Transmigration into another world happens in different ways. Some get hit by a truck, others stumble through a suddenly opened portal, and some are even summoned by higher powers—at least, that's how it's written in books.
I simply fell asleep on my favorite couch, the one I loved napping on during summers at the dacha, and woke up on a large double bed that clearly wasn't made in this century. To my immense surprise, I instantly knew this bed had been purchased at an auction in France three years ago.
I don't know why I focused on the bed the moment I woke up. I had far bigger problems. I wasn't in my home, and worse—I wasn't even in my own body.
After examining myself, I realized I didn't look like a thirty-year-old man, but rather a sickly forty-five-year-old who hadn't taken good care of himself. And that had always been the case... Wait, no. That wasn't right. At that moment, I realized I had a splitting headache. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that I was both Alexander Kuznetsov and Norman Osborn at the same time. Two streams of memories—no, two personalities—clashed in my mind, each fighting for dominance.
While Alexander fought with all his might, desperate to live, Norman's personality fought out of sheer inertia, as if he were already exhausted or had given up, seeing no point in fighting for his body. For some reason, I got the impression that if Norman had fought with the same determination as Alexander, only Norman would have remained.
But even so, this internal battle couldn't lead to anything good. Even if Alexander's personality won—and it seemed to be heading that way—the world would gain one very rich, drooling idiot. Nothing of my original mind would remain. At one point, when the struggle between the two personalities briefly subsided, I, Alexander, detached myself completely, cleared my mind of all thoughts and emotions, and traced both streams of memories back to their origins—to the time when I was two or three years old. How different could the memories of two toddlers just beginning to explore the world be?
These nearly identical early memories became the foundation, the anchor, onto which all other memories gradually attached as both individuals grew—kindergarten, school, and so on. Occasionally, vivid memories from much later periods surfaced—like Alexander's joy at holding his first published book, or Norman's agonizing grief over Emily's death. But in the end, I managed to organize my memories in chronological order, even if it took all night. I can't imagine what would have happened if someone had interrupted me before I finished.
Morning greeted a new person. Yes, I was simultaneously Alexander Kuznetsov, a writer from Russia, and Norman Osborn, founder and CEO of Oscorp Industries. Yet, at the same time, I was neither. I was someone new—a new personality inheriting the memories of these two men.
After some thought, I decided to call myself Norman Osborn. After all, it was his body I now inhabited, and it would be strange to suddenly start calling myself Alexander. The reasons behind what had happened were anyone's guess. Maybe I was Norman, who had suddenly awakened memories of a past life, or perhaps Alexander's soul had entered Norman's body. None of that mattered. What mattered was that I was alive and now in the Marvel Universe, with all of Norman's abilities and resources, and Alexander's knowledge as a comic book enthusiast.
Now I understood why the original Norman Osborn's personality had fought so passively. The body I now occupied suffered from an extremely rare genetic disease called "retroviral hyperplasia," and its symptoms had been detected twenty-five years ago. Currently, this body was only holding on thanks to a mountain of pills. I needed to stop separating myself from the "body," or I'd risk serious mental issues.
I had to admit: I was 45 years old, dying from a rare genetic disease, and the doctors had given me a year to live at most. Everything was just as it had been for the original Norman, but unlike him, I wasn't particularly upset. This was the Marvel Universe, a world where there were ways not only to heal but also to gain superpowers in the process—ideally, at least.
The original Norman had spent hundreds of millions of dollars searching for a cure. Extensive research on retroviral hyperplasia had been conducted both within Oscorp and by other companies. Even now, several research teams were studying the disease and searching for a cure, despite only 93 cases existing worldwide.
At the moment, Oscorp, with government funding, was attempting to replicate the Super-Soldier Serum that had transformed Steve Rogers into Captain America. The original Norman saw this serum—dubbed the Oz Serum in his honor—as his chance for a cure and the future of the entire company. If successful, such a drug would be worth billions.
From the comics, I remembered that the Oz Serum was the very drug Norman Osborn had injected himself with, driving him insane and turning him into the Green Goblin. I had no desire to repeat that fate. However, despite its side effects, the serum had cured retroviral hyperplasia, so using it was the right decision—I just needed to proceed more carefully. I also knew that one version of the serum had been tested on spiders, and one of those spiders was supposed to bite Peter Parker, turning him into Spider-Man.
Or would it? Harry had recently told the original Norman that a school field trip to Oscorp was scheduled for next week. I suspected this was the very trip during which Peter Parker would gain his powers.
Of course, I could have gone and removed all the spiders right now, but the main question was: which spider had bitten Peter Parker? As I recalled, each spider had been tested with a different version of the Oz Serum. I needed the exact spider that would bite Parker, or I might miss my chance—but more on that later. Besides, I, Alexander, had always liked Spider-Man and had no intention of interfering with his origin.
So, I would have to wait for the bite to happen, then capture that specific spider and use it to refine the Oz Serum, adjusting it to the right parameters. Ideally, I'd ensure the final product was mine alone.
After getting out of bed and taking my pills, I headed to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was far from reassuring: sickly skin, sunken lifeless eyes, hollow cheeks, and an overall appearance as if I'd been starved. Sighing heavily, I completed my morning routine and returned to the bedroom, then made my way to the dressing room, where my butler, Bernard, was already waiting with my suit for the day.
"You look as dreadful as ever, sir," Bernard said primly.
"Good morning to you too," I replied to the man the original Norman had considered more family than a servant. Bernard had worked for the Osborn family his entire conscious life, even serving Norman's father. I found myself adopting the same attitude.
"Harry is waiting for you in the dining room, sir," Bernard informed me.
"Very well. And tell them to serve something lighter today—I can barely stand the sight of food because of these pills," I said, recalling from Norman's memories that the previous medication had done little to alleviate the excruciating pain throughout his body, forcing a switch to something stronger.
"Sir, Dr. Collins said you must follow the meal plan he designed, and—" Bernard began to drone, but I, now dressed, headed downstairs to my son.
Yes, I now had an adult son, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it. But because part of my new identity came from the original Norman, I genuinely considered Harry my own.
"Good morning, Harry," I said to my son and walked toward my chair. Just as I was about to sit, Harry pulled it out for me, clearly intending to help me into it.
"Harry, I may not be in the best health, but I can still manage on my own," I said, irritation flaring as the old Norman often had, then immediately regretting it. After Emily's death, the original Norman had paid little attention to Harry, and Harry constantly craved that attention. I made a mental note to at least try to build a proper relationship with him.
"Sorry, Father," Harry said, retreating to his seat like a scolded puppy. All he'd done was show concern.
"No, I'm the one who should apologize, Harry," I said. My son, who had already started eating, nearly missed his mouth with his spoon. After all, the number of times Norman had apologized to him could be counted on one hand.
"It's nothing, Dad," Harry replied, recovering slightly.
"How's school? How are your grades?" I asked.
"Not bad. I'm no straight-A student, but my grades aren't as terrible as they could be."
"And your friends? How's Peter?" I asked.
"Parker?" Harry asked, confused. "Peter's fine, as always. Always studying, or running around with his camera if he's not. Why do you ask?"
"I just haven't seen him in a while. He always struck me as a smart kid with a lot of potential. I thought I'd pick you up from school today and we could talk on the way home. You don't mind, do your classes end at 14:40 as usual?"
"Of course not, Dad," Harry replied, as always happy for any attention from me.
"Good. Maybe you'll be ten minutes late?" Harry said.
"No problem," I replied with a smile, shocking him again.
After breakfast, Harry left for school, and I prepared for a visit from a Defense Department commission at work—a visit I knew I wouldn't enjoy.