter-65M. “I don’t trust you.”

He nodded. “Reasonable.”

“But I respect your commitment. Even if I doubt we’ll ever see eye to eye on methods.”

“Also reasonable.”

“How does your George live with your actions?”

Peter-65M answered with a question. “What is your body count after a decade as NYPD captain?”

“30,” I said. “30 people died by my service weapon.”

Gwen looked at me but didn’t speak and Peter nodded.

“My father-in-law George killed 250 in his first decade as a PDNY cop.”

Peter and Gwen both went wide-eyed while Gwen-65M’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Peter-65M continued, “Not because he’s trigger-happy or because he enjoys violence. My world has mutants, Maggia, Madripoor-linked narcotics... had Madripoor linked narcotics gangs, experimental weapons, rogue scientists, enhanced criminals and criminals who can casually outgun precincts.”

He paused.

“He once told me why he stopped hesitating when he got too drunk on St. Patrick's day. He's of Irish descent.”

“Rookie officer. Fresh from the Academy. He asked his supervisor how to know when to shoot. The supervisor said, sadly, that he’d learn after his first mistake.”

I already knew where the story was going but my stomach sank anyway.

“A bank robbery,” Peter said. “Teenagers high on heroin with brand-new guns. 30 hostages, 20 officers, 6 robbers. 5 officers took their shots. George was the 6th in the sequence.”

“He hesitated because they looked young and too dumb.”

Peter’s eyes hardened.

“They were dumb. Just the wrong kind.”

Gwen-65M closed her eyes.

“The sixth robber fired blindly into the hostages and 10 civilians died before the other officers put him down. One was a 4 month old pregnant woman. The captain had to be physically restrained from shooting George.”

No one moved.

“He nearly drank himself to death. Then decided he would never hesitate again.”

Peter looked at me. “So there you go. That's our life in a nutshell. PTSD, trauma and endless spite aimed at fate.”

My daughter was crying now. So was I, though I did my best to hide it.

Gwen turned to Gwen-65M. "Can I hug your dad?”

Gwen-65M smiled sadly. “He’ll probably be here in a few days.”

Both Gwens laughed through tears.

I looked at the two Peters, at the two Gwens, at the impossibility of it all and for the first time since my resurrection, I understood something chilling.

The universe wasn't a line, it was a tapestry.

Vast, cruel, beautiful and full of grief trying, stubbornly, to become something else.