Herman Schultz turned over on the worn-out mattress in his apartment. This might be the last time he slept in this bed—whether his plan succeeded or failed, nothing good awaited him. Either he would die violently in the streets, or spend decades behind bars.
But so what? As long as the whole world—no, as long as all of New York—remembered the name Herman Schultz, that was enough.
By the time morning light filtered through the grimy window, Herman had already bought a two-dollar burger from the burger joint downstairs. The burger was cheap, but it tasted like garbage. The bargain meat patty and stale bread chewed like sawdust in his mouth. Still, he had no right to complain. These burgers were made for the poor people of Harlem. Anything more expensive was simply beyond their means.
The rusty iron gate of the abandoned construction site creaked in the wind as he furtively pushed it open. Herman lifted a corroded manhole cover and slipped skillfully into Manhattan's labyrinthine sewer system. In the darkness, the squeaking of rats mingled with his heavy footsteps in an eerie duet. He followed the tunnels until he reached Otto's underground warehouse once more. The place still reeked of motor oil and mold. The instant the door opened, three ghostly green electronic eyes lit up in the darkness. A synthesized mechanical voice echoed strangely through the sewers.
"You came earlier than we agreed."
"I don't have the patience to wait. Did the goods arrive?"
Herman impatiently brushed the cobwebs from his sleeve. In response came a shrill mechanical laugh. Two mechanical claws extended from the shadows and tossed a bulging package onto the metal table, parts clattering sharply inside.
"The big boss is also quite interested in getting rid of that spider." Otto's electronic eyes flickered. "It was delivered last night. Nothing is missing."
Herman inspected the expensive gold-titanium alloy components and said casually, "Everything I asked for is controlled material. It got here so quickly. Who exactly is this 'big boss'?"
"Wasn't this what you asked for? Why don't you believe it yourself?"
"Just curious."
The mechanical claw that had been about to retract paused in midair, then suddenly shot toward Herman's face, stopping just short of his nose.
"You want to know? Why not go ask in Hell's Kitchen yourself?"
Herman understood. A dry laugh escaped his throat.
"Wilson Fisk. Haha, the famous Kingpin... No wonder. He must have ordered a huge batch of alien-tech weapons from you, right?"
"I only care about business. As for what my customers intend to do with my products, I couldn't care less."
"I heard he's been busy lately, dealing with some kind of... demon."
Herman watched Otto remain silent and stopped trying to make conversation. After confirming that nothing was missing, he picked up the package and prepared to leave. But just as he was about to go, Otto blocked him with an extended mechanical claw.
"I told you, you could complete your design in my laboratory. I admire talented young people like you."
"No, thanks."
Herman declined Otto's invitation. "If I researched my equipment here, the whole sewer system wouldn't survive it. Trust me, I've tried."
"The Midtown Bank building? That truly was a masterpiece."
Otto's electronically distorted cackle continued. "Very well. Then I look forward to the moment you show off your skills. Hopefully it won't take too long."
"You won't have to wait long."
Herman left with the package. Logically, the New York police should have begun hunting him down by now. Yet he had slept at home all night without hearing a thing. As he left, he noticed that the police still had not come after him. Either his underlings had kept their mouths shut, or the cops simply looked down on him as some "small fry."
If it was the latter, they were dead wrong.
Back in the long-abandoned unfinished building, Herman took out the welding torch and other tools from his days as an auto mechanic and got to work. The torch erupted in blinding blue light. He modified hockey gloves and elbow pads into weapon mounts, while wires wrapped in differently colored insulation snaked across the bracers like veins. He directly welded on several components dismantled from an old Scarecrow launcher. Beside the pliers lay wire after wire cut open, copper strands intertwined together. He bit through electrical tape and wrapped up the connected wires.
As the setting sun stretched his shadow long behind him, Herman wiped the sweat from his face with the blackened cotton glove on his right hand and raised his left. He had fitted himself with a new-generation Scarecrow launcher. As the wiring for the battery system he had designed was completed, its indicator light flashed green.
He slowly clenched his fist. The indicator changed from green to yellow. In tense anticipation, Herman threw a punch with his left hand.
The indicator shifted from yellow to red.
A piercing shriek whipped up a cloud of dust, carving an impossibly clean trail through the long-abandoned corridor. Then came a BANG, and Herman was hurled into the wall by the violent recoil.
"Cough, cough, cough... cough... heh... Hahahaha! I did it! I did it!"
Now all he needed was a matching suit of armor, and everything would be complete. That was Herman's next task. The entire package of gold-titanium alloy that Iron Man used for armor shells was the foundation of his confidence. Herman looked at his blueprints. Completing the Scarecrow launcher for his right hand and the full suit of armor would probably take a week.
"Then keep acting smug for one more week, Spider-Man."
At the same time, somewhere neither Herman nor Peter had noticed, the Avengers' investigation into Spider-Man's identity continued. In the president's office of Osborn Industries, Iron Man Tony Stark was holding a less-than-friendly meeting with Norman Osborn, president of Osborn Industries.
Norman Osborn was only a few years older than Tony Stark, but he looked far more mature and composed. His brown hair was slicked back, and his dark green suit formed a stark contrast to Stark's habit of wearing T-shirts beneath suit jackets.
"Anthony, it's been a long time."
"It has been a long time, Osborn."
Tony Stark did not like Norman Osborn at all. His impeccably slicked-back hair reflected sunlight like the scales of some cold-blooded animal. He reminded Tony somewhat of Obadiah from Stark Industries—a pure Edison-style businessman.
"When I first received your request for a meeting, I thought Stark Industries was planning to enter biotechnology. Thank God I don't have to compete with you."
"I handed the company over to Pepper. Unless something truly requires my attention, I don't pay much attention to it these days."
Tony casually brushed past the business topic, and Norman Osborn seemed unwilling to dwell on it either. Instead, he picked up a champagne glass and offered it to Tony. "So, when are you getting married?"
"What?"
"Getting married. Officially starting a family. Having children—those were the happiest years of my life..."
Norman spoke with some emotion, then looked at Tony. "I'm about your age, Anthony. We're both over forty now, but you still don't have children."
"I... Pepper and I haven't considered marriage yet." Tony had never imagined that, even without any elders left, someone could still pressure him to get married. "We've only just started. A lot of things haven't been decided yet... Let's get back to what we came here to discuss. Do you know Spider-Man?"
Norman Osborn had not expected Tony's real purpose to involve Spider-Man, so he smiled and asked, "I've heard a little. What about him?"
"I was thinking... Hank discovered that the structure of his webbing matches the research results of one of your former employees, Richard Parker. I came here to ask about him."
"I'm afraid I can't help you." Norman had no intention of hiding anything. "Richard left my company five years ago, and others took over his research. Even if you ask me about Spider-Man, all I can say is that I don't know whether he is Richard."
Richard Parker's death was classified within S.H.I.E.L.D., and Ant-Man had only happened to record it. Norman's reaction was therefore perfectly reasonable.
"So... this research of yours has produced no results in all these years?"
"None at all. It only created a few mutated spiders. Half a year ago, the Osborn Tech Expo accidentally caused the glass in that exhibition area to shatter. The specimens escaped, and no one knows where they are now..."
It was as if someone had opened a window in a dark room. Both men froze, and then Norman Osborn smiled.
"If you're looking for Spider-Man, I truly have no information here."
"I understand."
Tony shook Norman's hand and strode away. The moment he left Norman Osborn's office, J.A.R.V.I.S.'s commentary came through his tiny earpiece. "Your behavior just now did not conform to proper social etiquette, sir."
"Since when have I ever followed that nonsense?" Tony muttered as he walked.
"J.A.R.V.I.S., pull up satellite imagery. Find the Osborn Tech Expo date and upload everyone's data to the cloud."
"Green Goblin," Norman Osborn ordered. Osborn Industries' own artificial intelligence began operating at its master's command. "Enter keyword: Richard Parker."
The searches on both sides began almost simultaneously and, nearly at the same time, returned the same name.
Keyword found: Richard Parker. Search result obtained: Peter Benjamin Parker. Search reason: direct familial relationship, father and son.
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