In American politics, there's a phenomenon known as the "October Surprise"—a deliberately timed, late-game scandal dropped right before the November elections to completely derail a presidential campaign. Usually, it's a leaked audio tape or an embezzlement charge. This year, the October Surprise was a bit more apocalyptic: the public exposure of an illegal, government-funded human-experimentation lab, followed swiftly by the Avengers formally inviting a controversial Russian diplomat to tour their paramilitary headquarters.
The cable news networks were having an absolute meltdown. The most pressing question dominating the pundit panels wasn't about international security; it was about Captain America. Which side of the aisle did the living symbol of the American Dream actually stand on? Did he vote for the Elephant or the Donkey?
Steve Rogers wasn't standing on an aisle. He was standing in the center of the Avengers Tower training room, systematically dismantling three automated Stark-tech rotary cannons.
The cannons tracked his movement with a lethal mechanical whine, opening fire with live ammunition. Steve didn't just block the barrage; he dove into a flawless, kinetic side-somersault, the heavy-caliber rounds sparking harmlessly against his vibranium shield. He hit the mat, twisted his hips, and hurled the shield in a blindingly fast, ricocheting arc.
CLANG. CRUNCH. SMASH.
The shield severed the power feeds of all three turrets in under two seconds. It snapped back into Steve's waiting glove. He stood there, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow.
"So," Tony Stark's voice echoed over the intercom, dripping with amusement. He and Janet Van Dyne were watching from the reinforced observation deck. "CNN is running a rumor that the Elephant Party is officially drafting a proposal to invite you to be their presidential candidate next year, Cap."
Steve shot a glare up at the glass.
If Tony had brought it up alone, Steve would have ignored the joke. But Janet was standing next to him, sipping a green smoothie and nodding seriously. "It's true, Steve. You're polling exceptionally well in the Midwest."
Steve let out a long, exhausted sigh. The revelation of Hydra's survival had worn him down to the bone. The absolute last thing he cared about was partisan politics.
"If I actually ran for president," Steve said, his voice flat and deadly serious, "the very first thing I would do after taking the oath of office is physically drag the biggest corporate donors in my own party out onto the White House lawn and beat them senseless."
Tony blinked. Janet lowered her smoothie.
"If you really want my political stance," Steve continued, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his glove, "the two-party system is just two different piles of dog shit. The only difference is that you have to hold your nose and vote for the one that stinks slightly less."
"Wow," Janet whispered, genuinely shocked.
Tony let out a loud bark of laughter. It was the first time either of them had ever heard the Captain swear so casually, let alone with that level of crude, unfiltered aggression. The Hydra infiltration was clearly taking a massive toll on his usual Boy Scout demeanor.
"Alright, Mr. President," Tony grinned, tapping the glass. "Shower up and put on the star-spangled suit. Sergei Kravinoff's motorcade is three minutes away. We should go greet our Russian guest."
While it was technically Peter's idea to invite Kraven the Hunter to Avengers Tower, he had absolutely zero intention of being in the room when the geopolitical staring contest happened. He had a much more localized problem to solve.
The realization that this universe was a twisted remix of everything he knew had sparked a paranoid theory. In a specific movie universe, Liz Allan's father wasn't just a normal guy; he was Adrian Toomes, the Vulture.
Peter had casually pumped Harry for information about Liz's dad earlier that week, but Harry had been entirely useless. All Harry knew was that the man was an engineer.
Peter couldn't exactly march up to JARVIS and ask the Avengers' mainframe to run a black-ops background check on a high school classmate's dad. Instead, he was currently sitting at a workstation inside the Emily Osborn Research Center, utilizing his top-tier security clearance to access the Oscorp corporate servers.
He typed the name into the search bar. Adrian Toomes.
A file popped up. Peter's breath caught in his throat.
It was him. Adrian Toomes.
Peter quickly skimmed the employment history, the patent filings, and the flagged legal disputes. He was bracing for a criminal record, a weapons charge, or a confirmed alias of 'The Vulture.'
Nothing. The record was completely clean. Toomes was just a frustrated, blue-collar salvage engineer who had recently accepted a relatively small patent buyout from Oscorp Industries. There were no arrest warrants, no supervillain monologues, no flying death-suits.
Peter slumped back in his chair, letting out a massive sigh of relief. Toomes hadn't become the Vulture. Everything was fine.
What Peter didn't realize, however, was that the Oscorp mainframe wasn't showing him the full picture. Deep within the server architecture, a highly advanced, classified AI sub-routine internally designated as the "Green Goblin" had recognized Peter's query.
The AI had automatically filtered out the sealed arrest reports, the violent assault charges in the Oscorp lobby, and the heavily encrypted mechanical wing schematics, feeding Peter a perfectly sanitized, harmless resume.
Meanwhile, in a quiet, working-class neighborhood in Queens, Harry Lyman was currently sweating through his perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
He stood on the porch of a modest, two-story house, clutching a bouquet of slightly crushed daisies. He took a deep, shaky breath, raised his knuckles, and knocked on the front door.
The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open to reveal a bald, middle-aged man in a faded plaid shirt and an oil-stained apron.
"You must be Harry," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He wiped his hands on a dish towel. "I'm Liz's dad. Adrian."
"Hello, Mr. Toomes," Harry squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing his posture straight. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."
Harry desperately scanned the hallway behind the man, hoping Liz would appear and rescue him, but the house was quiet.
Adrian didn't step aside immediately. He stared down at the teenager. Harry's nervous, desperate-to-please expression triggered a dark, violent memory in the back of Adrian's mind. The kid's bone structure, the slope of his jaw—it reminded Adrian intensely of someone he hated with every fiber of his being. He recalled Norman Osborn giving a smug, philanthropic speech at Midtown High a year ago, casually mentioning his son attended the school.
Is this Osborn's kid? Adrian thought, his jaw clenching.
He looked at the boy's trembling hands clutching the cheap daisies. Adrian let out a slow, heavy breath through his nose. He forced a polite smile, pushing the corporate hatred aside.
"Come on in, kid," Adrian said, stepping back and gesturing toward the living room. He glanced at the flowers. "I'm sorry to say we don't actually own a vase. So you might just have to set those on the counter for now."
"Oh. Right. I'm so sorry, I should have—"
"Relax," Adrian chuckled, genuinely amused by the boy's sheer panic. "Liz ran down to the corner store to buy some sodas. I'm actually a little behind on dinner. You know how to chop vegetables, young man?"
Harry, absolutely desperate to prove his worth, didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir. Absolutely."
He threw his expensive suit jacket over the back of a dining chair, rolled up his crisp white sleeves, and marched into the kitchen. Within seconds, he was aggressively dicing a bell pepper, completely ignoring the fact that he was getting vegetable juice on his expensive silk tie.
Adrian leaned against the counter, casually stirring a pot of stew. He watched the billionaire heir hack away at the cutting board with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
"So, Harry," Adrian asked casually, testing the waters. "What do your folks think about you dating?"
Harry's knife stopped. The eager energy drained completely out of his shoulders. He stared down at the cutting board.
"My dad... he doesn't really care," Harry said quietly. "He only cares about his business. And my mom... she died when I was really young. I only have a few memories of her."
Adrian paused, the wooden spoon freezing in the stew.
"Sounds like you and your old man don't exactly see eye-to-eye," Adrian noted, his voice softening.
"I don't know," Harry murmured, his grip tightening on the knife handle. "Sometimes I try to convince myself that he loves me, but I never actually feel it. He just looks right through me. I'm just an obligation to him."
Adrian watched the boy carefully. This was Norman Osborn's son. The son of the ruthless, arrogant billionaire who had stolen Adrian's life's work and had him thrown out of a lobby like trash.
But looking at Harry, Adrian didn't see an Osborn. He just saw a lonely, neglected kid desperate for a sliver of validation. He was the complete, polar opposite of his father.
Adrian had already taken the buyout. He had given up on fighting Norman to the death. Why curse the kid for the sins of the father? Adrian thought, shaking his head.
The front door suddenly slammed open.
"Dad! I got the cherry cola!"
Liz jogged into the kitchen, freezing in her tracks. She stared in utter shock at her billionaire boyfriend, wearing a ruined silk tie, aggressively chopping vegetables while her father calmly stirred a pot of stew.
"Dad!" Liz gasped, her face flushing red. "Why are you making my guest cook?!"
"Trust me, sweetie," Adrian laughed, giving Harry a warm, genuine clap on the shoulder. "The kid practically begged to help. Besides, he works fast. Dinner's ready. Let's eat."