Marvel:Host of Venom

"This should be the place. Miracle Studio… more like Miracle Warehouse," Peter muttered, staring at the rundown, graffiti-covered factory ahead. It sat at the edge of an industrial zone, surrounded by chain-link fences and rusting steel beams. "Seriously, who sets up shop this deep in the shadows? Just looking at it makes me feel like I need a tetanus shot."

After tracing the address from the database earlier, he and Ethan had rushed straight here. The area was deserted, eerily quiet under the moonlight.

"I hope he's still up," Peter added, eyeing the dark windows. "Otherwise, I'll have to drag him out from under his Mysterio-themed blanket."

He chuckled nervously as he and Ethan approached the front entrance—a single rusted metal door. A quick sweep of the perimeter confirmed it was the only accessible way in. If Beck had any secret routes or hidden exits, they were either expertly hidden or behind illusions, which would make sense coming from him.

They stepped through a dusty, dim reception hall, its walls lined with peeling paint and neglected electronics. Toward the rear, Ethan found a concealed sliding panel tucked behind an overturned filing cabinet. It clicked open with a faint hiss, revealing a hidden corridor that led deeper into the building.

What greeted them inside was something out of a conspiracy theorist's fever dream.

The walls were covered in photographs—shots of Spider-Man from various angles, grainy surveillance stills, blown-up prints from the Daily Bugle, and digital screens frozen on moments from past battles. Peter's likeness was everywhere. It was obsessive.

Suspended above a cluttered workbench was a full Spider-Man costume—his design exactly, minus the authentic web-shooters.

"Wow," Peter said, eyebrows raised. "Welcome to the Beck Fan Club. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was his idol."

Ethan scanned the room, absorbing the details. "Looks like he's planned everything here—every staged event, every illusion. That's the museum…" He pointed to a photo. "And that's the Brooklyn Bridge. Every phase of his plan was mapped out in advance."

Peter let out a frustrated breath. "This guy… I've been dancing on strings while he played director. I've been acting in his illusion without realizing it."

He walked up to the Spider-Man costume, pulling it down from the hook and inspecting it. "Huh… suction cups." He examined the gloves and boots closely. "So that's how he mimicked my wall-crawling. Crude, but effective."

The costume's limbs had micro suction pads embedded into the palms and soles. Nothing sophisticated, but just enough to simulate his signature moves.

Peter flung the costume back at the wall. It landed with a soft thwack, suctioning tightly. "Still works. Pretty basic tech, but for someone trying to impersonate me in low light and chaos? It'd do the trick."

While Peter inspected the gear, Ethan turned his attention to a small cube on a side table. It looked harmless—like a minimalist toy. But when he picked it up, the device activated, glowing softly.

A moment later, a three-dimensional hologram flickered into existence—sharp, realistic, and startling. A collapsing ceiling rendered in stunning clarity hovered before them.

"This is advanced," Ethan said, narrowing his eyes. "Real-time holographic projection. With proper ambient lighting and drone assistance, this could pass as reality for most people."

He handed the cube to Peter. "This is likely how Beck created his illusions. These are compact holographic projectors—small, portable, and terrifyingly effective."

Peter nodded. "Yeah… this scene—it's the ceiling from the museum. His big debut. I thought it was real."

He sighed. "That helmet he wears—'the fishbowl'—it's probably packed with sensors and processors. A hub controlling all his projectors and drones in real time."

Ethan nodded slowly. "He's not just faking reality—he's replacing it. Controlling what people see, what they hear, even what they believe. He doesn't just want to be a hero. He wants to be the hero. The only one."

"With me as the fall guy," Peter muttered. "Classic Beck. Brilliant mind, terrible morals."

Ethan studied another piece of gear on the bench—a drone casing with integrated projectors and audio modules. "With skills like this, he could've built an empire—legal, respected. Open a holographic studio, license out this tech, even work in space simulation or therapy."

"Exactly," Peter said, tone bitter. "But no—he chose to wear a fish tank on his head, rob banks, and stage battles to fool the public. A total waste of genius."

Ethan clicked through a nearby monitor still active on the desk. It displayed a detailed network of surveillance feeds, tagged locations, and drone coordinates. A few were marked with timestamps for upcoming activity.

Peter leaned closer. "This is it. He's planning more. This studio is just one of his setups. The real show is still coming."

He tapped a blinking icon on the map. "That—Miracle Studio might be the front, but his real base of operation is mobile. The drones are feeding him real-time data across the city."

Ethan turned to Peter. "Then we hit back. Expose him. Take down his network and end the illusion."

Peter glanced around the room one last time, eyes lingering on the obsessive wall of photos, the fake suit, the tools of deception.

"Let's go ruin his next act."

Peter shrugged and said, "I don't get it either, but that's how these types think. I've seen way too much of it in New York over the years."

"They all have their own twisted logic. They screw up and then blame the world for it—just like Quentin Beck."

Ethan shook his head in mild disbelief, letting out a quiet sigh. It was such a waste. He picked up the remaining cube-like projectors left on the table and slipped them into his coat pocket. He was already thinking of how to break them down. If this tech were channeled into something legitimate—movie theaters, interactive classrooms, or live concerts—it could revolutionize the industry. A full-blown projection tech company could rise from this.

Since Quentin Beck had squandered the opportunity, Ethan had no intention of being polite. The way he saw it, this was tech Beck used for criminal purposes. If Ethan could reverse-engineer and improve it, then it'd no longer belong to Beck. It would be his—reborn and repurposed.

Ethan had no doubt that with a little work, he could make this projection tech not just sleeker, but smarter. Integrating AI-driven visuals, adaptive environments, and real-time interactivity. This could go far beyond Beck's theatrical smoke and mirrors.

After sweeping the main studio, Ethan and Peter started exploring deeper into the warehouse. The building was far too large to house only this front-facing space. It had to extend further back—maybe storage, maybe staging areas for illusions, or maybe something worse. And still, they hadn't seen any sign of Quentin Beck himself.

They moved cautiously.

But just as they advanced past a hallway that opened into a larger room, the factory's lights suddenly shut off, plunging everything into pitch black.

Their instincts flared immediately. Peter crouched low, ready to spring, while Ethan's senses aligned with Venom, who growled in the back of his mind.

Then—light.

Not from above, but all around.

The entire room transformed before their eyes. The crumbling walls and rusty beams vanished, replaced by a stunning, sweeping landscape of rolling green hills under a perfect blue sky. The grass rippled with wind. Birds chirped overhead.

It was a projection—obviously—but so vivid, so immersive, that even knowing it was fake didn't help. It was Quentin Beck's handiwork. Classic Mysterio.

Moments later, several figures appeared, slowly materializing around them. Each wore a bulky, fishbowl-style helmet and dark, cloaked outfits—duplicates of Beck's signature Mysterio look.

Then the real voice echoed across the field, originating from a raised platform nearby. The true Quentin Beck appeared in his full costume, arms outstretched like he was performing on a Broadway stage.

"When you think something is fake," Beck began, voice amplified, "there's always something real buried inside it. But when you believe something's real… well, that's when I have you."

"Hello, Spider-Man. I've prepared quite the stage show for you tonight."

His gaze shifted to Ethan. "And you—an unexpected guest star. I didn't expect Spider-Man to call in backup, but that's alright. My gifts are generous. I brought enough chaos to entertain both of you."

Without warning, Peter flicked his wrist and fired several webs toward the nearby Mysterio copies—but as expected, they dissolved into mist as his webs passed right through them.

"Enjoy the performance," Beck said, laughing wildly. "Let's see if you're still standing when the curtain falls!"

With that, his image fragmented, scattering like digital ash. The field remained, lush and green, but the illusion now felt sinister—like a stage set designed to manipulate their every step.

Peter exhaled sharply. "I don't know who thought it was a great idea to release him from prison. Did they skip his psych eval or what?"

He turned toward Ethan, clearly frustrated.

Ethan shrugged, equally fed up. "If the system worked, we wouldn't have jobs."

At the same time, he closed his eyes briefly and communicated inwardly with Venom.

"Can you locate him?" he asked silently.

"The air is full of lies," Venom growled. "But the meat behind the curtain cannot hide forever. I will sniff him out."

Despite Beck's elaborate illusions, he was still a flesh-and-blood man somewhere in this building. And no matter how well he masked himself visually, Venom's symbiote senses weren't fooled by light and sound. They sensed movement, heat, heartbeat, and even fear.

And once Ethan locked onto his true position—this twisted show would be over.