Pain. That was the first sensation. Not the dull throb of a hangover or the sharp sting of a paper cut, but the all-encompassing agony of every nerve ending firing simultaneously. His eyes snapped open to blinding light that sent fresh waves of torment through his skull.
"Mr. Osborn? Can you hear me?"
The voice sounded distant, underwater. Who the hell was Osborn? And why did that name sound so familiar?
"Harry? Harry, please respond if you can hear me."
Harry. That wasn't his name. His name was... was... The thought slipped away like smoke through fingers. Panic rose in his chest as he realized he couldn't remember his own name.
"I need you to stay calm, Mr. Osborn. You've been unconscious for nearly eighteen hours."
The world gradually came into focus. White ceiling. Beeping monitors. The antiseptic smell of a hospital room. And leaning over him, a concerned-looking man in scrubs.
"What..." His voice was a croak, his throat sandpaper. "What happened?"
"You collapsed at your father's funeral. Acute stress reaction, we believe. Not uncommon given the circumstances."
Father's funeral? What the fuck was this guy talking about? His father was alive and well in Cincinnati, selling insurance and coaching little league on weekends.
Yet even as this thought formed, another memory surfaced. A stern face with cruel eyes. A laboratory filled with strange equipment. A cold voice demanding excellence at any cost.
Norman. Norman Osborn.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, the impossible truth dawning on him. "Norman Osborn."
"Yes," the doctor said gently. "I understand this is difficult. We've prescribed a mild sedative to help you rest, but I'd like to check your cognitive function first if you don't mind."
He nodded numbly, his brain racing. Norman Osborn. Harry Osborn. These weren't real people. They were characters from...
Spider-Man. The Green Goblin. Marvel Comics.
"What day is it?" he asked suddenly.
The doctor looked slightly concerned. "It's Tuesday, May 18th."
"The year. What year is it?"
Now the doctor was definitely concerned. "2004. Harry, can you tell me your full name?"
2004.
Right around when Spider-Man 2 would be happening in the Raimi timeline. The realization hit him like a freight train.
"Harold Theopolis Osborn," he answered automatically, then froze. How did he know that? He'd never read Harry's middle name in any comic.
"Good. And who is the current President of the United States?"
"George W. Bush." The answer came easily, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd thought about Bush's presidency.
The doctor nodded, making a note on his clipboard. "And can you tell me what happened to your father?"
Two sets of memories collided in his mind. Dad teaching him to ride a bike in suburban Ohio. Norman throwing him across a room for getting a B in chemistry.
"He's dead," he heard himself say. "The Spider-Man... Spider-Man killed him."
The words felt rehearsed, as if he was reciting lines from a script he'd memorized but didn't believe. Because he knew better. Spider-Man didn't kill Norman. Norman killed Norman, impaled by his own glider in a final attempt to murder Peter Parker.
Peter Parker. His best friend. No, not his best friend. A fictional character. But the memories were there, crystal clear. Pizza at Joe's. Studying for finals together. The terrible day Peter had told him about Uncle Ben's death.
"I need to leave," he said, trying to sit up.
The doctor gently pushed him back. "Not yet, Harry. We need to keep you under observation for at least another twelve hours."
"No, you don't understand. I need to..." What? What did he need to do? Figure out how the hell he'd ended up inside a fictional universe? Determine if he was having a psychotic break? "I need to go home."
"Bernard has been informed of your condition. Your father's penthouse is ready for your return tomorrow morning."
Bernard. The butler. Another memory surfaced. Bernard's kind face as he'd brought hot chocolate when Harry had nightmares as a child.
"Thank you," he managed, his mind reeling from the flood of memories that weren't his but somehow were.
"Try to rest, Mr. Osborn. You've had a terrible shock, and your body needs time to recover."
The doctor adjusted something on his IV, and a warm wave of chemical calm washed over him. As his eyelids grew heavy, his thoughts drifted in the surreal space between wakefulness and sleep.
He wasn't in his own body. Somehow, impossibly, he was inhabiting Harry Osborn, heir to the Oscorp empire, son of the Green Goblin, and future enemy of Spider-Man. Either that, or he'd completely lost his mind.
But it felt real. Too real. The scratch of the hospital gown against his skin. The lingering soreness in muscles he didn't recognize. The dual sets of memories competing for space in his consciousness.
If this was a dream or hallucination, it was the most detailed one in history.
As sleep claimed him, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity: if he really was Harry Osborn now, he knew what was coming. The discovery of Norman's secret lair. The Goblin serum. The hatred of Spider-Man that would consume him.
But he wasn't the original Harry. He knew Peter was Spider-Man. He knew Norman had killed himself. He knew how this story was supposed to play out.
And maybe, just maybe, he could change it.
_________________________________________
When he woke again, the fog had cleared from his mind. Soft morning light filtered through venetian blinds, casting striped shadows across a hospital room that cost more per night than most people's monthly rent.
He sat up slowly, testing his body. No dizziness. No pain. Just the strange sensation of being in skin that didn't quite fit right.
A quiet knock preceded a nurse entering with a breakfast tray.
"Good morning, Mr. Osborn. Dr. Stevens says your vitals are stable. If you feel up to eating, we can begin discharge procedures after breakfast."
"Thank you," he replied, studying her face for any sign that she saw something wrong, that she could tell he wasn't really Harry Osborn. But she just smiled professionally and left.
He picked at eggs that probably cost fifty dollars and tried to make sense of his situation. Two sets of memories occupied his mind, and both felt authentic. In one, he was a 28-year-old IT specialist from Ohio who'd fallen asleep reading Marvel comics. In the other, he was Harry Osborn, who'd just watched his father's body being lowered into the ground.
The strangest part was how naturally Harry's knowledge came to him. He knew the penthouse access codes. Remembered which board members had always disliked Norman. Could recall the combination to the Oscorp private vault.
As he dressed in clothes someone had brought for him, expensive slacks and a button-down that probably cost more than his real self's entire wardrobe, he caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
James Franco's face stared back at him. No, not James Franco. Harry Osborn. His face now.
"Holy shit," he whispered, touching the unfamiliar features. "I'm really here."
By the time Bernard arrived to drive him home, he'd made a decision. Whatever had happened, whatever cosmic glitch or interdimensional accident had placed him here, he would use his knowledge to his advantage. He knew the players. He knew the major events to come. He had resources Harry Osborn had never properly utilized.
And maybe, just maybe, he could forge a path different from the tragic one the original Harry had followed.
As the sleek town car pulled away from the hospital, he gazed out at the New York skyline, a skyline that shouldn't exist in this exact configuration, a skyline straight out of a Sam Raimi film.
"Well," he murmured to himself, "this isn't Kansas anymore."
Bernard glanced in the rearview mirror. "Did you say something, sir?"
He met the butler's concerned eyes and managed a small smile. "No, Bernard. Just thinking aloud."
Thinking about spider-men and goblins and super soldiers. About cosmic cubes and infinity stones. About a universe of heroes and villains that was now, impossibly, his reality.
"It's worse," he added quietly, watching the impossibly familiar and yet alien city pass by. "It's New York."