Kamar-Taj exists in a realm of perpetual golden light. Maybe it's the altitude of the Nepalese mountains, maybe it's the way sunlight reflects off ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of devotion, or maybe it's something more mystical altogether. Either way, the courtyard where I've spent the last four hours trying to create even the simplest magical gesture is bathed in that warm glow.
"You're still thinking like a scientist," the Ancient One observes, circling me with her characteristic fluid grace. "Analyzing the components, searching for mechanical causation. This is why you fail."
"I understand the theory," I respond, trying to mask my frustration. "Energy manipulation through dimensional access points. The mind as conduit between realities."
She sighs, the sound somehow both patient and exasperated. "Understanding is not the same as knowing, Harry Osborn. You've memorized the words but missed their meaning."
Four hours, and I can't even create the simplest energy shield. Me—enhanced with spider powers and super-soldier serum, genius-level intellect, master of advanced technology—struggling like a kindergartner trying to tie his shoes for the first time.
It's humbling. And infuriating.
"Perhaps we should approach this differently," she suggests, stopping directly in front of me. "You are a man who has lived two lives, inhabited two realities. You, more than most, should understand that existence is not confined to what we perceive with our limited senses."
She raises her hands, elegant fingers tracing patterns in the air. Golden energy follows their path, creating mandalas of light that pulse with impossible complexity.
"Magic is not about doing," she continues. "It is about being. About existing simultaneously in multiple states, multiple dimensions. When you cast a spell, you are not creating energy—you are becoming a conduit for energy that already exists."
I try again, mimicking her hand positions precisely. Nothing happens.
"Stop trying to force it," she advises. "Magic is not conquered. It is surrendered to."
"That's not exactly helpful," I mutter, dropping my hands in frustration.
"No?" She tilts her head, studying me with those ancient eyes set in a timeless face. "Tell me, when you use your enhanced strength, do you consciously calculate the force required? Do you think about the specific muscle fibers activating, the exact pressure needed?"
"No, I just... do it."
"Precisely. You have integrated those abilities into your sense of self. They are not separate tools you use—they are expressions of who you are." She taps my chest lightly. "Magic must be the same. Not something you do, but something you are."
I close my eyes, trying to shift my perspective. What she's describing isn't entirely foreign to me. The spider-sense operates on a level beyond conscious thought—an integrated awareness that bypasses logical processing entirely.
Maybe magic requires a similar surrender of control.
I empty my mind, focusing not on creating energy or forcing an outcome, but on feeling the subtle currents that the Ancient One describes as flowing through all reality. There's something there—faint but perceptible, like static electricity raising the hair on my arms.
"Yes," the Ancient One murmurs encouragingly. "Feel the boundaries between dimensions. They are not solid walls but permeable membranes."
I raise my hands again, but this time instead of trying to create energy, I simply allow what I'm feeling to flow through me. Like opening a faucet rather than building a pump.
A spark—small but unmistakable—flickers between my fingertips.
"Good," she says, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Now—"
My phone vibrates suddenly, breaking my concentration. The spark vanishes immediately. In the tranquil atmosphere of Kamar-Taj, the harsh electronic buzz seems profoundly out of place.
The Ancient One raises an eyebrow but says nothing as I check the device. It's Bernard—using the emergency protocol we established for situations requiring immediate attention.
"I need to take this," I say, already moving toward a more private corner of the courtyard.
"Of course." She watches me curiously. "The demands of two worlds."
Bernard's voice comes through with uncharacteristic urgency as soon as I answer. "Sir, there's been an incident. A significant one."
"What kind of incident?"
"A massacre, sir. At the Queens research facility." Bernard's normally composed tone wavers slightly. "Initial reports indicate at least twelve casualties. And... there's footage."
My blood runs cold. "Norman?"
"Yes, sir. The Goblin, as you anticipated. But far more advanced than our models predicted. He's using technology we've never seen before, including some form of aerial platform."
The glider. He's built the glider already.
"What's his current status? Location?"
"Unknown, sir. He disappeared after the attack. But there are reports of another incident developing at the main Oscorp Tower. Police and emergency services are responding, but—"
"They're not equipped to handle him," I finish. "I'm on my way."
"Sir, given your current location, the travel time would be—"
"Not an issue." I glance at the Ancient One, who has been observing my side of the conversation with silent interest. "I'll be there within minutes. Activate Protocol Goblin, full defensive measures. And get everyone out of the Tower immediately."
I end the call and turn to the Ancient One. "I need to leave. Now. Lives depend on it."
"The Goblin has emerged," she states rather than asks. "Your father, corrupted by power and his own ambition."
Of course she knows.
"Yes. And he's killing people. I need to get back to New York immediately."
She considers me for a moment, then nods once. "Perhaps this is fortuitous timing. A practical application for your first lesson." She moves to the center of the courtyard. "The portal spell is one of our most fundamental techniques. It requires precision, concentration, and clear visualization of your destination."
"I don't have time for a lesson," I protest. "People are dying."
"Then pay close attention." Her fingers trace precise patterns in the air, golden energy following their path to form a perfect circle. Within the circle, reality seems to fold inward, revealing a view of a familiar location—my private study in the penthouse.
"The key," she continues, as if we were still in a casual training session, "is not to think of creating a doorway, but of folding space itself. Two points that appear distant in three-dimensional space may be adjacent when viewed from higher dimensions."
Despite the urgency pounding in my veins, I find myself memorizing every nuance of her movements, every subtle shift of energy. This is too valuable an opportunity to waste.
"Your turn," she says, closing the portal with a graceful gesture.
I hesitate for only a second before replicating her movements, focusing on the Cave as my destination. If I'm going to appear somewhere suddenly, better it be in my secure headquarters than my apartment.
To my surprise, golden energy actually follows my fingers, forming a wavering, imperfect circle in the air. Through it, I can see the dim lighting of the Batcave's main chamber.
"Well done," the Ancient One says, genuine appreciation in her voice. "Your mind is more adaptable than I anticipated. Now go. We will continue your training once this crisis has passed."
I step through the portal, the transition feeling like passing through a waterfall of static electricity. On the other side, the familiar environment of the Cave welcomes me—monitors already displaying news feeds of the chaos unfolding across the city.
The portal closes behind me with a crackling sound. I made it. My first successfully cast spell.
No time for celebration. The monitors show what can only be described as a war zone at the Queens facility—bodies scattered across smoking ruins, emergency vehicles surrounding the perimeter, traumatized survivors being led to safety.
And Oscorp Tower is currently under attack—a green-tinged figure on some kind of flying platform circling the upper floors, occasionally firing projectiles that explode on impact. The Goblin, making his public debut in spectacular, horrific fashion.
"Sir!" Bernard emerges from the equipment area, relief evident on his normally composed face. "How did you—"
"New trick," I say tersely, already moving toward the suit chamber. "Status update?"
Bernard falls immediately into operational mode, efficiency overriding curiosity. "Casualty count at Queens now stands at seventeen confirmed, dozens injured. The Tower attack began approximately seven minutes ago. Current casualties unknown, but evacuation was already underway following the Queens incident."
The Batsuit awaits in its chamber—the latest iteration, incorporating everything I've developed since acquiring the serum. Stronger armor, enhanced sensory systems, integrated weapons specifically designed to counter the Goblin's potential capabilities.
"NYPD has established a perimeter but are effectively helpless against an aerial threat with that level of firepower," Bernard continues, assisting with the suit's more complex components. "Their tactical units are requesting military support, which is still at least twenty minutes out."
"He'll be gone by then," I predict, securing the gauntlets. "This is a statement, not an occupation. He wants the world to see the Goblin's power, to feel the terror of something they can't stop."
"And to draw you out, sir," Bernard adds quietly. "The pattern of his attacks suggests knowledge of your patrol routes and response protocols. He's creating a scenario designed to ensure Batman's involvement."
"Then let's not disappoint him." I pull the cowl into place, systems activating immediately with a soft hum. "Keep me updated on casualties and police movements. And Bernard—"
"Sir?"
"If this goes badly, initiate final contingency protocols. Everything we discussed about worst-case scenarios."
Bernard's expression remains professional, but I can see the concern in his eyes. "Understood, sir. Though I have every confidence it won't come to that."
I hope he's right.
The Batmobile roars to life as I drop into the driver's seat—a sleek, armored vehicle that bears little resemblance to the tank-like designs from the comics. This is a precision instrument, built for urban navigation and tactical advantage rather than brute force.
As I accelerate through the Cave's concealed exit tunnel, the vehicle's heads-up display shows real-time updates from the Tower attack. The Goblin is methodical despite his apparent madness—targeting structural weaknesses, communications arrays, security systems. Not random destruction, but calculated dismantling of Oscorp's defenses.
He knows exactly what he's doing. Which means he's been planning this for a long time.
The streets blur past as I push the vehicle to its limits, weaving through traffic with enhanced reflexes and the vehicle's advanced navigation systems. Police barriers part as I approach—not out of planning or coordination, but simple self-preservation as officers scramble to avoid the black streak cutting through their perimeter.
I abandon the vehicle three blocks from the Tower, switching to aerial approach. The suit's gliding capabilities, enhanced with materials derived from Chitauri tech salvaged after the Stark Expo incident, allow for rapid ascent between buildings.
From above, the situation looks even worse. The Goblin has created a perimeter of destruction around the Tower's upper floors—windows shattered, concrete crumbling, small fires burning in a dozen locations. His glider moves with unnatural agility, banking and weaving through the air with a grace that belies its mechanical nature.
And Norman... the transformation is complete. Even from a distance, I can see the changes—the green-tinged skin, the exaggerated musculature, the grotesque mask-like quality of his face frozen in a perpetual grin. No longer Norman Osborn, CEO and scientist. Now fully the Green Goblin, bringer of chaos.
I position myself on an adjacent rooftop, studying his movement patterns, looking for weaknesses. The glider's propulsion system appears to utilize some variation of Stark's repulsor technology, modified and enhanced. His arsenal includes what look like small pumpkin-shaped grenades, wrist-mounted projectile weapons, and something generating electricity along his gauntlets.
Formidable, but not unbeatable.
I wait for him to complete another circuit around the Tower, timing his approach pattern. When he banks wide to avoid a news helicopter that's ventured too close, I make my move.
The leap carries me directly into his flight path, my trajectory calculated to intercept the glider at its most vulnerable angle. The Goblin spots me at the last second, eyes widening behind that grotesque mask as I collide with him at full force.
The impact sends us both tumbling through the air, the glider spiraling away on automatic stabilizers while we grapple in free fall. He's strong—significantly enhanced beyond normal human capabilities—but the combination of my spider powers and the serum gives me a decisive advantage.
"You!" he snarls, voice distorted and hardly recognizable as Norman's. "The Bat! Finally showing yourself!"
I don't respond, focusing instead on controlling our descent. We crash through a shattered window into an empty office floor of the Tower, the impact absorbed by my enhanced physiology and the suit's armor. The Goblin takes the brunt of the collision but recovers with inhuman speed, rolling to his feet and immediately launching a counterattack.
His fighting style is pure aggression—no technique, no discipline, just raw power and fury. Against an ordinary opponent, it would be overwhelming. Against me, he stood no chance.
I block his wild swing, countering with a precise strike to his solar plexus that should incapacitate even an enhanced individual. He staggers but doesn't fall, laughing through bloodied teeth.
"Is that all? After all this time preparing, all your shadows and secrets?" His voice carries a manic edge, fluctuating between Norman's cultured tones and something deeper, more primal. "I expected more from the great Batman!"
He reaches for something on his belt—one of the pumpkin grenades. I move faster, catching his wrist and applying enough pressure to make the bones creak. He howls but doesn't release the weapon.
"You've killed seventeen people today," I growl through the suit's modulator. "Why!?!"
"Seventeen? Is that all they're counting?" He laughs again, the sound echoing grotesquely in the empty office space. "They haven't found the others yet. The labs beneath the Queens facility. So much more efficient when they're all gathered in one place, wouldn't you agree?"
My grip tightens involuntarily, rage building at his casual dismissal of human life. His bones crack audibly under the pressure, but he doesn't seem to register the pain.
"There it is," he hisses, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight. "The darkness you try so hard to control. We're not so different, you and I."
"We're nothing alike," I snap, twisting his arm until the grenade falls from nerveless fingers. I kick it away, sending it tumbling through an open window where it detonates harmlessly in the air outside.
"No?" The Goblin's grin widens impossibly. "We both hid behind masks. We both built weapons in secret. We both lied to everyone around us." His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "The difference is, I've embraced what I truly am. You're still pretending."
I silence him with a blow that would shatter a normal man's jaw. The Goblin's head snaps back, but he recovers almost instantly, blood streaming from his split lip.
"Better," he taunts. "Show me what the Bat can really do!"
What follows is less a fight than a methodical dismantling. I unleash the full extent of my enhanced capabilities, each strike precisely calculated to cause maximum damage with minimal risk. The Goblin is strong and surprisingly durable, but he lacks the training and discipline that complement my raw power.
I break his arm when he reaches for another grenade. Dislocate his shoulder when he tries to activate a wrist-mounted weapon. Fracture his knee when he attempts to regain distance for tactical advantage.
Throughout it all, he laughs—a horrible, broken sound that echoes through the empty floor like something from a nightmare. Even as I systematically reduce him to a battered, broken figure, that laughter continues, growing more unhinged with each devastating blow.
Finally, he lies before me, blood pooling beneath his crumpled form, body broken but consciousness infuriatingly intact. The mask-like quality of his face makes his continued grin all the more disturbing.
"Why?" I demand, lifting him by his combat harness. "Why attack Oscorp? Your own company, your own people?"
"Why?" he mimics, voice gurgling through blood. "Because they were there. Because they believed themselves safe under your protection. Because I wanted to show the world that nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, nothing is beyond my reach."
He coughs, blood spattering across my cowl. "And because I knew it would hurt you. My son. My disappointment. My failure."
He knows....
"That's right, Harry," he whispers, confirming my realization. "Did you think you could hide from me? Your own father? I've known for weeks. Watching you play hero, watching you steal my company, watching you pretend to be something more than what you are."
"You're not my father," I respond automatically, though the words ring hollow even to my own ears. "Norman Osborn is gone. You're just the thing that's left."
"Am I?" His bloody grin widens. "Or am I what Norman Osborn always was, beneath the suits and speeches? The truth he never had the courage to embrace until now?" His broken hand somehow finds the strength to grasp my arm. "The truth you're still running from."
I could end it here. One more blow, applied with just the right force, to the right point. The world would be free of the Goblin. Future victims would be spared. The justification is clear, rational, undeniable.
The Goblin sees my hesitation and laughs again—a wet, choking sound through damaged lungs. "Can't do it, can you? Even now, even after everything, you can't cross that final line." His voice drops to a rasping whisper. "That's why you'll lose, son. That's why, in the end, I'll take everything from you. Because I can do what you can't."
My spider-sense screams warning, but I'm a fraction too slow. The glider slams into my back, the impact sending me staggering forward as the Goblin somehow finds the strength to roll aside. By the time I recover, he's draped across the glider, which is already retreating toward the shattered windows.
"Until next time, son," he calls, blood staining the glider's surface beneath him. "Give my regards to Bernard. Tell him I'll be visiting soon."
Then he's gone, the glider carrying his broken form into the night sky with remarkable speed despite its damaged state.
Emergency response will need coordination. Survivors will need assistance. The public narrative will need management. Batman can't abandon those responsibilities for personal vendetta, no matter how justified.
As I turn away from the window, the full weight of what just happened settles over me. Norman knows I'm Batman.
I failed. He was in my grasp, and I hesitated. All the talk about the principle, yet I didn't commit.
A mistake that I won't make again, under any circumstances.
It looks like I have no other choice, Norman Osborn must die. Not out of vengeance or rage, but simple necessity.
____________________________________
The thought sits like ice in my stomach as I activate the comm link to the Cave. "Bernard. The Goblin escaped, but he's severely injured. Activate all medical monitoring systems—hospitals, private clinics, anywhere he might seek treatment."
"Already done, sir," Bernard replies, his voice steady despite what must be serious concern. "What about your condition?"
"I'm fine." Physically, at least. "He knew, Bernard. About me. About Batman. He's known for some time."
A brief silence on the other end. "I see. That... complicates matters considerably."
"He also mentioned you specifically. Said to give you his regards, that he'd be visiting soon." I move toward the building's core, where survivors might be gathered. "Increase security at all locations. And Bernard—"
"Sir?"
"Prepare the contingency vault. The lethal options we discussed. I hoped we wouldn't need them, but..."
"Understood, sir." Bernard's voice remains professional, but I can hear the gravity beneath it. "May I ask if you've made a decision regarding..."
He doesn't finish the question. He doesn't need to.
"Yes" I answer truthfully. "Norman Osborn's time, is up"