"Thanks, Spider-Man. Without you, we really wouldn't have been able to handle these dangerous criminals." Captain George Stacy looked up and thanked the figure crouching atop the utility pole. One of the handcuffed criminals grumbled resentfully, "That's not fair! That freak can treat rockets like rubber balls. How are we supposed to deal with a monster like that?"
"Shut up!" the young officer barked. "A guy like you, who brings a rocket launcher against cops armed with nothing but handguns, has some nerve saying that!"
Looking like a complete rookie, the officer roughly shoved the criminal into the patrol car. George could only offer an awkward, silent smile before turning serious. "We all know your webbing takes several hours to biodegrade. But this is Manhattan. All of New York can't afford a traffic shutdown that long."
"Oh, right." Spider-Man scratched his mask, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Acid can speed up the dissolving process. If you can't get chemical agents..." He pointed at the confiscated energy shield. "Try this? Put it in the middle of the web and turn it on. Repeat that a few times, and it should tear through my webbing. The battery should be on that power harness."
George nodded his thanks. Spider-Man stood, just about to fire a web line, when he remembered something. He crouched again and reminded Captain Stacy, "Oh, right, Captain. Their weapons used Chitauri parts. It's only been four months since the Battle of New York, and people are already using alien technology from the black market to arm ordinary criminals. 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 Spider-Man is always at your service!" Amid the hiss of web-shooters, Peter Parker's figure swung across the sky. He glanced at his watch, then slapped his forehead as if suddenly remembering something. "Aunt May's cake! Meteno Cake Shop. Come to think of it, what day is it today? Aunt May actually ordered a cake? Is it someone's birthday, or are we having guests over?" He adjusted his direction in midair. "Hope nothing else goes wrong. Oh, right, I still have to find my backpack."
In the shadows of the intersection, Herman Schultz pulled his hood lower and watched the entire fight unfold. He had to admit that thug was right—against a freak in spandex who could swing through the air, one or two high-tech weapons were completely useless. To defeat a monster, he first had to become one.
Besides, Spider-Man was not invulnerable. The child's bicycle he had thrown into the subway was proof—the tracker Herman had attached beforehand showed a sudden drop in altitude, proving Spider-Man was willing to casually help some kid by the roadside. This masked vigilante was neither an attention-seeking bastard who only craved praise nor a cold-blooded law-enforcement machine. He was just an overly helpful busybody.
And if he was an overly helpful busybody, there were ways to deal with him. All of New York could be used to kidnap him.
Herman hefted the backpack on his shoulder. Inside were the last batch of Chitauri parts they had scavenged over the past few months, as well as all the capital he had to make a comeback. He walked slowly until he reached the edge of Manhattan Island, then suddenly flipped over the embankment and landed precisely on a rusty maintenance ladder. In the damp air, the entrance to New York's sewers gaped like an open maw, waiting to swallow him whole.
He looked behind him and, after making sure no one had followed, stepped over the dismantled guardrail lying beside the sewer entrance. Clutching a key, he headed deeper into the sewers. The tunnels were pitch-dark, lit only by a few dim maintenance lamps. All around him came the occasional scurrying sounds of rats, cockroaches, and other small creatures. Other than that, there was only dripping water and his own footsteps.
This key was the token the "buyer" gave to everyone who sold goods. Only this key could open the door to that place. Herman stopped in an utterly unremarkable passageway and inserted the key into a crack between bricks that looked completely covered in cement, then turned it.
The key made a shrill scraping sound as it turned between the bricks. Herman waited a full minute before an eerie green light finally appeared in the darkness. The brick wall slid apart to either side, revealing several old-fashioned computers flashing with green code. He tossed the backpack onto a stainless-steel plate being used as a table, and the metallic clang was especially piercing in the enclosed space.
"Not bad. Fewer and fewer people have been delivering goods lately." A voice laced with electronic static came from deep in the darkness. Three green points of light arranged in a triangle flickered to life from nowhere, scanning the package. Then came a satisfied chuckle. "Scarcity makes things valuable. Name your price, and I'll make sure you're satisfied."
"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, don't you?"
The "buyer" laughed through crackling static. "Trying to make a fortune from this? Or build your own gang? No problem. This shipment is enough to trade for one or two customized pieces of equipment. What functions do you need? I can customize a weapon for you on the spot."
"They were wiped out. Easily."
Herman could sense the "buyer's" careless reply. "That's what happens to people who don't know how to keep a low profile. The Avengers are in New York. Anyone who causes too much trouble will just get taken out by that circus troupe."
"The Avengers didn't do it."
"What?! Who did?!"
"Spider-Man." The corners of Herman's mouth rose involuntarily. He listened with satisfaction as the other man's electronic voice abruptly rose in pitch, but the "buyer" quickly calmed down. "That bug in the red-and-blue tights? That's unexpected. Ever since the alien invasion, all kinds of freaks and monsters have crawled out of the woodwork."
The voice in the darkness suddenly turned gloomy. "There's a crawling insect among New York's skyscrapers, and demons and skulls in Hell's Kitchen. Ten years ago, people with superpowers were mutants rounded up and locked away. Now they're all superheroes. How amusing."
The "buyer" fell silent for several seconds in the darkness, then suddenly burst into warped electronic laughter. "Aha! I remember now—the little 'fireworks show' at Midtown Bank this morning, that was your doing?" The mechanical voice took on a trace of approval. "Those weapons were well designed. Did you make them? Looking for an upgrade now?"
Herman narrowed his eyes in the darkness, but all he could see were the three ghostly green electronic lights jumping in the blackness like a predator's eyes. "More than an upgrade." His voice was especially grim amid the sewer's echoes. "I want to become something like Spider-Man. Look at this era—"
He clenched his fists. "Those superpowered freaks in costumes run rampant. Weapons alone aren't enough anymore. What I want is... a complete transformation." A crumpled list was slapped onto the metal table. "These parts should be enough to get what I want."
The sound of machinery suddenly drew closer. Herman saw three mechanical claws gleaming coldly emerge from the shadows. One of them clamped onto the list and withdrew into the darkness. Rusty hinges screeched painfully.
"A complete transformation?" The "buyer's" electronically distorted voice was teasing. "You think I can get this stuff?"
"Maybe you can't, but your supplier definitely can." Herman stared directly at the three green lights. "After all, you couldn't possibly have sold everything you got over the past few months as scrap metal, could you? There are plenty of modified weapons. They must have a major buyer, right?"
A blinding flash suddenly went off. In that instant of harsh light, Herman caught a glimpse of a massive sphere suspended in midair, with mechanical arms extending from it like octopus tentacles. Once the spots faded from his vision, the electronic voice sounded again. "The list has already been sent to the boss. He's always happy to have someone help clean up street vigilantes. But there's something I'm curious about."
A mechanical claw suddenly stopped inches from Herman's nose. "Why are you so determined to compete with those ridiculous performers? You don't look like you're doing this for money..."
"Is there a problem with that?"
"Of course not." The mechanical claw handed him a wad of crumpled bills. "This is the payment for your shipment."
"I used it to buy my materials."
"I know."
Seeing Herman hesitate, the mechanical claw forcibly stuffed the money into his pocket. "Consider it an investment. The boss is happy to fund anyone dealing with masked vigilantes. I know people like you with dark skin have it rough. You should leave something behind for your family."
"...Thanks."
The mechanical claw made a gesture of shaking hands. When Herman grasped the cold metal, electronic laughter produced an eerie echo through the pipes. "Pick up your goods at the same time tomorrow. Oh, and you can call me Otto. That's what my friends call me."
Herman left the sewers, but he did not head to his secret base. Instead, he made his way through the labyrinthine tunnels back to Harlem. Starlight streamed through the maintenance shafts, trying to stir his memories, but he could no longer remember what his last trip home had been like—nothing good ever came of going back.
This time was no different.
When he pushed open the creaking door, a familiar corpse lay on the sofa, its chest blown apart and blood spilled across the floor.
"Subby?"
"Gang violence." His mother stitched a burial shroud without even looking up. "Just like your father and your brothers, he fought and died for the boss. But he didn't even have a home, so I had to clean him up first. People from the community church will be here soon."
Herman silently pulled out the bundle of money. His mother skillfully hid the bills away. "Still messing around with that 'business' of yours? I thought it had ended a long time ago."
"This is the last job." Herman stared at his friend's pale face and muttered, "I'm going to do what needs to be done. It's time the whole world remembered who Herman Schultz is."
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