Work Text:
Peter stands in the center of a pristine Oscorp elevator, anxiously picking at the frayed end of his sleeve.
After his encounter with the lizard monster last night, he's hoping Doctor Connors might have some answers for what's going on. After all, the fact that a giant lizard creature has appeared now, just as they're working on a project whose main component is lizard DNA, can't be a coincidence. Maybe someone at Oscorp got ahold of their research and misused it?
The elevator slows to a halt, and a muscle in Peter's jaw jumps at the soft chime that sounds a moment before the doors open. He steps out into the hall and stops.
The only times he's seen this floor with so few lights on have been when he's lost track of time and stayed past dark. The semi-dim hallway looks strange with daylight filtering in through the frosted windows. He walks the short distance to the scientist's office.
The door is unlocked, but Doctor Connors isn't in today, and through the glass walls that separate his office from the main lab Peter can see that neither are any of the lab assistants or interns who work under the man.
"Hello?" He calls, and isn't surprised when he doesn't receive an answer.
He glances around the room, not finding anything of particular interest until he spots some kind of long, cylindrical capsule with an empty glass vial inside sitting on the desk. Curious, he picks it up, turning it over in his hands to study it.
"It's not nice to snoop."
Peter startles, quickly setting the capsule back on the desk and looking behind him. Doctor Connors is standing in the doorway Peter came through, having somehow been quiet enough that Peter didn't hear his approach. He opens his mouth to give an explanation, but finds his voice stuck in his throat.
A few seconds pass in silence before, thankfully, Doctor Connors shifts his gaze to the empty lab behind Peter instead of questioning him.
"I gave everyone the week off," he says.
Peter blinks and turns to look behind him.
"…Yeah," he says awkwardly.
Connors steps into the room, picking up the capsule from the desk.
"Shouldn't you be at school?" He asks.
"No, I got uh, I got a free track," Peter says by way of explanation, feeling inexplicably relieved when the man turns away from him and towards to the whiteboard instead. "I-I wanted to ask you a question." He leans against the desk. His fingers twitch as he struggles with what to do with his hands. Ultimately, he ends up tucking them into his pockets to keep them still. "How would a predator track a reptile?"
"Oh, they don't," Connors says, his back still turned. "Most reptiles are at the top of their respective food chain; kings of their domain."
Peter wants to ask why he's saying that; the man is an expert on reptiles, so he obviously knows they're eaten all the time. The question catches before he can voice it, though, words dissolving as a hint of ominous warning creeps up the back of his throat. He works his jaw for a moment and instead asks, "They gotta have vulnerabilities though, right?"
Connors turns to look at Peter.
"Why the sudden interest in the cold-blooded?" He asks bluntly. The scientist's eyes on him are strangely sharp. Peter shrinks under the harsh gaze, feeling the tingling ripple of goosebumps spreading along his arms despite the warmth his jacket provides. He takes a moment to study the man.
His coat is rumpled, clothes disheveled. His normally immaculate hair is in disarray and he's missing his glasses. His eyes are too bright.
But there's something off about the scientist besides that, something Peter can't quite place. It's like he feels different, but also like he… smells different? Peter takes a breath in through his nose, subtly deeper than the rest, but can't detect anything unusual about his scent. And he's not even touching the man, so how could he "feel" different?
As the smell-feeling settles in, the sense of closeness and camaraderie he's developed with the man over their shared work further drains away to be replaced by caution. Peter barely stops himself from frowning at the strange reaction.
"Just asking a question," he says quietly. "I-I got… got school stuff – biology profiles to do…"
Connors hums, taking a step closer. Peter resists the urge to take a step back, instead protectively folding his arms in front of him in a way he hopes looks casual.
"S-so, because of the cold blood, would they react to sudden changes in temperature?" He asks, thinking of his own recent issues with the cold. Connors raises a brow.
"Well, you'd have to catch one, first," he says. There's something like subdued challenge in his eyes, as if he wants to do something to prove his point but is confident enough he doesn't think it's necessary. He looks down at the capsule and presses his thumb to a small button on the side. There's a sharp click as it depresses, and Peter feels the muscles in the back of his neck tighten.
"Did you know," Connors says mildly, "There's rumor of a new species in New York; beautiful, and quite large."
At the possibility of new information, Peter pushes away from the desk and leans in a bit, discomfort momentarily forgotten.
"What do you know about it, have you seen it?" He asks.
"Well, it's not yet classified," Connors says, shifting to face him more directly. "But it can be aggressive if threatened."
Their eyes meet, and Peter feels his gaze lock in place, unable to look away. He feels small. No, that's not quite right – or at least, that's only part of it. He feels exposed, weak, vulnerable. Like he needs to run or hide or fight but it won't do any good because he'll always be caught and found and overpowered.
Connors blinks, turning back to his bag. He slips the capsule inside and lifts the bag, pulling the strap over his shoulder. Peter swallows thickly. His senses are screaming at him that there's something different about the man, that there's something wrong.
"Doc, are you alright?" He murmurs past a sudden pressure constricting his throat. Connors gives him a tight smile.
"Never been better, Peter; never been better. Now, if you'll excuse me," he says, walking to the door on the other side of the office and pulling it open, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have a new project I'm working on and I need to be alone."
He's holding the door open, so Peter nods and steps through, his body constantly facing the man. Then Connors is stepping through after him, forcing him to take several steps back to move out of the way. Peter's breath stutters at the close proximity. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and unbidden, his chelicerae unfold. A bitter taste hits his tongue as his venom glands react to the tension. He keeps his mouth clamped firmly shut.
Connors moves swiftly across the lab towards the door that leads to a second set of elevators, and Peter follows him cautiously.
"Don't worry, Mister Parker; I'll be back. Wonderful things are coming," he says, a forceful vigor in his voice. "Wonderful things."
The man exits the lab without a glance back, and Peter releases a shuddering breath, folding his chelicerae away with difficulty and grimacing as he swallows the bitter taste in his mouth. He allows his tense muscles a moment to loosen before looking around the lab for any hint of something that might tell him what's going on.
He doesn't immediately find anything noteworthy. Then he remembers the lab mice that are being used for the early testing stages of Connors' study. Two of them are currently being housed in the lab: Freddie, the mouse they injected with the experimental regenerative solution, and Wilma, one of the control subjects.
Maybe Connors has had a breakthrough. Either way, hopefully the mice will be able to shed some light on the scientist's strange behavior.
He heads to the section of the lab where the two mice are being kept and spots the table that's supposed to hold their enclosures.
The bottom corner of Freddie's enclosure has been shattered from the inside, flecks of blood staining the sharp edges of the glass. He halts when he notices a strange noise coming from behind the table.
Wilma's cage is missing entirely.
With trepidation, Peter steps closer, peering around the lab table.
On the floor is Wilma's enclosure, smashed open, and next to it is what looks like an enormous, scaly rat, holding the tiny body of a mouse and tearing into it with razor teeth. His nerves still shot from his interaction with Connors, Peter's limbs stiffen.
"Freddie," he whispers. He goes completely still for a moment when the mutated creature looks up at him, licking its bloody muzzle with a forked tongue and scenting the air. Horrified realization sets in, and his head snaps to look at the door Connors left through.