A few days later, their training was complete.
The fluorescent lights in the cramped police conference room hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Sergeant Marlene's weathered face as she closed her thick regulation binder with a definitive snap that echoed off the beige walls. The scent of stale coffee and old cigarette smoke clung to the air, mixing with the faint smell of disinfectant that never quite masked the underlying mustiness of the precinct building.
"These are the basic laws and enforcement procedures," Sergeant Marlene said, her voice carrying the weight of twenty years on the force. She placed one calloused hand on the binder's cover, her wedding ring catching the light. "Remember them."
John nodded once, his posture straight despite the uncomfortable plastic chair. Behind his visor, he could feel the weight of this moment—the transition from vigilante to official protector. Peter shifted beside him, the web-slinger's nervous energy practically radiating through his red and blue suit.
With that, Spider-Man, his suit now emblazoned with a small NYPD logo that caught the overhead lights with its official gleam, and Kamen Rider, wearing a crisp blue-and-white armband with the same insignia wrapped securely around his armored bicep, officially began their tenure with the New York City Police Department.
As they left the stuffy conference room, the sound of their footsteps—Peter's soft-soled boots and John's heavier armored treads—echoing down the linoleum hallway, Marlene watched John's retreating back through the doorway. The way he moved with purpose, shoulders squared, reminded her of the good cops she'd known over the years. He seems quite normal, she thought, unconsciously rubbing the stress lines on her forehead. More emotionally stable than most people, even. Was I just being too sensitive? The question nagged at her as she gathered her papers, the familiar doubt that came with years of reading people wrong settling in her chest.
The morning sun painted the New York skyline in brilliant oranges and golds, the glass towers reflecting the dawn like a thousand mirrors. High above the slowly awakening city, Golem's metallic wings caught the early light as it soared through crisp air that carried the faint scent of rain from clouds gathering on the horizon.
"Good morning, New York," John said, his voice steady despite the wind whipping around them. He stood confidently on Golem's broad back, his red armor gleaming in the sunrise, arms spread slightly for balance as the mechanical beetle's powerful wings beat with rhythmic precision beneath him.
"GOOD MORNING, NEW YORK!" Peter yelled at the top of his lungs from behind him, his voice cracking slightly with enthusiasm. The sound echoed across the urban canyon, causing a few early commuters on nearby rooftops to look up in startled confusion.
"Peter, keep your voice down." John's tone carried gentle amusement, though he didn't turn around. He could feel Peter's excitement like static electricity in the air.
"Oh, sorry." Peter's voice immediately dropped to a sheepish whisper, and John could practically hear him deflating like a punctured balloon.
The city spread out below them—a living organism of concrete and steel, already beginning to pulse with morning traffic. Steam rose from manholes like urban geysers, and the distant sounds of car horns and construction work created the familiar symphony of New York awakening.
"I'm not picking you up tomorrow," John said, his words carried away by the wind before circling back. "You're taking the subway to Oscorp like a normal person."
"Alright," Peter replied, his voice tinged with disappointment that he tried to hide but couldn't quite manage. The excitement that had filled him moments before seemed to leak out of him like air from a tire.
John felt the shift in Peter's mood, the way his weight settled differently on Golem's back, shoulders slumping slightly. Sometimes the kid needed to be reminded that being extraordinary didn't exempt him from the ordinary responsibilities of life.
After dropping Peter off at Oscorp—watching him swing away between the towering buildings with that effortless grace that never failed to impress—John, now in his imposing red Mighty Form, began his first official patrol.
The armor felt different now, weighted with new purpose. The small NYPD armband around his bicep seemed to pulse with significance as he walked casually down the cracked sidewalk of a middle-income neighborhood. His heavy boots created a steady rhythm against the concrete, the sound mixing with the distant rumble of traffic and the closer sounds of the city coming alive—shop owners lifting metal grates with clanging protests, the hiss of coffee machines, the chatter of early commuters.
Behind him, Golem hovered silently in the air like a mechanical guardian angel, its shadow passing over parked cars and storefronts as it followed exactly a dozen feet back. The biomechanical creature's sensors constantly swept the area, its red optical array dimmed to a less threatening glow in deference to civilian sensibilities.
People on the street stopped and stared, their morning routines interrupted by the unusual sight. Conversations died mid-sentence as heads turned. A woman walking her small terrier stopped so abruptly that the dog looked up at her in confusion. A man in a business suit nearly walked into a lamppost, his coffee cup halfway to his lips as he gawked. New York had plenty of oddly dressed characters—street performers, eccentric artists, the occasional costumed hero—but a man in gleaming red armor with a giant, flying mechanical beetle for a sidekick was definitely a new one.
John could feel their stares like physical weight, the mixture of curiosity, fear, and fascination that followed in his wake. Some pulled out phones to record, others hurried their children along, and a few brave souls actually smiled and waved. The city's natural resilience and adaptability never ceased to amaze him.
He wandered for a while, taking in the neighborhood through his enhanced senses. The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread from a bakery, exhaust fumes from the growing traffic, and that unique urban smell that was part concrete dust, part humanity, part possibility. The city seemed peaceful in these early hours; most of the street-level criminals were probably still asleep, recovering from whatever nocturnal activities they'd engaged in the night before.
Well, except for the two young men behind him who were apparently trying to lasso his multi-ton, biomechanical war machine.
John's enhanced hearing had picked up their whispered plotting three blocks ago. Through Golem's sensors, he'd been tracking their increasingly desperate attempts to devise a plan. Now, he stood perfectly still on the sidewalk, his armored form radiating patient amusement as he watched their comedy of errors unfold.
The two guys—one tall and lanky, the other shorter with quick, nervous movements—kept throwing cheap hemp ropes skyward with all the coordination of amateur fishermen in a hurricane. Their targets: Golem, hovering majestically twenty feet above the street like some ancient mechanical god.
Unfortunately for them, physics was not on their side. Either their ropes weren't long enough—falling pathetically short of their target and landing with sad plops on the asphalt—or they couldn't throw them high enough despite their increasingly theatrical grunting and dramatic wind-ups. All they were accomplishing was attracting a growing crowd of onlookers who had formed a loose semicircle around the impromptu street theater, some openly laughing, others recording with their phones.
John stood there for a long time, genuinely amused by their persistence. There was something almost admirable about their determination, even if it was criminally misguided. The morning sun climbed higher, warming his armor, and still they threw their ropes with the dedication of salmon swimming upstream.
He finally took pity on them and walked up, his boots clicking against the pavement with measured steps. "Need some help, fellas?"
The taller one—sweat beading on his dark forehead from exertion—looked at John with a mixture of suspicion and desperate hope. "You? How are you gonna help?" His voice carried the street-smart wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust offers of assistance.
John tilted his head slightly upward, his voice carrying clearly through the morning air. "Fly down a bit," he called out to Golem.
The mechanical beetle immediately responded, its wings adjusting with hydraulic precision as it began to descend. The crowd took a collective step back as the massive creature landed softly in front of them with barely a whisper of sound, its landing dampeners absorbing the impact. Up close, Golem was even more impressive—its metallic carapace gleaming like polished obsidian, red sensor arrays pulsing with gentle life, and an aura of barely contained power that made the air itself seem to hum.
"Whoa! Thanks a lot, brother!" the taller young man said, his previous suspicion evaporating in the face of this unexpected cooperation. His eyes were wide with excitement and disbelief. "Jamie, quick, tie this thing up!"
The two of them immediately busied themselves like ants around a fallen crumb, wrapping their pathetic ropes around Golem's sturdy legs with frantic energy. The shorter one—Jamie—kept glancing up nervously at the creature's sensor array, as if expecting it to suddenly come to life and swat him away. After tying what must have been a dozen knots with increasing desperation and decreasing skill, they grabbed the rope ends and pulled with all their might, faces reddening with effort, trying to drag the hovering machine away.
It didn't budge an inch. They might as well have been trying to move a skyscraper with dental floss.
One of them—Sari, John gathered from their shouted encouragements—suddenly had what he clearly thought was a brilliant idea. Mimicking John's earlier command with exaggerated authority, he pointed at Golem and shouted, "Come with us! Go straight! Fly down!" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Nothing happened. Golem remained as stationary as a monument, its optical sensors fixed on John with unwavering loyalty.
"Damn it!" Sari cursed, kicking at the rope in frustration. The crowd's laughter grew louder, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
John stepped closer, genuinely curious about their thought process. "Can you tell me what you're trying to do?"
Sari looked at the strangely armored man as if he were the biggest idiot in five boroughs, his expression a masterclass in condescending disbelief. He gestured at Golem as if its purpose should be obvious to anyone with half a brain. "We're gonna sell it, of course. This thing can fly. It must be worth a lot of money."
The simple logic was both touching and terrifying in its naivety. John found himself oddly impressed by their entrepreneurial spirit, misguided as it was. "How much do you plan to sell it for?"
Sari and Jamie exchanged quick glances, clearly having not thought this far ahead. Sari scratched his head, leaving his hair sticking up at odd angles. "Hmm, five thousand? Maybe three thousand. A thousand is the absolute bottom line."
John let a note of mock surprise creep into his voice, playing along with their delusion. "This is a creation from an ancient civilization, hailed as a 'Messenger of God,' a cutting-edge biomechanical weapon." He gestured grandly at Golem, whose sensors seemed to pulse brighter at the description. "And you're only selling it for five thousand?"
The two young men looked at each other, their eyes widening as the implications sank in. John could almost see the dollar signs reflecting in their pupils.
"Sari, he's right. How can this thing only be worth five grand?" Jamie whispered urgently, tugging at his friend's sleeve.
"Yeah! This thing looks super powerful. It's gotta be worth at least fifty thousand!" Sari's voice rose with excitement, all pretense of coolness abandoned.
"Haha, we're gonna be rich!" They actually did a little dance, right there on the street, completely oblivious to how their celebration looked to the growing crowd of amused onlookers.
But then Sari stopped mid-celebration, a flicker of belated suspicion finally penetrating his greed-fogged brain. He turned back to John, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute. How do you know all that?"
John slowly turned to face them, his movements deliberate and controlled. He crossed his arms over his armored chest, the gesture somehow managing to be both casual and intimidating. A small light flashed on Golem's carapace—a brief, brilliant pulse like a camera flash—and all the ropes tied around it were instantly incinerated, reduced to nothing more than drifting ash and the acrid smell of burned hemp that made several onlookers cough.
The creature slowly rose into the air behind John, its wings spreading wide enough to cast shadows over half the crowd. The mechanical hum of its systems created an underlying bass note that seemed to vibrate through everyone's bones.
"Does it look like it's not mine?" John's voice carried a quiet authority that made the question rhetorical.
The two would-be thieves exchanged a nervous glance that spoke volumes about their suddenly shifted perspective on the situation. The crowd had gone completely silent, sensing the change in atmosphere like animals before a storm.
Sari hesitated, his mouth working silently as his brain tried to process this new development. But then the thought of fifty thousand dollars—enough money to not have to starve for years, enough to maybe get out of this neighborhood, enough to matter—gave him a rush of foolish courage that overrode his survival instincts.
He pulled a small knife from his pocket, the blade catching the morning sun with a pitiful glint. It was barely longer than a butter knife, probably something he'd found rather than bought, but he held it like it was Excalibur.
"If you don't want a few more holes in you, give us the machine!" Sari said, trying to make his voice sound fierce and threatening. The effect was somewhat undermined by the way his hand shook, making the little blade quiver like a leaf in a breeze.
Jamie, surprised but committed to his friend's lead, stepped up beside him with admirable if misguided loyalty. "Yeah! Hand it over!" His voice cracked on the last word, betraying his youth and fear.
John didn't even want to waste words on them. The situation had moved beyond conversation into demonstration territory. He casually kicked his foot, the motion precise and controlled, flicking a loose stone from the cracked pavement into the air. It spun lazily, a piece of ordinary concrete about the size of a marble, catching the light as it arced upward.
He caught it in his open palm with fluid grace, the movement so natural it looked choreographed. The two young men stared, confused and increasingly nervous, unsure what they were witnessing but certain it wasn't good for them.
Then John slowly closed his hand around the stone. His armored fingers moved with deliberate precision, applying pressure with mechanical inevitability. The stone didn't just break—it crumbled, the sound of grinding rock making their hearts thump in their chests like trapped birds. The noise was soft but somehow terrible, like bones being ground to powder.
He opened his hand again, palm up toward the sky, revealing nothing but a pile of fine gray dust that caught the breeze and drifted away like the dreams of two very foolish young men.
The world went silent. Even the traffic seemed to hush, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The small knife clattered from Sari's suddenly nerveless fingers onto the pavement with a tinny sound that seemed loud as thunder in the silence. Almost simultaneously, both of them turned and bolted, their leg muscles screaming as they sprinted for their lives with the desperate speed of prey animals fleeing a predator.
Their sneakers slapped against the concrete in panicked rhythm, breath coming in ragged gasps as they ran without direction, caring only about putting distance between themselves and the armored figure who could crush stone with his bare hands.
A moment later, a calm voice spoke from directly between them, as if it had always been there. "Gentlemen, don't be in such a hurry to leave."
A hand landed on each of their shoulders—not roughly, but with the inexorable weight of inevitability. The grip was firm but not painful, like being held by a machine that had been programmed to be gentle but could not be escaped.
They turned their heads mechanically, cold sweat breaking out on their foreheads as they found themselves staring at John's visor, their own terrified reflections staring back at them from the polished surface.
"Now, children, please turn around and face the wall," John said in a tone so gentle it was almost paternal. The contrast between his soft voice and the demonstration they'd just witnessed made it somehow more terrifying than any shout would have been.
They nodded repeatedly like bobblehead dolls and complied, pressing their palms against the brick wall of a nearby building. The rough texture scraped against their skin as they tried to make themselves as small and non-threatening as possible.
John pulled out his phone—somehow the casual, everyday gesture looked strange coming from someone in full armor—and dialed 911. While he spoke in low tones to the dispatcher, giving their location and a brief description of the situation, one of them made a break for it.
John didn't even look up from his phone. He flicked his finger with casual precision, and a tiny pebble shot out like a bullet from a gun, striking the young man in the back of the knee with surgical accuracy. The runner collapsed immediately, not injured but definitely immobilized, and after that he didn't try to run again.
After finishing his conversation with dispatch, John leaned against the wall beside them, his armored form relaxed and patient. The crowd had mostly dispersed, the morning's entertainment over, but a few stragglers remained at a respectful distance, still recording with their phones.
"So, what's your story?" John asked conversationally, as if they were old friends catching up rather than a police officer and two attempted thieves. "Maybe if it's a good one, I'll be soft-hearted and let you off."
"Don't call us children," Sari grumbled, some of his earlier defiance returning now that the immediate terror had faded. His voice was muffled by the wall but still audible. "Your voice doesn't sound much older than ours, and you're the one wearing childish armor."
WHIZZ-THWACK! A small stone shot from John's hand with the speed of a fastball and embedded itself in the brick wall exactly one inch from Sari's head. Dust and tiny fragments of masonry rained down on his shoulder, and he could feel the heat from the stone's passage against his cheek.
Jamie quickly covered his friend's mouth with one hand, his other arm wrapping around Sari's shoulders in a protective gesture. "My name is Jamie, and he's Sari," he said quickly, words tumbling over each other in his haste to speak. "I only have a mother; she works odd jobs—cleaning offices at night, sometimes day shifts at a deli. Sari's parents are addicts." His voice caught slightly on the last word, and John could hear years of disappointment and fear in that simple statement.
Jamie continued, his voice becoming stronger as he went on. "We usually just pick up junk off the street to get by—aluminum cans, copper wire, anything we can sell to the recycling center. The knife is for protection; this neighborhood isn't always safe after dark. I swear on my mother's life, this is our first time trying to steal something."
The honesty in his voice was unmistakable, and John found himself believing every word. These weren't hardened criminals—they were kids backed into a corner by circumstances beyond their control, making bad decisions out of desperation rather than malice.
John looked up at the sky, watching a few clouds drift across the sun. The morning was getting warmer, and he could smell someone cooking breakfast nearby—bacon and eggs that made his stomach remind him he hadn't eaten yet. "Are there a lot of gangs around here?"
"Not really," Jamie said, his voice more relaxed now that they seemed to be having an actual conversation rather than a confrontation. "Hell's Kitchen is where most of them are. Here it's mostly just small-time stuff—drug dealers, pickpockets, people like us trying to scrape by."
"Why don't you find a job?" The question was asked without judgment, genuine curiosity rather than accusation.
"We've looked. God knows we've looked." Jamie's laugh was bitter, the sound of someone who'd heard "we'll call you" too many times to count. "Filled out applications at every store, restaurant, and warehouse in a ten-block radius. No one will hire us."
"Be sincere. Keep trying." John's voice carried the weight of experience, though he didn't elaborate.
Jamie let out another short, bitter laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "We are Black."
The simple statement hung in the air like smoke, carrying with it the weight of generations of systemic barriers and closed doors. John felt the truth of it settle in his chest—the way certain realities could be summarized in just three words.
"Life is unfair," John said quietly, his voice softer than it had been all morning. "But you can't stay like this forever."
"Heh, easy for you to say," Jamie shot back, and for the first time since this encounter began, there was real anger in his voice. Not the desperate bravado of earlier, but the deep, aching frustration of someone who'd been told to pull himself up by bootstraps he couldn't afford to buy. "What are we supposed to do?"
John turned, leaning his back against the wall so he was facing the same direction they were, staring out at the street where normal people went about their normal lives with their normal problems. "The world won't always be like this."
"You're right," Jamie said cynically, and John could hear the smile that held no joy. "It'll get worse."
John said nothing more. Sometimes silence was the only honest response to that kind of despair.
They stood there for several minutes, three figures against a brick wall, each lost in their own thoughts. The morning traffic grew heavier, the sounds of the awakening city providing a soundtrack to their contemplation.
"Are you going to hand us over to the police?" Jamie finally asked, his voice resigned but not surprised.
"For attempted theft," John confirmed, but his tone remained gentle. "But don't worry. You'll probably only be detained for a few days."
"How would you know that?" The question carried genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
John pointed to his NYPD armband, the blue and white insignia catching the light. "I'm a cop, too."
Sari scoffed from the side, a sound of disbelief that said everything about what he thought of cops in armor with flying metal beetles. Jamie looked at the logo more carefully—it was real, official, not some knockoff or costume piece, but still... he wasn't that foolish. The whole situation was too strange, too surreal to fit into his normal understanding of how law enforcement worked.
But he sensed John wasn't a threat, at least not beyond the legal consequences they'd already earned. There was something in the armored figure's posture, his tone of voice, that suggested someone who genuinely cared about the answer to his questions. So Jamie continued to ask, "How did you do that? The stone thing?"
"Just need enough strength." The answer was simple, matter-of-fact, as if crushing rocks was something anyone could learn to do.
Jamie wanted to ask another question—about the armor, about the flying machine, about what kind of cop operated like this—but the distinctive sound of a patrol car engine interrupted his thoughts. Two police officers got out of their black and white cruiser and walked toward them, their heavy utility belts jingling with each step, radio chatter providing a backdrop of official business.
Their strange conversation came to an end, but something in Jamie's chest told him this wouldn't be the last time he thought about the armored cop who could crush stone with his bare hands and who understood that sometimes the world was just unfair.
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