MacDonald Gargan ran a calloused finger across his corkboard. His nail traced the dense web of photographs and red string, coming to a dead stop on a blurry image of Spider-Man and his webs. He pressed hard enough to crease the photo, imagining his fingertip as a blade slowly dragging across the vigilante's throat.
Spider-Man and his new female partner were the reason Gargan couldn't feel his legs. A shattered spine meant he would never walk again without the heavy, mechanical exoskeleton Otto Octavius was building for him.
Gargan pulled his coat tighter, adjusting his hat as he wheeled himself away from the board. His safe house was a damp basement in Brooklyn. He reviewed the data. Spider-Man was a high school student—the operational hours proved it. Gargan had narrowed the list down to seven potential schools in New York City.
The Avengers affiliation made things complicated. It was a massive shield. But people always left trails. A kid with Stark backing would inevitably funnel money to his family. Sudden income spikes or paid-off mortgages were red flags Gargan was actively hunting.
But the girl was the real weak link. The media had recently caught her on camera and dubbed her Spider-Silk. For some completely idiotic reason, she didn't wear a full face mask.
Gargan cross-referenced her exposed features. Asian descent. Short hair. Female. Under twenty. If she was operating on the same clock as Spider-Man, they were likely attending the same high school.
It had been a few days since Spider-Man returned to the city. Gargan bided his time in the basement, relying on his own sharp instincts and the sporadic data packets Otto's little recon drones transmitted.
He picked up a bulky, encrypted satellite phone and dialed a heavily guarded number.
"Mr. Fisk," Gargan said, his voice a low gravel. "What do you think of my assessment?"
A long, heavy silence stretched across the line. Wilson Fisk did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was a deep, resonant rumble. "I concede your logic is sound, Mr. Gargan. But aren't you acting with unnecessary haste?"
"Aren't you the one who wants the spider dead the most?"
"My desires are entirely separate from this current tactical discussion," Fisk replied, sounding profoundly bored.
"I don't care about your tactics, Fisk," Gargan said. "I have no family. I have no friends. I just wanted a paycheck, and instead, my spine was snapped in half. But I owe you a debt. You kept me breathing, and you're funding my surgery. I'm a professional. I'm repaying that favor right now. You need to handle your loose ends if you want to keep your empire intact."
Gargan leaned closer to the receiver. "I'm not threatening you. I'm advising you."
Gargan hit the nerve he knew Fisk was worried about. "Herman Schultz had a family to protect. He kept his mouth shut. But Quentin Beck? Beck is just like me. He has absolutely nothing to lose. And a changing fear equation could produce testimony."
"Beck possesses nothing but circumstantial testimony. No hard evidence," Fisk said smoothly. "He was entirely compartmentalized."
Fisk wasn't making excuses; he was stating facts. He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, the Manhattan skyline bathed in sharp afternoon sunlight. James Wesley stood perfectly still behind him, an operational right hand handling the silent logistics of Fisk's empire.
"In fact, Mr. Gargan," Fisk continued, "I was merely a legitimate businessman moving salvage. A few Chitauri parts changing hands during the city's reconstruction. Hardly a capital offense."
Gargan barked a harsh, scraping laugh. He understood perfectly. Fisk wasn't going to admit to anything, not even on an encrypted line.
"Like I said, Fisk, it's not a threat. It's professional counsel," Gargan repeated, quoting one of Fisk's own prior speeches back to him. "The old ways are over. It's the age of heroes and accountability now."
The line went dead.
Fisk stared out at the city. His massive hand tightened around the satellite phone until the plastic groaned, cracked, and finally shattered into pieces. He dropped the electronic debris onto the carpet.
"Burn the evidence trail, Aaron," Fisk ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Understood," Aaron nodded, already mentally calculating the logistics. "And the next step, boss?"
"Deliver a reminder to Otto," Fisk said, not turning around. "Make it exceptionally clear that it is not a threat, but a warning. He needs to move."
Back in Brooklyn, Gargan was matching his red string to a new piece of the puzzle. Fisk's final gift before cutting ties had been highly classified: a Department of Education roster list. Finding a fully masked vigilante was hard. Filtering a DOE database for a high-school-aged Asian girl with specific height and weight parameters was child's play.
Gargan tapped the printed file. Cindy Moon. He had pulled her transfer records from Vision Academy. She was now officially enrolled at Midtown High. That meant Spider-Man was at Midtown High.
The trap was perfectly set. Hit the girl, and the Spider would come running.
Gargan dialed one last number.
"Otto. I'm ready on my end. What's your status?"
"Kingpin's lapdog already delivered his 'warning'," Otto snapped. The background noise over the line was a cacophony of whirring servos and heavy metallic clanking. Otto's mechanical arms were making final calibrations. "The Scorpion armor has been delivered to the sewer main directly adjacent to your safe house. With your new enhancements, breaking through the foundation shouldn't be an issue. Are you finally going to tell me Spider-Man's civilian identity?"
"No," Gargan said flatly. "The person you're going after is at Midtown High. That's all you need."
Gargan wasn't stupid. Giving that name to Otto meant Norman Osborn would eventually understand the implication. Gargan wasn't handing Osborn a free advantage.
Gargan crushed his own phone, dropping the pieces onto the concrete floor. He wheeled himself toward the basement wall. He didn't need the chair anymore. The surgical modifications were complete. He pulled his fist back and drove it forward. The concrete wall exploded outward into the New York sewer system.
Sitting in the damp darkness was a massive steel crate. The Scorpion suit.
It was Monday. Three o'clock in the afternoon. The perfect time to hit a high school right at dismissal.
Across the city, Otto stepped back from his operating table. He wiped his hands on a rag, his goggles reflecting the sheer, hulking mass of the man sitting before him.
The surgical implantation was a complete success. The thick, metallic skin was perfectly integrated beneath a heavy, industrial exoskeleton framework. Otto wasn't particularly invested in Kingpin's vendetta against Spider-Man, but looking at his own craftsmanship, he couldn't help but feel a surge of profound pride.
"Perfect," Otto breathed, his mechanical tentacles clicking in satisfaction. "Absolutely outstanding. Aleksei Sytsevich, you were born for this."
The massive Russian rolled his heavy shoulders. The metal plating shifted flawlessly. Aleksei looked at Otto, his face a blunt, hardened instrument. He only cared about one thing.
"Has the money arrived in the account?" Aleksei rumbled.
"It's fully laundered," Otto assured him, stepping away from the table. "Untraceable. It won't be seized, even if you are apprehended."
Otto pointed a mechanical claw toward the exit.
"Go, Rhino," Otto commanded. "Buy some time for our Scorpion."
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