xp_logs | Patent Pending – Epilogue (Reply)

The Spider-Men return to Prowler's home on Friday morning for some recon but are stunned by what they find.

Miles groaned with every swing from his web lines. He was still pretty hurt and shaken from the previous night, but this was the quickest way to get to Uncle Aaron's apartment. He and Peter weren't planning on actually facing him again, not when they and Matt together failed to take him down three on one. But a stake out so they could consider their next plan was in order. The pair landed on the rooftop of the next building and leaned over the ledge to try to get a look into Aaron's apartment.

"Is . . . is it empty?" Miles asked, perplexed. "I don't see anything in there."

Peter stretched forward to try and get a better look, grabbing his left side and grunting a little from his own injuries. "Looks like it. I can't see anything either." He shook his head and kept looking, expecting to see something, anything, but it remained empty. "What the hell, dude?"

"That's impossible. We were just here a few hours ago." Miles shook his head. "But it's completely just empty. Like no one lives there. Do you think . . . hey, are you okay?" he asked, noticing Peter's pained motion.

"It's nothing," Peter spat out in response, perhaps a bit too quickly. "and yeah, it's just like. Gone. Vanished. Not there." He rubbed his eyes just in case there was something wrong with them, which still didn't account for what Miles was - or wasn't - seeing but still.

Miles side-eyed his friend but didn't pursue. He just made a mental note to text Gwen later because she would handle Peter much better than he could. "Maybe we should go. We're wasting our time if he's not here." He turned to leave, but then spun around and angrily kicked the ledge, paying to mind to the fact that he was strong enough to kick off a chunk of masonry that fell to the (thankfully) empty alleyway below. "Ow."

"Yeah, no point in sticking around or-" Peter paused as Miles lashed out at the ledge. "Or in that, really. But I know that feel bro." He put a hand on Miles' shoulder for a second. "Come on, we can at least update the others." That wouldn't accomplish much but like he'd said, they were only wasting their time at the moment.

Teenage angst got the better of Miles for a minute and he rudely shrugged off Peter's comforting hand, but immediately felt bad about it. "Sorry. Yeah, let's go." He glanced at the empty apartment again, a place he'd spent so much time while growing up, now just another vacant space.

~*~

What happened to Prowler?

It was a quiet night for a Friday in Hell's Kitchen. The unusually swamp-like humidity was probably keeping people off the streets. With a sigh, Phineas Mason locked the front door to the little electronics shop he ran and pulled down the rolling gate. Couldn't be too careful in this neighborhood, even with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen on alert.

The 60-something-year-old man stuffed his hands into his pockets and hummed softly as he turned the corner into the alley next to his shop. He pulled out a small key ring and unlocked a side door, then descended down the narrow staircase to the surprisingly large basement that hid underneath his shop. The place was chock-full of gadgets: cameras, monitors, disassembled computers, and things that didn't have proper names. Nothing appropriate for his small store. Nothing legal, for sure.

Phineas sat down at the large workbench, donned the safety goggles hanging next to him, and switched on the desk lamp so he could get a good look into the small machine he was tinkering with.

After a few seconds, a large man-shaped shadow fell across the older man's desk. A dark figure clad in a dark costume moved toward Mason, clearing his throat as he approached. "Tinker, tinker." Prowler pulled off his mask, revealing a face whose curiosity was all too clear. If the other man jumped at his sudden emergence, Aaron Morales paid him no mind. "What is that?"

The older man yelped in surprise at the sudden intrusion. "I really need to put a bell on the door or something," he said, holding his hand over his chest as he tried to slow his breathing. He pulled down his safety goggles and fixed his glasses. "Mister Morales. Back so soon. This? Oh, just a new toy I've been working on. An EMP emitter, in case there's any security cameras around. How can I help you this fine evening?"

"Not sure you can." Aaron craned his neck, looking over the man's shoulders at the machine. "Just making sure you've got everything you need." He turned to meet Mason's curious gaze, his face serious. "I'm getting out of town for a while. Need to lay low." He looked back at the device, his eyes focusing on its circuitry. "My cover is..." He continued to stare at the machine for a few seconds before completing the thought with a shrug.

"Oh." Mason's face fell. "I'm sorry to hear that. You're one of my favorite customers. Always reliable, always paid full in cash. A real credit to your people. Well." He brightened up again as he spun on his stool and reached over to retrieve something from the back of his desk. "A parting gift. I based it on the plans that you . . . acquired from Atlanta."

"Yeah?" Aaron cocked an eyebrow. "Knowing you, not sure if I should be grateful or nervous."

Mason gasped. "Mister Morales, I'm shocked to hear you say that. When have I ever led you astray? Besides that one time. And that other time. Oh, and I guess there was that Roxxon incident. Well, never mind all that. I successfully reverse engineered the camera that you obtained for me. It's perfect for taking clear, long-distance photos, much better than anything you can find on the market. Even better than the current model you have now. Should be very helpful to set up new jobs, once you get back in the game."

"Uh huh." Aaron crossed his arms. His skepticism was practically jumping off his face. "And tell me, Mr. Mason. Tinkerer, if you'd prefer." He shifted his weight and released his arms to his side. The sound of a wailing ambulance siren echoed into the basement, and Aaron waited until it had passed to finish his thought. "That camera - that's gonna send all its shots back to you? Kinda like that flash drive we gave that hot young thing to get all that inside shit from Worthington?"

"I would never do you dirty like that," Mason laughed nervously. "I'm sure that you're clever enough to find plenty of ways to, uh, keep in touch. I wouldn't want to lose track of my best customer. Not when you have so much potential."

"Lose track?" Aaron once again raised an eyebrow. "What an interesting choice of words, Phineas. Just how are you keeping track of me?"

"I-I-I d-didn't mean it that way, no." Mason fidgeted nervously with the strap of his goggles. "I-I simply want to . . . keep in touch. I'm a much poorer man without you, Mister Morales. Financially and socially."

"Well," Aaron smirked, but behind the expression there was a darkness. "Isn't that quite the way to look at things?" He But, hey. From your lips to God's ears, Mason." The older man barely had time to process the strangeness of the reply before Aaron reached into a pocket of his costume, pulled out a handgun and shot the man in the foot.

Mason's cry of agony rang through the workshop. He looked down at his foot and the blood oozing from the small hole in it, and then looked up at Prowler with a mix of terror, anguish, and at least a little bit of rage. "Y-y-you goddamn psycho!" he whimpered. "You shot me!"

"I did." Prowler agreed, keeping cool and calm. "Because you need to learn your goddamned place, and show some goddamn respect when people are trying to help you, Mason. And you better keep that in mind while I'm gone."

~*~

The Biotech plan failed, but Bolivar Trask and William Stryker are made a new offer that they can't refuse.

The computer monitor lit up Bolivar Trask's glasses as scanned the status reports that had come in. It was late in the evening but, despite the hours, many of his employees were still at work on things that were best suited for the dead of night.

"I see the execution of the doctor was a failure."

Trask turned around in his chair to face his guest with a note of contemplation. When setting up his facility, he had made sure his office overlooked everything, like a king and his castle. It was a reminder of all he had built, and all he could achieve. The compound stretched out for at least a couple of acres until it hit the river, then went lower. The resources Worthington had given him in their shared pursuits had done him well.

"I suspected the mutant had not been working alone when she stole our schematics, so I expected some interference. However, I had hoped Crossfire to have been more effective on his first excursion but her telepathic abilities were an unknown variable that needs to be accounted for in future endeavors," he said, opening up a file on his desk.

"Between this and the debacle with the stolen information in the first place, all of this has proven to be a...setback in my timetable for the project," he said.

A dry laugh escaped William Stryker's lips. "Always so proper , aren't we Trask? Why not say it as it is: there are more mutants alive than we thought, and they're just as frustrating as before." The older man continued to look out the window, his hand flat against the glass. "Thankfully, the evening didn't fully disappoint."

Swiveling on his heel, Stryker dug into his pocket. Taking out a USB stick. He tossed it on Trask's desk as he casually seated himself across from his colleague. "This is what we were able to get from Crossfire. I've reviewed the information -- it appears the good doctor wasn't working alone. A winged man was there, and it appears Crossfire decided to run. We'll have to get rid of his self-preservation.". He sneered. "What good is an assassin if they run?"

"Data, General Stryker, data," Trask said with a pragmatic smile, closing the file as he picked up the USB stick from his desk and turned it over in his hands.

“He is not one of your toy soldiers. Had he been captured, or killed, it could have jeopardized the entire operation. In this case, his sense of self-preservation was integral,” he said. Plugging in the USB drive into his computer, Trask pressed play on the video file, which showed a record of the battle between Crossfire and his two opponents from his field of vision, more specifically through his cybernetic eye.

“While we did not succeed in eliminating the source of the theft, we now have more information on what we are up against,” he said, studying the screen in fascination, like a child watching his favorite movie.

“And that, is far more valuable than a dead mutant. Because where there is one…” He paused the feed as the winged man arrived through the skylight.

“There are always more. If we can find them, we can learn more about how they work and develop the means to engage on an equal field.”

Stryker waved a dismissive hand. "So you've said before, but with all the reduced numbers, we can't play the odds anymore. We need your Sentinels. I've been working on the Senate, but they won't be swayed without the technology behind it. These are men of actions, not science. They want results."

"You saw what happened with Crossfire and only two mutants, imagine an entire cluster, each with its own unique ability. They would annihilate him. We have barely just begun to understand their capabilities. I assure you I will give the Senate results, General, but it will take time, accurate information and thorough testing," Trask said, pressing play on the video as the winged man engaged Crossfire and the woman joined in to help with her telekinesis.

"M-Day showed us just how dangerous mutants can be. Never before, in all of human history, has there been a cause which could unite us as a species... until now. And I intend to give us the means for which to defend ourselves against extinction."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden blaring of klaxons and the clomping of security guards' boots down the hallway. A group of five of these guards marched into the room, shutting and locking the door behind them. Four of them set about moving furniture to blockade the door while the fifth, obviously the man in charge, approached Trask and Stryker.

"We have an intruder, sirs," he gravely informed them. "Walked right through the front door. Tore the door off its hinges, actually. Code red is in place." He pointed at Trask's desk. "Under there, please. Security downstairs will surely tag him but it's protocol, just in case."

The guards stepped back and drew their weapons, aiming at the blocked doorway. Not that there was any way that the intruder could get in. Not with armed guards and automated security on every floor. Even a mutant would be full of more holes than Swiss cheese by the time they reached even halfway up the building.

Assuming they came from the inside. Without warning, the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dazzling view of the East River shattered, and the head of the guards had no time to jump for cover before a steel claw grabbed him and flung him out the open window like a discarded gum wrapper. The other guards opened fire, but it was a fool's errand. The long metal arm that held the claw swept the room, overturning the desk under which Trask and Stryker hid and slamming the guards against the wall. They all collapsed in a heap of broken, lifeless bodies.

And second metal arm and claw reached into the room and dug itself into the floor, and then a third and a fourth. "I'm very sorry for having to call you this way," a man called from outside. A shadowy figure in a billowing coat appeared, the metal arms apparently protruding from his back. "But your secretaries were most unhelpful."

Trask pulled himself up to stand, his attention shifting momentarily to the metal arms before returning back to him.

"Otto Octavius. What is the meaning of this?" He had already been well noted in his field of nanomedicine but once he had appeared to have gone insane and began to attack the public his reputation had obviously taken a hit.

And if he had wanted to kill them he would have done so already.

Octavius's arms pulled him into the room, and he strutted over to the four slain guards. "Pity," he tutted before turning back to the two men. "I hear you've been having some . . . difficulty as of late. Lost innovations. Your parent company is taking a substantial hit. Truly awful. But I believe that I have a solution for you."

Stryker looked dispassionately at the guards on the floor. Failures, all of them, if they couldn't stop Octavius. Hand in his pocket, he lightly stroked the panic button he always kept on his body.

"You have five minutes."

"It's simple, really," the mad scientist-turn-supervillain said. He turned back to the two men, his tentacles wavering and quivering in excited anticipation. "What have you lost? An ultra-high-resolution camera, next-generation smart global positioning system, ultra-sensitive aerosol scanner, and genetic inhibitors? All developed by one of the largest robotics developers, rivaled only by Stark Enterprises? You are constructing anti-mutant automata." Octavius offered a polite golf clap and then bared his teeth in a maniacal grin.. "Quite ambitious."

"I find myself in need of a patron, like any great artist. Osborn never appreciated the genius that I offered him. I don't ask for much. Just a chance to create. I have a vision for the world, a way to make it glorious. And I see that you share this vision."

Trask studied Octavius carefully, his hands behind his back. "I am not anti-mutant, Dr. Octavius. I am merely a concerned citizen who has taken up a noble cause to ensure humanity's survival. Mutants have their purpose," he said. He smiled.

"We will consider your proposal, Dr. Octavius. But make no mistake, any experiments and flights of fancy that get in the way of the plan or lead back to us will not be tolerated. If we are to succeed in our goals we must work together to ensure our work is executed in the proper fashion." He turned to Stryker.

"Are we in agreement, General?"

"You don't speak for me, Trask," Stryker said warningly. "Pretty words mean little. I need results." With a cool ease, he walked closer to Octavius, tilting his head in wonder. "I need answers. I don't need another visionary. What do you have for me?"

"You are familiar with my work, yes?" Octavius asked. Of course they did. Everyone knew the great works of Otto Octavius. The tentacles, an example of almost otherworldly engineering genius if there ever was one, continued to wave, as if they were all lying in wait for prey. "Then you know what I can do. You will have your machines, your guardians against the threat of mutancy. In return I only ask for some small space to carry on my own work."

Vague words triggered caution in Stryker's mind but he kept his face impassive. "Then we do this right." Motioning to Trask, Stryker gave a cold smile. "I'm sure my friend here can do up some appropriate contracts. Intellectual rights may be yours, but I want first look at anything weaponized. And first offer," he added.

"Make that the both of us," Trask said. "I am the project director, after all. It's under my name if things go pear shaped. But....all trivialities aside...."

He reached up to extend his hand to Octavius. "Welcome aboard."

The good doctor took Trask's hand in his and offered a firm shake. "Wonderful. Now, let me tell you what I have in mind so you can escape your current predicament . . ."