The last week of October brought a biting chill to Queens, rattling the frosted windows of Midtown High's chemistry lab. Peter Parker slouched in his molded plastic chair, a ballpoint pen spinning in a rapid, endless blur between his index and middle fingers. The teacher was droning on about covalent bonds, but Peter wasn't absorbing a single word.
His mind was stuck on a loop, constantly running tactical scenarios. Ever since the S.H.I.E.L.D. transport plane—the "Bus"—had vanished off the grid to analyze the alien sludge, Peter had been on edge. The rogue symbiote, Lasher, was in the wind. There were simply too many variables. The creature could have retreated to the Pentagon's black site, or it could already be lurking in the damp, echoing sewer tunnels beneath Manhattan.
Peter had already swung through Hell's Kitchen to give Matt Murdock a heads-up. He'd warned Daredevil that a highly lethal, biologically unstable alien monster was potentially operating in their zip code. But beyond ramping up his evening patrol routes and waiting for Fitz and Simmons to invent a magical symbiote-tracking algorithm, there was absolutely nothing Peter could do. The waiting was agonizing.
Desperate for a distraction, Peter leaned across the narrow aisle toward Harry. Harry was casually tapping his phone screen under the desk, completely unbothered by the lecture.
"Hey," Peter whispered, keeping his eyes forward. "How are things going upstate? With Liz's dad?"
Harry looked up, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish, lopsided grin. "Actually? Really well. I think Mr. Toomes likes me quite a bit. I'm pretty sure he's already guessed who my dad is, but he hasn't made a big deal out of it. It's... refreshing. Honestly, he's much easier to deal with than my father."
Peter's stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip. He didn't want to explain his deeply ingrained superhero paranoia to his best friend.
"Just... keep an eye on those wings he's developing, alright?" Peter kept his voice low, his pen finally stopping its frantic spinning. "Anti-gravity propulsion systems are prime targets. High-tech experimental gear is exactly the kind of stuff that gets stolen by underground arms dealers. If that tech hits the black market, it's going to be a massive headache."
Harry tilted his head, a thoughtful, almost dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "I'll keep an eye on it. But Peter, honestly... don't you think New York might need a superhero who can fly?"
Peter froze. He stared at Harry, his enhanced hearing picking up the sudden, eager spike in his friend's heart rate.
"You mean... you?" Peter asked, exhaling a long, tired breath.
"I don't know," Harry murmured, looking down at his desk. "Maybe."
"My professional advice?" Peter whispered back, leaning closer. "Absolutely not. The spandex chafes, the hours are terrible, and the trauma is permanent."
Harry let out a quiet, defeated sigh and dropped the subject, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
The shrill blast of the dismissal bell echoed through the corridors. Almost instantly, Harry's phone began to vibrate violently against his leg. He pulled it out, his shoulders dropping a solid two inches the moment he read the caller ID. "It's my dad," Harry muttered, his voice tightening. He grabbed his backpack and practically bolted out into the hallway to take the call.
Peter turned to his left, looking down at Amadeus Cho. The Korean-American genius was quietly packing away a notebook filled with advanced algorithmic equations that looked like a foreign language.
"Hey, buddy," Peter said, knocking his knuckles against Amadeus's desk. "You've been awfully quiet lately. Everything good?"
Amadeus pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I am simply observing the current data sets," he replied dryly, not looking offended in the slightest. "Just because I am not currently the focal point of the narrative does not mean I am inactive. I am processing."
"Right. Good to know," Peter chuckled.
A moment later, Harry trudged back into the classroom. The easygoing warmth from earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a stiff, guarded neutral expression.
"Everything alright?" Peter asked, his brow furrowing.
Harry forced a small smile and offered a dismissive shrug. "Yeah. Same as before. Nothing different. You know how our relationship is." He hitched his backpack strap higher. "Anyway, you guys have anything going on after school? If not, we sticking to the original D&D plan?"
"I might have some... classified internship errands to run," Peter deflected smoothly, leaning back against the doorframe. "But I haven't gotten a text yet. So, everything as usual."
Three hundred miles away, Adrian Toomes was sweating.
The heat radiating from his skin felt entirely unnatural. A hollow, bottomless pit gnawed at the center of his stomach, driving a spike of pure, primal hunger straight into his brain. He had eaten a massive lunch hours ago, but the starvation pangs were so vicious his hands were actually shaking.
By 4:00 PM, Adrian couldn't take it anymore. He aggressively dismissed the A.I.M. researchers, telling them to lock up the lab and go home early. He practically sprinted to his Jeep and drove to the nearest roadside fast-food diner.
For the past hour, Adrian had been sitting in a corner booth, methodically devastating the menu. Mountains of greasy fried chicken buckets, crumpled burger wrappers, and empty fry cartons covered the table. He had easily ordered a thousand dollars worth of high-calorie garbage, tearing into the meat with a feral, mechanical intensity. Grease stained his chin, but he couldn't stop. He swallowed heavily, his stomach roaring for more.
Frustrated, Adrian slammed a crumpled napkin down and waved the terrified waiter over. "Bring me another four buckets of the original recipe," Adrian growled, tossing a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills onto the grease-stained formica table. "Keep the change. That's a solid ten percent tip. Now hurry up."
He went back to gnawing the meat off a chicken thigh. He was entirely unaware that the diner owner, trembling behind the cash register, had already dialed a federal emergency hotline. The owner had taken one look at the middle-aged man consuming fifty thousand calories in an hour and assumed the worst. Mutant. The diner owner distinctly remembered news broadcasts about Magneto's Brotherhood of Mutants, specifically a terrifying man named Meatball who consumed entire buffets in minutes.
Adrian chewed, his brow furrowing. Why the hell can I eat so much? he thought, swallowing a mouthful of fries. Is my metabolism speeding up from the anti-gravity harness? Is there something biologically wrong with me?
Heavy, armored tires screeched against the asphalt outside.
Adrian paused, a chicken bone halfway to his mouth. He looked out the large, grease-smudged window. Three heavily armored matte-black transport vans had surrounded the diner. Dozens of heavily armed tactical agents poured out, their assault rifles raised, wearing the insignia of the MRD—the Mutant Response Division.
Adrian dropped the bone, utter confusion washing over his face. He looked at the heavily armed paramilitary force, then turned his gaze to the trembling waiter standing near his booth.
"I'm sorry, sir..." the waiter stammered, backing away slowly, his hands raised in surrender. "The way you... the way you're eating. It's frightening. It's unnatural! According to federal regulations, we are legally obligated to notify the MRD if we suspect an unregistered—"
Adrian felt a violent, volcanic surge of rage erupt in his chest. It wasn't his anger. It felt older, darker, and incredibly hungry. He ground his teeth together, the muscles in his jaw bulging.
"I paid my bill," Adrian snarled, his voice dropping to a gravelly, terrifying register.
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Did I not leave a tip?" Adrian stood up, the heavy diner table scraping loudly against the linoleum.
"You did!" The waiter nodded frantically, looking like he was about to burst into tears. "You left exactly ten percent!"
"And you actually called the feds because you think I'm a mutant freak?!"
Adrian lunged forward. He grabbed the waiter by the collar of his uniform and hoisted him straight up into the air. The man's feet dangled a full foot off the ground. Adrian froze, looking at his own arm. He was holding a grown man in the air with a single hand, his bicep barely flexing. How the hell am I doing this? Adrian thought, a jolt of genuine shock cutting through the rage. Am I actually a mutant?
The glass front doors of the diner shattered inward.
"Sir, get down! Get on the ground immediately!" an MRD squad leader bellowed, leveling his assault rifle at Adrian's chest.
Adrian scoffed, casually tossing the gasping waiter aside like a ragdoll.
The MRD agents didn't hesitate. A rapid volley of compressed-air gunfire echoed through the diner. Over a dozen heavy-grade tranquilizer darts slammed into Adrian's chest, neck, and shoulders. The sheer volume of sedatives hit his bloodstream like a freight train. Adrian staggered backward, his eyes rolling up, and collapsed heavily onto the checkered tile floor.
Two tactical operators rushed forward, their boots crunching over broken glass. One of them immediately slapped a heavy, metallic mutant-gene suppressor collar around Adrian's neck, locking it in place with a sharp click.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
The collar was specifically engineered to detect and suppress the X-gene. Adrian Toomes didn't have an X-gene. He had a parasite.
A thick, bubbling mass of putrid green and blood-red sludge violently erupted from the pores of Adrian's neck. The metal suppressor collar groaned under the sudden, immense pressure before exploding outward in a shower of shrapnel.
The MRD agents stumbled back in horror as the viscous alien fluid rapidly washed over Adrian's entire body, swallowing his clothes, his face, and his humanity. The sludge hardened, expanding into a towering, hulking monster with milky, soulless eyes and rows of jagged, overlapping fangs.
Lasher flexed its massive, clawed hands.
Before the closest MRD operator could raise his weapon, Lasher lunged. A thick, razor-sharp tendril shot from the symbiote's wrist, wrapping around the agent's throat. With a sickening, wet crunch, Lasher tore the man's head clean off his shoulders.
"Mmm..." Lasher purred, its long, serpentine tongue dragging across its bloody jaws. "This is what actual food should taste like."
The diner erupted into absolute chaos. Assault rifles roared, but the bullets simply absorbed uselessly into the shifting alien biomass. Lasher moved like a liquid nightmare. Ten razor-sharp biological whips exploded from its spine, lashing out in every direction. In a single, fluid motion, the whips impaled the remaining MRD agents, pinning their twitching bodies to the walls, the booths, and the ceiling.
The symbiote stood amidst the carnage, assessing its new host.
This nearly fifty-year-old human is physically frail, Lasher thought, flexing Adrian's muscles. The cellular degradation is unacceptable. But... in Spider-Man's territory, beggars cannot be choosers. Then, Lasher accessed Adrian's immediate short-term memories. The A.I.M. lab. The flight harness. The anti-gravity generator.
The symbiote let out a dark, rattling chuckle that vibrated the broken glass on the floor.
Wings. Silent, mechanical wings. Venom was strong, yes. Spider-Man was agile. But neither of those miserable traitors could fly. If the symbiote bonded with the flight harness, it would possess absolute aerial superiority.
Lasher licked its lips. It casually dragged one of the impaled MRD agents closer, unhinged its jaw, and bit the man's head off in a single crunch. A massive rush of phenylethylamine flooded its system, fueling the alien biology.
Sated and humming with dark, violent energy, the green monster crouched low and launched itself through the shattered diner window, vanishing into the upstate New York night.
Tonight, Lasher was going to fly. Adrian Toomes was gone. The Vulture had been born.