Chapter 16: "Monkeys, Madness, and a Hint of Horror"
In which science goes a little too far, and Peter starts seriously regretting his after-school activities.
After barely surviving a full day of university-level science classes—which, frankly, felt more like medieval torture in lab coat form—Peter Parker dragged himself out of the lecture hall, his backpack protesting like it had just run a marathon.
He chatted briefly with Gwen (who may or may not have been subtly flexing her brainpower for him) and Harry (who definitely wasn't subtly flexing his wallet), before setting off toward Dr. Connors' lab with the speed and grace of someone whose brain was 90% caffeine and 10% stress.
Tonight was the night. The Big One. The Science Event of the Century. The kind of moment nerds dreamed about when they weren't daydreaming about superhero fights or finally asking their crush out.
Peter had been helping Dr. Curt Connors with a regenerative serum project—something that sounded super awesome on paper, and super dangerous if it ever got into the wrong hands. Like, "villains growing back extra arms" level dangerous.
So far, every trial had ended in disaster. And by disaster, Peter meant instant rodent death, which was about as encouraging as being told your new airplane model crashes every time it takes off. But tonight felt different. The air had that weird buzz of either scientific breakthrough or impending doom. Possibly both.
Peter stepped into the lab, which smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Classic scientist lair vibes. Dr. Connors was hunched over a table, his lab coat slightly rumpled, his one arm cradling something carefully.
"Evening, Doc," Peter said, trying not to sound too nervous. "Still alive, I see. That's good."
"Peter," Connors said without looking up, "come here. You need to see this."
He lifted a small metal cage like it was the Holy Grail.
Inside?
A lab rat.
Now, Peter had seen a lot of rats in his time—some in sewers, some as test subjects, and one terrifyingly buff one in the subway—but this one was different.
Because this one had grown back its leg.
"Is that—" Peter began.
"Regrown," Connors whispered, voice trembling like he was holding a newborn. "A complete regeneration. The tissue fused. The nerves reconnected. It's all there."
Peter leaned in. The little guy looked healthy. Alert. Like he was ready to run a marathon, or at least scurry for a snack.
For a second, there was just silence.
Then it hit them.
This wasn't just a successful test.
This was a miracle.
They had done it. After months of failure, dead ends, and almost losing their grant, they had created something that could change the world. Heal the injured. Regrow limbs. End suffering. And maybe even finally get Peter out of part-time pizza delivery.
Peter grinned, but kept his cool. Barely.
"That's incredible, Doc. You've done something amazing."
Dr. Connors gave a breathless laugh. "We've done it, Peter. And this is just the beginning."
Of course, Peter—being Peter—had to be the voice of caution in the face of mad-science-level joy.
"You're monitoring the subject, right? Any weird behaviors? Sudden cravings for blood? Spontaneous combustion?"
Connors chuckled. "It's been five days. Nothing abnormal. In fact, its vitals have improved. No immune rejection. No instability."
Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew Connors. The man wasn't careless. But he was passionate—maybe too passionate. A one-armed genius with a heart full of hope and a file full of rejection letters didn't always wait for green lights.
"Just… don't skip any steps," Peter said, trying to keep his voice level.
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There were some moments in life that really made you question your decisions.
Like, say, jumping off a building to stop a mugger. Or forgetting your umbrella during a thunderstorm. Or watching a monkey grow a hand covered in lizard scales while screaming like a banshee from a horror movie.
This? This was one of those moments.
Peter Parker stood behind reinforced glass, arms crossed, heart racing, watching as Dr. Connors' assistant wheeled in the next test subject—a monkey missing one hand, looking absolutely thrilled to be here. (Just kidding. It looked very done with life.)
The animal was sedated, prepped, and injected with the serum.
And at first, everything seemed fine.
Then it wasn't.
The monkey screamed. Screamed—like it had just learned taxes were real and bananas weren't a valid currency.
Its body seized violently, twitching like it was trying to breakdance through an exorcism.
Then silence.
For a moment, everyone just… stared. The air hung still, thick with tension.
And then the magic (read: bad idea) happened.
Before their very eyes, a new hand began to grow. It sprouted like time-lapse footage of a weird plant—but instead of soft skin and fingers, it had scales. Thick ones. Reptilian. And the nails?
Let's just say Freddy Krueger would've been jealous.
Peter's Spider-Sense didn't just tingle. It practically screamed, "Back away, nerd! Now!"
"No one go in," Peter said firmly, eyes narrowing.
The lab assistants froze.
Even Connors hesitated.
Peter stepped closer to the glass, his expression grim. "Something's wrong."
Connors, ever the hopeful scientist, motioned for the mechanical arm. "Let's confirm. Maybe it's just a side effect. Nothing major."
Oh sure. Because the scaly demon-hand was totally normal.
The mechanical arm poked the monkey gently.
Its eyes snapped open.
Peter's heart dropped to his sneakers.
The pupils weren't monkey eyes anymore. They were slits—thin and sharp. Reptilian.
The monkey thrashed against its restraints, letting out another horrible screech—this one louder, more primal. It wasn't just scared anymore.
It was angry.
"Back! Back away from the glass!" Peter shouted.
The assistants scrambled.
The creature growled—a low, guttural sound that definitely didn't belong in a primate's vocal cords—and bared its teeth. For a second, it looked at Peter. Right at him. With a level of intelligence that didn't belong in that gaze.
"It's a failure," Peter muttered, stepping back.
Dr. Connors stood frozen, eyes flicking between the growing horror and the data on the monitor. "But the regeneration worked…"
"Yeah," Peter said dryly. "Along with the mental corruption and mutation."
Connors clenched his jaw. "We need to find out what went wrong."
Peter's brain was already running diagnostics like a supercomputer on espresso. "Could be a neurological trigger. The serum might've overwritten part of its brain. Or maybe the reptilian DNA is asserting dominance over the mammalian traits."
Connors nodded. "A clash of species. The serum may have too much of the lizard genome."
Peter glanced back at the cage, where the monkey was now attempting to bite through solid steel.
"Doc," he said, dead serious now, "if this stuff gets into the wrong hands, it's not going to heal people—it's going to turn them into monsters."
Connors didn't reply.
But the look in his eyes said it all.
He knew.
And so did Peter.
They had a miracle.
But they had also just opened Pandora's Terrarium.
Connors, pale as a ghost, nodded grimly. "Back to the drawing board."
As security scrambled and lab assistants debated sedating it with a tranquilizer cannon, Peter grabbed his notebook.
He had a lot of questions—and none of them had comforting answers.
Because now it wasn't just about regeneration.
It was about transformation.
And the line between man and monster was suddenly a lot thinner than he thought.
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By 10 P.M., the lab looked like a battlefield.
Not the explosive kind—more the "everyone's brain is melting from overthinking" kind. Charts were scattered across desks like fallen soldiers. Coffee cups had evolved into a second species. And the monkey? Still locked in containment, still glaring at anyone who dared make eye contact.
Peter stood by the monitor, arms folded, eyes locked on the rotating cell diagrams. The genetic mapping glowed neon green on the screen, highlighting all the issues in glorious 4K misery.
Uncontrolled mutations.
Heightened aggression.
Neurological degradation.
Scales. Just… way too many scales.
He rubbed his forehead. "Okay. So either we made a miracle… or a monster smoothie."
Dr. Connors slumped in a chair, face buried in his hands. "We were so close…"
One of the exhausted interns—Mark? Marvin? Peter didn't know, they were all named something—yawned and packed up his notes. "Sir, we should call it a night."
Connors nodded wearily. "Yes, yes. Everyone get some rest."
And like cockroaches fleeing a suddenly-lit kitchen, the interns scattered.
All except Peter.
He stayed.
Because of course he did.
Peter wasn't just invested in the science. He was invested in the people. Connors wasn't just a mentor—he was a man who had lost everything and still clung to hope. That mattered.
So, Peter double-checked the sequences, ran another mutation risk algorithm, and sipped his third black coffee.
The monkey screeched behind the glass.
Peter waved dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. We get it. You're mad. Same."
His thoughts drifted toward the inevitable truth: the military would eat this up.
Forget healing people.
Forget noble causes.
A formula that regrew limbs and created stronger bodies? That screamed super soldier serum. And if a few soldiers got lizard hands or developed a craving for raw meat? Well, that was just another footnote in a black-budget program.
Peter leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
"This is how it starts," he murmured. "With good intentions. And next thing you know, someone's turning into a giant, city-smashing lizard."
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Leaving the team to take a much-needed break, Peter stepped outside.
His radio crackled to life.
"All units, we have an armed robbery in progress—requesting backup!"
Peter smirked, rolling his shoulders.
'It's hero time.'
With a quick motion, he suited up, webbed his way onto a nearby rooftop, and swung into the night.
Tonight, science had almost changed the world.
But for now, it was Spider-Man's turn to make a difference.