At the top of one of New York's landmarks—the Empire State Building—on the edge of the cylindrical spire, more than 400 meters above the ground, the wind howled.
Batman steadied himself against the spire with one hand, body unmoving in the gale, eyes behind the cowl surveying the bustling traffic below.
Unlike most brightly lit buildings, Oscorp Tower in the distance was dark.
With a slight push of his arm, his body tipped forward and he dove from the Empire State Building's crown.
Using the Bat-Claw, he reached Oscorp's roof in short order, glued a webline securely to the top, and began rappelling down the façade level by level.
Yesterday he had headed straight for Sublevel B2's lab, only to find it empty; later, on the 25th floor, he found only a group of scientists running computer simulations—no sign of Norman Osborn.
Today he'd learned his lesson. Instead of going straight underground, he started from the 60th floor.
Again the 25th floor, again the same scientists, now in a heated debate.
Batman watched in silence for a moment, then continued searching the lower floors for Norman Osborn. Finding nothing, he withdrew and headed for Hell's Kitchen.
He had the bugs ready, but two days without a glimpse of Norman left them with no target—useless, for now.
Half an hour after Batman left, Norman Osborn drove up to Oscorp Tower and took the elevator to the 25th floor, where the scientists were still arguing.
"Enough. Prepare a human trial," Norman said.
"The test subjects are all dead, Mr. Osborn. Did you round up more vagrants?" asked a bald researcher.
All eyes turned to Norman.
"No. To keep General Ross from using human testing to get leverage on me… I've decided to be the subject myself." Norman seemed resolved; there was not a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"But, Mr. Osborn, there's no need to risk so much. We still have plenty of time before Ross's deadline," said a gray-haired, bespectacled woman.
"I know, but the Spider-Slayer was arrested, and Spider-Man is missing. I have to rely on myself," Norman snapped, urging the team on. "Move. If you have questions, ask them now—don't delay my experiment."
Pressed by Norman, the researchers followed him into the elevator.
"Mr. Osborn, I've never understood why you're so fixated on Ross's so-called 'super-soldier' program. Is it just the business he promised?" asked a man in a face mask.
Norman didn't bristle at the doubt—this was his most loyal research team since the company's founding. He explained with as much patience as he could muster:
"Do you remember Oscorp's slogan, as a biotech company?"
"'Human evolution, achieved through science.' That's not just a slogan—that's been my greatest ambition since I started this company.
"We've focused on gene technology—GM foods, genetically altered organisms—but we're nowhere close to true 'human evolution.'"
The elevator passed the ground floor without stopping, continuing down to Sublevel B3.
Sublevel B1 held development and testing for powered armor and gliders; B2 covered human-experiment research.
B3 was where Oscorp conducted the real human trials.
The space was small: a transparent, octagonal cage—just over a dozen square meters—dominated the room, with a metal rig inside to lock a subject in place.
Four tanks connected around the cage, and a control console stood directly in front of it.
Norman stripped to the waist and stepped into the octagon. The researchers took their stations at the console, pressing a series of buttons.
"I only realized I'd been on the wrong path when General Ross came to me… That redneck's vision is far too narrow; his super-soldier program is just about building a superhuman army."
Cold metal bit into muscle as Norman locked himself into the rig; he drew a sharp breath.
"But imagine this: if Oscorp perfected it—even if it couldn't turn an ordinary man into a super-soldier—it could cure any disease on Earth.
"Oscorp would ascend to glory, and the world would be free of illness. Isn't that worth everything I have?
"Trading the lives of a few insignificant vagrants to save the countless sufferers of the world—God himself would forgive me."
"Unfortunately, someone exposed my plan. Using vagrants now would bring needless trouble—and give Ross more leverage. I have no choice but to go in myself."
They fitted a bite block between Norman's teeth to help with the pain. Clenching it, he gave the muffled order:
"Begin!"
At his word, the cage sealed. The rig cinched down. A green mist began to fill the chamber.
Thicker and thicker, until Norman's form vanished—only agonized screams leaking out.
The team watched the readouts anxiously. A white-haired, stoop-backed old man pressed his face to the glass and shouted:
"Norman? Are you alright?"
Hearing only howls, he waved frantically to the others. "Shut it down! He can't take it!"
They hesitated, about to abort, when Norman's weak voice drifted out of the green fog:
"…Continue. I can still take it."
"Norman!" the stooped old man cried.
"I said—continue!" Norman's voice suddenly swelled in strength.
The researchers exchanged glances and let the procedure run. At last, the green fog thinned, and Norman's cries subsided.
"Quick! Check his vitals!" someone shouted.
The instruments showed a heartbeat—he seemed merely unconscious.
"Did it work?"
"Maybe…"
"Thank God—he didn't end up like the other subjects…"
"Is it just me, or does he look… bigger?"
They exhaled as one, chatting as they hurried to open the cage and lift Norman out.
Suddenly, Norman's eyes snapped open—solid green. He raised a hand and tore the restraints apart.
"Norman, you—" the stooped old man began.
Before he could finish, Norman's backhand took his head clean off. It spun away from his neck in a spray.
Screams and blood filled Sublevel B3. Minutes later, only bodies remained. Norman Osborn was gone.