Captain Stacy's face remained a stern, emotionless mask that would have made a poker champion proud, but inwardly, he was thrilled by the admiring gazes of his officers. The weight of their respect settled on his shoulders like a warm coat, and he had to suppress the urge to puff out his chest with pride. This disgusting, brilliant, rule-bending maneuver wasn't something an honest cop like him could have ever come up with—the kind of honest cop who'd worked his way up from beat patrol by following regulations and keeping his nose clean. It had been John's idea.
The memory came flooding back with crystal clarity, carrying with it the lingering taste of the bitter coffee he'd been drinking that evening. A few days ago, when John had called to report on the bridge incident, the Captain had casually outlined his own plan while pacing around his office, the worn carpet soft under his feet: give the two of them temporary, external consultant IDs and secretly input them into the police system. It had seemed so straightforward, so by-the-book in its own rule-bending way.
John had immediately shot it down with the kind of casual confidence that comes from someone who sees solutions where others see problems. "Why do they need to be in the system at all?" he'd asked, his voice carrying clearly through the phone's speaker.
At the time, the Captain had felt a bit foolish explaining the obvious, the way a teacher might feel when a student asks a question that reveals they understand the subject better than expected. The fluorescent lights in his office had hummed overhead as he'd struggled to articulate what seemed self-evident. "If you're not in the system, you're not police officers."
"We don't need a salary," John had replied without missing a beat, his words cutting through the Captain's assumptions like a hot knife through butter. "It's enough that the police and the citizens recognize us as allies. You just need to inform your officers. As long as our actions align with the goals of the police, for all practical purposes, we are the police."
John's words had been a sudden enlightenment, a bucket of ice water that sobered the Captain up to the true possibilities. The revelation had hit him with almost physical force, making him sink into his chair as the implications cascaded through his mind. Was it important whether they were officially police? Yes and no. They needed the legitimacy to enforce the law without opposing the system—that was non-negotiable. But whether their badges were real or fake wasn't important at all. What mattered was that everyone believed they were on the same side.
This glorious act of bureaucratic subterfuge made him feel utterly refreshed, like stepping out of a stuffy building into crisp autumn air. We could use more opportunities like this, he mused, already cataloging other situations where creative interpretation of regulations might serve the greater good.
Jimmy the tech took the two heroes to the processing room, his nervous energy making his footsteps quick and irregular against the polished linoleum floor. The room smelled of developing chemicals and the ozone scent of photocopiers, with harsh fluorescent lighting that cast everything in stark, official tones.
"Okay, one from the side." The camera's flash filled the small room with brilliant white light, leaving temporary afterimages dancing in everyone's vision. Click. "One from the back." Another flash, this one reflecting off John's armor and creating prismatic rainbows against the white walls. Click. Jimmy adjusted the camera settings, squinting at the display. "Do you have any signature poses?"
John stood straight, his armored form radiating confidence and heroic determination. With practiced ease, he gave a firm thumbs-up—the kind of gesture that belonged on recruitment posters and comic book covers. The camera captured the moment perfectly, freezing the image of absolute certainty and hope. Click.
"Alright, Mr. Spider-Man, your turn." Jimmy's voice carried the slightly frazzled tone of someone trying to maintain professionalism in thoroughly unprofessional circumstances.
Peter struck a classic Spider-Man pose—one hand on his hip, the other extended with web-shooting fingers, his masked head tilted at just the right angle to catch the light. Despite his nervousness, years of taking selfies in costume had given him an instinctive understanding of what looked heroic. The flash illuminated the red and blue fabric of his suit, making the web pattern seem to shimmer with life. Click.
After the photos, Jimmy slid two prints across the desk, the glossy surfaces still warm from the printer. "Could you sign these for us?"
John signed his heroic moniker with a flourish, his pen moving across the paper with confident strokes that spoke of someone comfortable with his chosen identity. The signature was bold, unmistakably heroic, and completely untraceable to any legal document.
Peter then stepped up to sign his own photo, pulling a pen from his web-shooter with the kind of casual motion that only came from constant practice. The moment he put pen to paper, John felt a cold sweat break out across his skin beneath the armor. Peter had started with a large, looping "P"—the beginning of "Peter Parker" flowing automatically from muscle memory and teenage habit.
John quickly reached over and jogged his arm, his gauntleted hand making contact with Peter's elbow just hard enough to disrupt the writing motion. The careful "P" transformed into an unreadable scribble that looked more like abstract art than any letter of the alphabet.
"Sorry!" Peter said, his voice slightly muffled by the mask as he scratched his head sheepishly. The gesture was so perfectly teenager-like that Jimmy couldn't help but smile, even as he wondered what kind of secret identity issues these heroes might be dealing with.
After their IDs were finished—laminated rectangles of bureaucratic genius that would change everything while technically meaning nothing—the two were led to Captain Stacy's office. The familiar scent of coffee and old leather greeted them, mixed with the subtle aroma of the captain's cologne and the ever-present smell of paperwork and stress that seemed to permeate every administrative space in the building.
Sergeant Marlene was already present, standing at attention with the kind of military bearing that spoke of years in uniform. Her gray hair was pulled back in a severe bun that had probably looked exactly the same every day for the past decade, and her uniform was pressed to knife-edge perfection despite the long shift.
"This is Sergeant Marlene," the Captain said, his voice carrying the warm authority of someone making important introductions. "John, you've met. And Marlene, I have to commend John's actions on the bridge." His tone shifted subtly, taking on the formal cadence of an official commendation. "Rapid support, prioritizing rescue, gathering intel before acting, and decisively suppressing all hostiles. Honestly, even if I had his powers, I couldn't have handled it better."
The praise settled around John like a comfortable blanket, and he felt a flush of pride warm his chest beneath the armor. "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice carrying genuine gratitude through the helmet's speakers.
Peter just shrugged beside him, the motion barely visible but somehow eloquent in its casualness. Everyone keeps praising John, he thought, feeling the familiar sting of being overlooked that every teenager knew intimately. It's getting a little old. The thought carried just a hint of petulance, the kind of emotional response that reminded him he was still, fundamentally, a kid trying to prove himself in a world of adults.
"From now on, Sergeant Marlene will be your direct superior," the Captain continued, his tone brooking no argument or discussion. This wasn't a suggestion or a request—this was how things were going to be. "Report to her for everything. She will also be handling your training. Peter, I expect you to take this seriously."
The weight of official responsibility settled on Peter's shoulders like a heavy cloak. "I understand," he replied, straightening unconsciously as the reality of having a commanding officer—a real one, not just suggestions from concerned adults—hit home.
John and Peter stepped forward to shake hands with their new commanding officer, the gesture carrying the weight of military tradition and civilian respect combined.
"Hello, Sergeant. I'm John Smith." His voice was steady, professional, carrying just the right note of respect for authority combined with confidence in his own abilities.
"I'm Peter Parker." The words slipped out before he could stop them, his real name flowing automatically in the formal situation. He tensed slightly, waiting for someone to call him on it, but the moment passed without comment.
"Hello, boys," Marlene said, her expression professional but her eyes sharp as a hawk's as they assessed the two young men before her. Years of evaluating personnel had given her an almost supernatural ability to read people, and what she saw intrigued her—genuine dedication mixed with the kind of barely contained power that made her instincts prickle with awareness. "Come with me. We need to fill out a questionnaire so I can get a better sense of your capabilities."
She led them to a secure interrogation room, her footsteps echoing with military precision down the narrow hallway. The room was spartan and functional—white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, a metal table bolted to the floor, and chairs that had seen better decades. The air carried the faint smell of disinfectant and the lingering psychological residue of countless confessions and confrontations.
Marlene locked the door with a decisive click that seemed to echo in the small space, then deliberately turned the security camera to face the wall. The gesture was small but significant—a clear indication that what they were about to discuss was beyond the scope of normal police business.
"First, write down your specific abilities," she said, pulling out two sheets of official-looking forms and setting them on the metal table. Her voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed without question. "Do not write down any fatal weaknesses."
John reached for the watch on his belt, his fingers finding the familiar controls by touch alone. With a flash of light that briefly turned the stark room into a kaleidoscope of colors, his armor dissolved like morning mist, revealing his true face underneath. The transformation was always slightly disorienting—the sudden absence of the helmet's HUD, the immediate return of normal human senses after the enhanced perception of the armor.
Seeing this, Peter pulled off his mask as well, the familiar elastic snapping against his skin as he freed his face. His hair was slightly mussed from the mask, and there were faint red marks around his eyes where the fabric had pressed against his skin.
Sergeant Marlene observed them curiously, her professional mask slipping just slightly as she took in their appearances. They were even younger than she had imagined—John looked like he should be studying for finals, while Peter appeared young enough that she wondered if he was even old enough to drive. Neither was movie-star handsome, but both had an excellent demeanor that spoke of good upbringing and genuine character. John seemed firm and gentle, the kind of person who would help an old lady across the street and mean it. Peter was a bit awkward, radiating the uncertain energy of adolescence, but underneath that was something warmer—kindness that seemed to glow from within like a banked fire.
They sat down at the metal table, the chairs scraping against the floor with harsh metallic sounds that seemed amplified in the confined space. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as they began to write, the only other sound the soft scratching of pens against paper.
Peter finished quickly, his pen moving across the page with the swift confidence of someone who knew exactly what he could do. He handed his paper to Marlene with a slight smile, the gesture carrying just a hint of pride—the universal teenage desire to show off, even in official circumstances.
She picked up his report, her eyes scanning the first line with professional attention, and her pupils constricted as if she'd been punched in the solar plexus. The first line was a critical hit that landed with devastating precision: Strength - Over 20 tons.
Her mind immediately began calculating. She knew that most highly trained special agents—men and women who spent their lives in peak physical condition—could barely lift 200 pounds in practical combat situations. This skinny teenager was claiming strength that was more than two hundred times the theoretical human limit. She glanced at Peter's thin arms, which looked like they belonged on a high school debate team rather than a superhero, and felt reality wobble slightly around the edges. No wonder they call it a superpower.
She read on, her expression remaining carefully neutral even as her worldview underwent seismic shifts. Super Agility and a Spider-Sense that could predict danger. Marlene's face remained impassive through decades of professional training, but internally she was screaming with the kind of existential confusion that came from realizing the universe operated by completely different rules than she'd assumed. Are you kidding me? Strength, speed, and precognition? He got everything, didn't he? How is that fair?
The list continued with the relentless thoroughness of someone detailing the features of a luxury car: Wall-Crawling and High-Tensile Webbing. Each new ability hit her like another body blow, building a picture of capabilities that shouldn't exist outside of science fiction.
Her final assessment formed in her mind with the clarity of a military briefing: he was a perfect super-soldier. Except for a lack of overwhelming offensive power—and given what she'd already read, that might actually be a blessing—he was completely beyond what conventional forces could handle. He was the ideal urban peacekeeper: he could tank damage, engage in combat, pursue fleeing suspects, and capture targets, all while protecting innocent bystanders. He was what every police chief dreamed about when budget meetings kept them awake at night.
Meanwhile, Peter was leaning over John's shoulder like an eager student reading over a classmate's test answers, his eyes bright with curiosity as he read John's report as if it were the most exciting novel ever written. The familiarity of the gesture—two teenagers sharing secrets—made the extraordinary circumstances feel momentarily normal.
When John finally finished, setting down his pen with the satisfied air of someone who'd completed a difficult task, Marlene picked up the second sheet with hands that were suddenly less steady than they'd been moments before.
Her mouth twitched as she began to read, and she had to force herself to maintain professional composure. This one was even more of a bombshell, the kind of intelligence briefing that would cause mass resignations if it ever became public. The list of introductions and abilities was dizzying, laid out with the methodical precision of someone who'd clearly thought deeply about how to organize world-breaking information.
Subject: John Smith, "Kamen Rider Kuuga"
Primary Ability: Can transform into an armored warrior named Kuuga. The armor provides significant defensive capabilities and allows the user to inject sealing energy into objects, causing them to explode. The user can also manipulate microscopic particles to a limited degree. The armor has multiple forms with different abilities.
Mighty Form (Red): All-around balanced form. Strength: approx. 20 tons.
Dragon Form (Blue): Agility form. Strength is reduced, but speed and reflexes are greatly enhanced. Weapon: Dragon Rod.
Pegasus Form (Green): Sensory form. Strength is reduced, but perception is enhanced to thousands of times that of a normal human. Weapon: Pegasus Bowgun.
Titan Form (Purple): Defensive form. Strength is increased by 2.5 times, and armor density is greatly enhanced, but agility is reduced. Weapon: Titan Sword.
Support Abilities: Can summon a mechanical beetle named Golem to assist in combat and provide flight.
Affiliations: Backed by a technology conglomerate (Genesis Alliance), which can provide funding and cutting-edge technological assistance at any time.
Upon reading the last sentence, Sergeant Marlene completely lost her composure for the first time in her twenty-year career. The words hit her with the force of a physical blow, and she felt her carefully maintained professional mask cracking like thin ice under pressure.
Oh, fuck me, she thought, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate her entire being. The profanity felt inadequate for the magnitude of what she was processing, but her vocabulary seemed to have abandoned her along with her sense of what was possible in the world. No wonder they don't care about a salary. They're real-life cheat characters.
The gaming reference came automatically—her teenage son's constant complaints about unfair advantages in online games suddenly taking on new relevance. They have superpowers, money, technology, and connections. Are we normal people even playing on the same server as them? How can the starting gap be this huge?
She stared at the two young men sitting across from her—one who could apparently bench press a city bus, the other who had access to more forms of combat capability than entire military units—and felt the fundamental unfairness of existence settle around her like a heavy blanket. Here she was, after decades of hard work and dedication, feeling like she'd just discovered that some people got to play life on easy mode while everyone else was stuck with the default settings.
The silence in the interrogation room stretched out like a held breath, broken only by the gentle hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sounds of police station life filtering through the walls. Outside, normal people were dealing with normal problems using normal solutions, blissfully unaware that reality had just shifted slightly off its axis in a small white room in Manhattan.
"Throw PowerStones For my Support. Person with #1#2#3 Will get a chance for extra chapters preview"
""Hey Guys I also Have my paetron p.atreon.com/Scoldey Jod
Where I will upload advance chapters 25+ chapters."