Herman in Action

"Thanks, Spider-Man. Without you, we'd really be stuck dealing with these dangerous individuals," Captain George Stacy said, looking up at the figure perched on the utility pole. The handcuffed criminal grumbled in dissatisfaction, "This isn't fair! That freak can treat rockets like bouncy balls, how are we supposed to deal with a monster like that?"

"Shut up!" the young officer snapped. "Someone like you, using rocket launchers against cops with only handguns, has no right to say that!"

The officer, who looked like a rookie, roughly shoved the prisoner into the police car. George could only offer an awkward, silent smile. He then turned serious, "We all know your webs take hours to degrade. But this is Manhattan, and all of New York can't afford such a long traffic lockdown."

"Oh, right," Spider-Man scratched his mask, then snapped his fingers. "Acid can speed up dissolution. If you can't get chemicals—" he pointed to the confiscated energy shield, "—try this? Tuck it into the middle of the web and turn it on. A few repetitions should be enough to expand my webs. For the battery, that power band should have one."

George nodded his thanks. Spider-Man stood up, making a move to shoot his webs, then paused as if remembering something. He crouched down to remind Captain Stacy, "Right, Captain, their weapons used Chitauri parts. It's only been four months since the Battle of New York, and people are already arming common criminals with black market alien tech. You need to be extra careful."

"Thank you, Spider-Man. We'll find out who's modifying this alien technology."

"You're welcome, your friendly neighborhood hero is always ready to help!" With the sound of web fluid spraying, Peter Parker's figure streaked across the sky. He glanced at his watch, then slapped his head as if remembering something. "Aunt May's cake! Meteno Cake Shop. What day is it today anyway? Aunt May even ordered a cake? Whose birthday is it, or is someone visiting?" He adjusted his direction in the air. "Hope nothing else goes wrong. Oh, right, I still need to find my backpack."

In the shadow of the intersection, Herman Schultz pulled down his hood, having witnessed the entire fight. He had to admit the thug was right—facing a costumed freak who could swing through the air, a high-tech weapon or two was useless. To defeat a monster, one had to become a monster first.

Besides, Spider-Man wasn't invincible. The child's bicycle he threw into the subway was proof—the tracker he'd attached beforehand showed a sudden change in altitude, indicating Spider-Man was willing to help a random child by the roadside. This masked vigilante wasn't a glory-seeking jerk who only cared about praise, nor was he a cold-blooded enforcer, just a meddling do-gooder.

And since he was a do-gooder, there were ways to deal with do-gooders. The whole of New York could be a tool to kidnap him.

Herman weighed the backpack on his shoulder. Inside were the last batch of Chitauri parts they had scavenged over several months, and it was his entire capital for a comeback. He walked slowly to the edge of Manhattan Island, then suddenly flipped over the embankment, landing precisely on a rusty maintenance ladder. In the damp air, the entrance to the New York sewer gaped like a monstrous maw, waiting to swallow him.

He glanced behind him, making sure no one was following, then stepped over the guardrail at the sewer entrance, which had already been dismantled and lay on the ground. Clutching a key, he proceeded along the sewer. It was pitch dark inside, with only a few maintenance lights casting a dim glow. The sounds of small animals like rats or cockroaches scurrying past could be heard at any moment, along with the dripping water and his own footsteps.

This key was the token given to each seller by the "buyer." Only this key could open the door to that place. Herman stopped in a passage that looked utterly unremarkable, inserted the key into what appeared to be a cement-filled brick seam, and turned.

The key made a grating sound as it turned in the brick seam. Herman waited for a full minute before a strange green light flickered to life in the darkness. The brick wall slid open to the sides, revealing several old-fashioned computers flashing green code. He threw his backpack onto the stainless steel plate that served as a table, the clanging metal echoing sharply in the confined space.

"Not bad, fewer and fewer deliveries lately," a voice with electronic static crackled from the depths of the darkness. Three green light points, arranged in a triangle, flickered from an unknown location, scanning the package, followed by a satisfied chuckle. "Scarcity breeds value. Name your price, and I'll make you happy."

"I don't want money," Herman pulled out a crumpled list. "Weapons made from these parts have appeared on the streets. You know who made them, right?"

The "buyer's" laughter was mixed with static. "Want to get rich this way? Or build your own gang? No problem, these goods are enough to trade for a couple of custom pieces of equipment. What functions do you need? I can customize one for you on the spot."

"They were wiped out, easily."

Herman could feel the "buyer's" casual reply. "People who don't know how to keep a low profile end up like this. With the Avengers in New York, anyone who makes a big fuss will just be dealt with by that circus troupe."

"It wasn't the Avengers."

"What?! Who was it?!"

"Spider-Man." Herman's lips involuntarily curved upwards, satisfied to hear the other party's suddenly elevated electronic tone. However, the "buyer" quickly calmed down. "That bug in the red and blue suit? This is an unexpected development. Ever since the alien invasion, all sorts of monsters have appeared."

The voice in the darkness suddenly turned sinister. "A crawler in New York's skyscrapers, demons and skulls in Hell's Kitchen. Ten years ago, superhumans were all mutants who were locked up. Now, they're all superheroes. It's quite humorous."

The "buyer's" silence lasted for several seconds in the darkness, then suddenly erupted into a burst of electronically distorted laughter. "Ah ha! I remember—the 'fireworks show' at Midtown Bank this morning, was that you?" The mechanical tone suddenly carried a hint of admiration. "Those weapons were well-designed, was that your work? Now you want an upgrade?"

Herman narrowed his eyes in the darkness, only able to see three faint green electronic lights flickering like a predator's eyes. "More than an upgrade," his voice sounded particularly grim in the sewer's echo. "I want to become something like Spider-Man. Look at this era—"

He clenched his fist. "Those costumed superpowered freaks are running rampant. Weapons alone are no longer enough. What I want is... a complete overhaul." A crumpled list was slapped onto the metal tabletop. "These parts should be enough to trade for what I want."

The sound of mechanical operation suddenly grew closer. Herman saw three gleaming mechanical claws extend from the shadows, one of them clamping onto the list and retracting into the darkness. The rusty hinges let out a grating sound.

"A complete overhaul?" The "buyer's" words, mixed with electronic static, carried a playful tone. "You think I can get that?"

"You might not, but your superior definitely can," Herman stared directly at the three green lights. "After all, you haven't sold all your acquisitions from the past few months as scrap, have you? There are still many, many modified weapons, and they need a major buyer, right?"

A blinding flash suddenly lit up. In the momentary intense light, Herman caught a glimpse of a huge sphere suspended in mid-air, with mechanical arms extending like an octopus's tentacles. As the afterimages faded from his retinas, the electronic voice spoke again. "The list has been sent to the big boss. He's always happy to have someone help clear out street vigilantes. But I'm curious about one thing."

A mechanical claw suddenly approached Herman's nose. "Why are you so fixated on competing with those clowns? You don't seem like you're doing it for money..."

"Is there a problem?"

"Of course not." The mechanical claw handed over a stack of crumpled bills. "This is the payment for your batch of goods."

"I used it to buy my materials."

"I know."

Seeing Herman hesitate, the mechanical claw forcefully stuffed the money into his pocket. "Consider it an investment. The big boss is happy to fund anyone who goes after masked vigilantes. I know you people with dark skin don't have it easy. You have to leave something for your family."

"...Thank you."

The mechanical claw made a gesture of shaking hands. As Herman grasped the cold metal, the electronic laughter echoed eerily in the pipes. "Pick up your goods at the same time tomorrow. By the way, you can call me Otto. All my friends do."

Herman left the sewer but didn't go to his secret base. Instead, he navigated the complex network of sewers back to Harlem. Starlight filtered through the manhole covers, trying to evoke memories, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd gone home—nothing good ever happened when he did.

This time was no different.

Pushing open the creaking door, he saw a familiar corpse lying on the sofa, its chest caved in, blood pooling on the floor.

"Subby?"

"Gang war," his mother said without looking up, sewing a shroud. "Like your dad, your brother, they all fought and died for the boss, but he didn't even have a home. I'll clean things up first. The community church will be here soon."

Herman silently took out the packet of money. His mother skillfully hid the bills. "Still messing with your 'business'? I thought it was over."

"This is the last job," Herman murmured, staring at his friend's pale face. "I'm going to do what needs to be done. It's time to let the whole world know who Herman Schultz is."