"Thanks, Spider-Man. Without you, we really wouldn't know what to do with these dangerous individuals," Police Chief George Stacy said, looking up at the figure perched on a utility pole. The handcuffed criminal grumbled unhappily, "This isn't fair! That freak can play with a rocket like a rubber ball. How are we supposed to deal with a monster like that?"
"Shut up!" a young officer snapped. "You, who used a rocket launcher against police with only handguns, have no right to talk!"
The seemingly new officer roughly shoved the criminal into the patrol car. George could only offer a silent, awkward smile, then stated seriously, "We all know your webs take hours to degrade. But this is Manhattan; New York can't afford a traffic blockade for that long."
"Oh, right." Spider-Man scratched his mask, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Acid can accelerate degradation. If you can't get chemical agents," he pointed to the confiscated energy shield, "try this? Just stick it in the middle of the web and activate it. A few repetitions should loosen my web. For batteries, the power gauntlets should have some."
George nodded in thanks. Spider-Man stood up, then, just as he was about to shoot a web, he thought of something else and crouched down to remind Chief Stacy: "By the way, Chief, their weapons used Chitauri parts. It's only been four months since the Battle of New York, and ordinary criminals are already being armed with black market alien tech. You'll need to be extra careful."
"Thank you, Spider-Man. We'll find out who's modifying this alien tech."
"You're welcome, your friendly neighborhood is always at your service!" With a whoosh of web fluid, Peter Parker's figure soared across the sky. He checked his watch, then slapped his forehead as if remembering something. "Aunt May's cake! Metano Bakery... What day is it anyway? Aunt May ordered a cake? Whose birthday is it, or is someone coming over?" He adjusted his direction mid-air. "Hope nothing else goes wrong... Oh right, I need to find my backpack too."
In the shadows of a crosswalk, Herman Schultz pulled down his hood, having witnessed the entire battle. He had to admit that the thug was right—against a spandex-clad freak who could swing through the air, one or two high-tech weapons were useless. To defeat a monster, one must first become a monster.
Besides, Spider-Man wasn't invincible. The child's bicycle thrown into the subway was proof—the tracker he'd secretly placed on it showed a sudden change in altitude, indicating that Spider-Man was willing to help a random kid on the street. This masked vigilante wasn't a glory-seeking jerk who only craved praise, nor was he a cold, emotionless law enforcement machine; he was just a meddlesome do-gooder.
And since he was a do-gooder, there were ways to deal with a do-gooder. All of New York could be a tool to hijack him.
Herman hefted the backpack on his shoulder. Inside was the last batch of Chitauri parts they had salvaged over the past few months, 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 system gaped open, waiting to swallow him.
He looked behind him, making sure no one had followed, then stepped over the broken, fallen railing at the sewer entrance and, clutching a key, proceeded along the sewer. The sewer was pitch dark, with only a few maintenance lights casting a dim glow. All around, he could hear the scurrying of rats or cockroaches, along with the sound of dripping water and his own footsteps.
This key was a token given by the "buyer" to every seller, the only key that could open the door to that place. Herman stopped in an unremarkable passageway, inserted the key into a seemingly cement-filled brick seam, and turned it.
The key grated loudly as it turned in the brickwork. Herman waited for a full minute before an eerie green light flickered in the darkness. The brick wall slid open to reveal several old computers glowing with green code. He threw his backpack onto the stainless steel plate serving as a table; the clatter of metal was particularly jarring in the confined space.
"Good, fewer people delivering lately," an electronically distorted voice came from the depths of the darkness. Three green lights, arranged in a triangle, flickered from somewhere, scanning the package. A satisfied chuckle followed: "Scarcity increases value. Name your price; I'll make you satisfied."
"I don't want money," Herman pulled out a crumpled list. "Weapons made with these parts have appeared on the street. You should know who made them, right?"
The "buyer's" laughter crackled with static: "Trying to get rich with this? Or build your own gang? No problem, this haul is enough for one or two custom-made pieces of equipment. What functions do you need? I can customize one for you on the spot."
"They were completely wiped out, effortlessly."
Herman could sense the "buyer's" nonchalant reply: "That's what happens to those who can't learn to be discreet. The Avengers are in New York; anyone who causes a big commotion will just be dealt with by those circus performers."
"The Avengers didn't do it."
"What?! Who was it?!"
"It was Spider-Man." Herman's lips unconsciously curved into a smile, satisfied to hear the electronic voice suddenly rise in pitch, but the "buyer" quickly calmed down: "That red and blue tights-wearing bug? That's a surprise. Ever since the alien invasion, all sorts of freaks have emerged."
The voice in the darkness suddenly grew somber. "A crawler appeared in New York's skyscrapers, and devils and skull faces in Hell's Kitchen. Ten years ago, super-powered individuals were mutants who were imprisoned. Now, they're all superheroes. How humorous."
The "buyer's" silence lasted for several seconds in the darkness, then suddenly erupted into a laugh distorted by electronic static: "Aha! I remember now—that 'fireworks show' at Midtown Bank this morning, that was you guys? The mechanical tone suddenly gained a hint of admiration. "Those weapons were well-designed; did you make them? Now you want an upgrade?"
Herman squinted in the darkness, only able to see three eerie green electronic lights flickering, like a predator's eyes. "More than just an upgrade," his voice echoed ominously in the sewer. "I want to become something like Spider-Man. Look at this era now—"
He clenched his fist. "Those super-powered freaks in costumes are running rampant; weapons alone aren't enough anymore. What I want is... a complete overhaul." He slammed a crumpled list onto the metal table. "These parts should be enough for what I want."
The sound of machinery suddenly drew closer. Herman saw three cold, gleaming mechanical claws emerge from the shadows, one of them clutching the list and retracting into the darkness. Rusty hinges groaned with a grating sound.
"Complete overhaul?" the "buyer's" voice, laced with static, had a playful tone. "You think I can get those?"
"Maybe not you, but your supplier definitely can." Herman stared directly at the three green lights. "After all... you couldn't possibly have sold all your gains from the past few months as scrap, could you? There are still many, many modified weapons; they must have a big buyer, right?"
Blinding flashlights suddenly flared. In the momentary intense light, Herman glimpsed a large sphere suspended in mid-air, with mechanical arms extending like an octopus's tentacles. Once the afterimages faded from his retina, the electronic voice spoke again: "The list has been sent to the big boss. He's always happy for someone to help clean up street vigilantes. But I am curious about one thing."
A mechanical claw suddenly moved close to Herman's nose: "Why are you so fixated on competing with those theatrical performers? You don't seem to be in it for the money..."
"Is there a problem?"
"Of course not." The mechanical claw handed him a wad of crumpled cash. "This is for your haul."
"I used it to buy my materials."
"I know."
Seeing Herman hesitate, the mechanical claw forcibly shoved the money into his pocket. "Consider it an investment. The big boss is very happy to fund those who deal with masked vigilantes. I know you black people have it hard; you should always leave something for your family."
"...Thank you."
The mechanical claw made a handshake gesture. As Herman gripped the cold metal, the electronic laughter echoed strangely in the pipes: "Pick up tomorrow at the same time. By the way, you can call me Otto; all my friends call me that."
Herman left the sewer but didn't go to his secret base. Instead, he made his way back to Harlem through the labyrinthine sewers. Starlight filtered down from a manhole, trying to stir his memories, but he could no longer recall the last time he went home—nothing good ever happened when he went back.
This time was no different.
Pushing open the creaking door, he found a familiar body lying on the sofa, chest mangled, blood pooling on the floor.
"Subi?"
"Gang fight." His mother sewed a shroud without looking up. "Just like your dad, your brother, fighting and dying for the boss, but he didn't even have a home. I just had to clean up first. People from the community church are coming soon."
Herman silently pulled out the wad of cash. His mother expertly hid the bills: "Still messing with your 'business'? I thought you were done."
"This is the last job," Herman muttered, staring at his friend's pale face. "I'm going to do what I have to do. It's time for the world to remember who Herman Schultz is."