To the average American teenager in 1996, Spider-Man was a beloved comic book hero.
To the major Hollywood studios, he was a cursed property. A joke.
Zane's initial, giddy excitement from the system's tip slammed head-first into that cold, hard reality. The character's history on the big screen wasn't just bad; it was a graveyard of ambition. A disastrous adaptation in the 60s had bankrupted its production company. A Turkish attempt in the 70s was so legendarily awful it was never even released. In the current Hollywood landscape, comparing Spider-Man's film potential to Batman or Superman wasn't just laughable; it was delusional.
Good, Zane thought, a slow, cold, predatory grin spreading across his face. Let them think he's cursed. Let them be stupid. Perception... perception is just a market inefficiency. And I'm about to exploit the hell out of it.
He was still savoring the thought when a new one struck him with the force of a physical blow.
He froze. Wait.
Wait a minute.
If the rights to Spider-Man, their flagship character, were in play... what about the others? What about all of them? X-Men? Iron Man? The Hulk? Deadpool?
What was the status of the entire Marvel universe?
The system's tip wasn't just about one hero. It was a key. A key that could unlock an empire. He didn't have the capital to buy Marvel outright, but he could certainly pick its bones.
He lunged for the phone, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Victor, it's Zane," he said, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Drop. Everything. I need a comprehensive report on Marvel Comics. I need their financial situation, and I need the current ownership status of all their film and television copyrights. I need to know which characters they've sold, who owns them, and which ones are still in-house. This is top priority. I need it in two days."
Two days later, Zane was staring at a thick stack of binders. They landed on his desk with a heavy, definitive thud.
"This is just what I could pull on short notice," Victor had said, a new, impressed respect in his eyes. "The situation is... complex."
Zane just nodded, locked his office door, and began to read.
For the next two hours, the world outside his office ceased to exist. He didn't get up, he didn't check the time, he just... read. It wasn't a financial report; it was a goddamn tragedy.
The 1980s had been Marvel's golden age. A cultural juggernaut, so dominant they had nearly bought their failing competitor, DC Comics.
Then, in 1989, everything changed.
A corporate raider named Ronald Perelman acquired the company. Perelman didn't give a damn about comics; he was a master of capital manipulation. He'd created an artificial speculator bubble, packaging comics with "collectible" cards, creating multiple "variant" covers, and forcing fans and stores to buy five, ten, twenty copies of the same issue. He then took the company public at its absurdly, artificially inflated value, personally pocketing hundreds of millions.
The bubble, like all bubbles, burst.
In 1993, the industry collapsed. Comic sales plummeted by 70%. Hundreds of specialty stores went bankrupt. And Marvel, leveraged to the hilt and creatively bankrupt, was on the verge of total collapse.
Zane read on, a knot tightening in his stomach. To stay afloat, Perelman's Marvel had been conducting a desperate, pathetic fire sale.
His eyes scanned the list in the report, his blood running colder with every single name.
X-Men. Sold to 20th Century Fox in 1993. Fantastic Four. Sold. Iron Man. Sold. Hulk. Sold. Black Widow. Sold.
No... no, no, no...
His grand vision. His empire. Assembling the Avengers, one by one...
It was dead. It was over before it even began. Perelman had already scattered the jewels. He was too late.
He read the final page of the report, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. But then... he saw it.
One crown jewel remained. The report confirmed it: at a recent board meeting, the decision was made to sell the last A-list hero in their stable to generate immediate cash.
Spider-Man.
The system's tip was correct. Sony's Columbia Pictures and MGM were the expected bidders. The final price was estimated to be around seven million dollars.
A price that Zane knew, in his time, was the single greatest steal of the century.
"I have to have him," Zane breathed, the words coming out as a prayer.
He immediately began a mental calculation, his analyst's mind kicking back into gear. His assets. After buying Wald Pictures ($2.8M), the new Burbank villa ($4.6M), and the Silicon Valley office building ($6M), his liquid cash on hand was... roughly twelve million dollars.
The number sounded impressive, but a second later, the next realization hit him, and this one was a physical blow.
Wait.
Even if he got the rights for $7 million... he'd be left with only $5 million in operating capital.
A Spider-Man movie, even a modest one, would cost over $100 million to produce.
He had... five.
It was a fortune for a normal person. For a Hollywood studio, it was pocket change. He couldn't just buy the rights; he had to be able to use them. Owning the keys to a Ferrari was useless if you couldn't afford the gas.
He slumped back in his chair, a wave of genuine, bitter despair washing over him. The opportunity was right there. He could see it, he could taste it... but he was still too small. He was still too poor to grab it.
He let himself feel the sting of that failure for one, hot, agonizing second.
Then, he shoved it down.
"No." He said it out loud, to the empty room.
His resolve hardened, turning his despair into a cold, hard, diamond-like anger. The logic is flawed.
His mind was sharp and clear again.
The asset is the prize. The financing... the financing is a secondary problem.
In the world of high finance, in the world he was building, a person holding a guaranteed multi-billion-dollar property... he could always find money. The key wasn't having the money now. The key was to own the goddamn property first.
He knew what he had to do. He couldn't wait for the June bidding war. He had to get to Marvel now. He had to cut a deal, lock it down, before Sony and MGM even knew the auction had officially started.
He gritted his teeth, his mind made up. The ship will go straight when it reaches the bridge. He would find a way.
He picked up the phone to call his lawyer. The race for Spider-Man had begun.
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