"Thanks, Spider-Man. We really wouldn't have had an easy time dealing with these guys without you."
George looked up and thanked the figure crouched on the utility pole above. One of the handcuffed criminals muttered unhappily, "This isn't fair! That freak can toss rockets around like rubber balls. How are we supposed to fight a monster like that?"
"Shut up!" a young officer snapped. "You don't get to say that after using a rocket launcher against cops armed with pistols."
The officer, who looked like a rookie, roughly shoved the suspect into the police car. George could only answer with an awkward smile before returning to business.
"We all know your webs take hours to dissolve. But this is Manhattan. New York can't afford to keep traffic blocked off for that long."
"Oh. Right." Spider-Man scratched at the side of his mask, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Acid speeds up the breakdown. If you can't get chemicals, try this instead." He pointed at the confiscated energy shield. "Stick it in the middle of the web and turn it on. Do that a few times and it should force the webbing apart. As for the battery, there should be one in those power gauntlets."
George nodded his thanks. Spider-Man stood and was just about to fire a webline when he seemed to remember something and crouched again.
"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 black-market alien tech to arm ordinary criminals. You should be careful."
"Thanks, Spider-Man. We'll find out who's modifying that alien tech."
"No problem. Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is always happy to help!"
With the snap of a webline, Peter shot off into the sky. He glanced at his watch, then suddenly smacked his forehead.
"May's cake! Mateo's Bakery... Wait, what even is today? Aunt May actually ordered a cake? Is it somebody's birthday, or are we having company over?"
He shifted direction mid-swing.
"Hopefully nothing else goes wrong... Oh right, I still need to get my backpack back too."
In the shadows at the corner of the intersection, Herman pulled his hood lower and watched the entire fight.
He had to admit the thug had been right. Against a spandex freak who could swing through the air like that, one or two high-tech weapons meant nothing. If you wanted to beat a monster, you had to become one first.
And Spider-Man was not invincible.
That kid's bicycle tossed into the subway was proof enough. The tracker Herman had planted on it had shown a sudden spike in elevation, which meant Spider-Man was the kind of idiot who would stop to help a random child on the street. This masked vigilante was not some fame-hungry showboat, and he was not some cold machine of justice either.
He was exactly the kind of fool who could not ignore people in trouble.
And if he was that kind of fool, then there were ways to use that against him.
All of New York could become bait.
Herman adjusted the bag on his shoulder. Inside was the last batch of Chitauri parts they had scavenged over the past few months, along with every scrap of hope he had left for making a comeback. He walked slowly until he reached the edge of Manhattan, then suddenly vaulted down the embankment and landed cleanly on a rusted maintenance ladder. In the damp air, the entrance to the New York sewers yawned like an open mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
He looked back once to make sure nobody had followed him, then stepped over the guardrail that had already been torn loose and knocked aside, and moved deeper into the tunnels with a key clenched in his hand.
The sewer was dim, lit only by a few weak maintenance lamps. Rats or roaches kept skittering through the dark, and aside from that there was only the sound of dripping water and his own footsteps.
The key was a token, one given to every supplier by "the Buyer." Only that key could open the door to the place.
Herman stopped in a narrow passage that looked utterly unremarkable, then slid the key into what looked like nothing more than a cement-filled crack between two bricks and twisted.
The key grated with a harsh metallic screech.
Herman waited a full minute before eerie green light finally lit up the darkness.
The brick wall split apart to either side, revealing several old computers flashing with green code. He tossed the backpack onto a sheet of stainless steel serving as a table, and the metallic bang echoed sharply through the sealed chamber.
"Nice. Fewer and fewer deliveries lately."
The voice came from somewhere deep in the darkness, distorted by an electronic buzz. Three green points of light arranged in a triangle blinked on from nowhere, sweeping across the bag before a pleased chuckle crackled out.
"Scarcity raises the price. Name it. I'll make it worth your while."
"I don't want money."
Herman pulled out a crumpled list.
"Street punks are showing up with weapons built from these parts. You know who's making them, right?"
The Buyer's laughter crackled through the static.
"You looking to get rich with that? Or start your own gang? Fine by me. This haul is enough to trade for one or two custom pieces. What kind of functions do you want? I can have something tailored for you on the spot."
"They were wiped out. Easily."
Herman could hear the other's careless tone.
"That's what happens to people who don't know how to stay quiet. There are Avengers in New York. Anyone who makes too much noise gets taken down by that circus troupe."
"It wasn't the Avengers."
"What? Then who was it?!"
"Spider-Man."
Herman felt his mouth curl upward. He was deeply satisfied by the way the electronic voice jumped in pitch before forcing itself calm again.
"The red-and-blue insect? Well, that's unexpected. Ever since the alien invasion, all kinds of weird things have started crawling out of the woodwork."
The voice in the darkness turned sour.
"A spider in the high-rises. A devil and a man in a skull shirt down in Hell's Kitchen. Ten years ago, anyone with powers got locked up as a mutant. Now they're all superheroes. That's funny."
The silence stretched for a few seconds before the distorted electronic laughter suddenly burst out again.
"Ah! Now I remember. The little fireworks show at Midtown Bank this morning... that was your people, wasn't it?"
There was a note of genuine approval in the mechanical tone now.
"Those weapons were well designed. You made them? And now you want an upgrade?"
Herman narrowed his eyes in the dark. All he could see were those three green lights pulsing like the eyes of some predator.
"More than an upgrade." His voice sounded even darker as it bounced through the sewer. "I want to become something like Spider-Man. Look at the way the world works now."
He clenched his fist.
"Those freaks in costumes run all over the city doing whatever they want. Weapons alone aren't enough anymore. I want... a full rebuild."
He slapped the crumpled list down onto the metal table.
"Those parts should be enough to buy what I want."
The sound of machinery suddenly drew closer.
Herman saw three mechanical claws extend out of the dark, gleaming coldly. One of them plucked up the list and disappeared again into the shadows. Rusted hinges let out a sound like something being torn open.
"A full rebuild?" The Buyer's electronic voice had an amused edge now. "You think I can get this for you?"
"Maybe not you. But whoever supplies you definitely can."
Herman stared at the three green lights without flinching.
"You're not selling off everything you've gotten over the last few months as scrap. Not with this much modified weaponry already turning up on the street. Somebody's buying in bulk."
A blinding light suddenly flared on.
In that instant of harsh brightness, Herman caught a glimpse of a huge sphere suspended in midair, with metal arms extending from it like octopus tentacles.
When the afterimage faded from his vision, the voice returned.
"I've sent the list to the boss. He's always happy when somebody wants to help clean up street-level vigilantes. But I am curious about one thing."
A mechanical claw drifted up until it hovered right in front of Herman's nose.
"Why are you so fixated on fighting those ridiculous performers? You don't strike me as a man driven by money..."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all."
The claw handed over a thick wad of wrinkled bills.
"That's your payment for this shipment."
"I already spent it on my materials."
"I know."
When Herman hesitated, the mechanical claw shoved the money into his pocket anyway.
"Think of it as an investment. The boss is always willing to support people who want to deal with masked vigilantes. And you should keep something for yourself."
"...Thanks."
The claw shifted into the shape of a handshake.
When Herman took the cold metal in his hand, the electronic laughter bounced eerily through the pipes.
"Come back tomorrow at the same time to pick it up. Oh, and you can call me Otto. My friends do."
Herman did not go back to his secret base after leaving the sewer. Instead, he wound through the maze of tunnels until he reached Harlem. Starlight filtered down through the maintenance grates, trying to tug old memories back to the surface, but he could not remember the last time he had gone home and found anything good waiting for him.
This time was no different.
He pushed open the creaking door and found a familiar body sprawled on the couch, chest torn apart, blood spread across the floor.
"Stubbs?"
"Gang shootout."
His mother did not even look up as she stitched together a burial cloth.
"Just like your father. Just like your brother. They gave everything for their boss, and he couldn't even leave them a home. So I cleaned him up first. People from the church will be here soon."
Herman silently pulled out the wad of cash. His mother hid it away with the ease of long practice.
"Still messing around with your little business?" she asked. "I thought that was over."
"This is the last job."
Herman stared at his friend's pale face and spoke almost to himself.
"Now I'm going to do what needs to be done. It's time the whole world learned exactly who Herman Schultz is."
(End of Chapter)
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