Herman Schultz rolled over on his worn mattress. The rusted springs groaned underneath him. This might be the last time he slept in this bed. Whether his plan succeeded or failed, he wouldn't be coming back to this room. He would either die on the asphalt or spend the next thirty years in a federal supermax.
It didn't matter. As long as New York remembered the name Herman Schultz, it was worth it.
Morning light bled through the grimy windowpane. Herman sat on the edge of the mattress, eating a two-dollar burger from the bodega downstairs. The meat was mushy and the cheap bun tasted like sawdust. He chewed in silence. He couldn't complain. This was exactly what they sold to the people in Harlem because it was exactly what the people in Harlem could afford.
The rusted iron gate of the abandoned construction site shrieked as Herman pushed it open. He hauled up a heavy manhole cover and dropped down into the intricate, damp labyrinth of the Manhattan storm drains. Rats scattered over the concrete. His heavy work boots echoed through the tunnels.
He reached Otto's underground warehouse. The air smelled sharply of motor oil and black mold.
The heavy metal door slid open. Three dark green optical sensors flared to life in the pitch black.
"You arrived ahead of schedule," the heavily synthesized electronic voice buzzed.
"I ran out of patience," Herman said, brushing a thick spiderweb off his jacket sleeve. "Are the parts here?"
A sharp, mechanical laugh echoed off the concrete. Two massive metal tentacles slithered out of the darkness, hurling a heavy canvas duffel bag onto the stainless-steel table. The metal components inside clanged loudly.
"The employer is equally invested in exterminating that spider," Otto's voice vibrated through the room. "The shipment arrived last night. Every piece is accounted for."
Herman unzipped the bag. He sifted through the gleaming, heavy blocks of gold-titanium alloy. "I only asked for restricted tech. You sourced this incredibly fast. Who exactly is this 'boss' of yours?"
"Did I not fulfill the order? Do you doubt the supply chain?"
"Just curious."
One of the heavy mechanical claws whipped forward, stopping a fraction of an inch from the bridge of Herman's nose.
"If your curiosity is overwhelming, why not walk into Hell's Kitchen and ask him yourself?"
Herman understood instantly. A dry, humorless laugh scraped his throat.
"The Kingpin," Herman muttered. "Makes sense. He must be ordering a massive volume of alien tech from you."
"I manage the transactions," Otto replied coldly. "I do not police how my clients utilize the hardware."
"I heard he's been busy lately," Herman noted, zipping the duffel bag. "Something about dealing with a devil."
Herman didn't press the issue. He grabbed the heavy bag by the straps and turned to leave.
"As I offered previously," Otto's voice cut through the dark, a mechanical claw extending to block the door. "You are welcome to utilize my lab. I appreciate genuine engineering talent."
"Pass," Herman said, stepping around the claw. "My schematics draw too much power. I'd blow the grid in this sewer. Believe me, I've run the numbers."
"The Midtown Bank foundation shear?" Otto chuckled, the sound grinding like gears. "A masterclass in kinetic resonance. I eagerly await your next demonstration. I assume the wait will be brief."
"You won't have to wait long."
Herman walked out into the tunnels. Logically, the NYPD should have been kicking down his door, but he had slept undisturbed all night. Either his crew was actually keeping their mouths shut in holding, or the cops just viewed him as low-level street trash.
If it was the latter, they were about to get a violent wake-up call.
Back in the raw concrete skeleton of an unfinished high-rise, Herman sparked his welding torch. A blinding blue arc illuminated the dusty room. He stripped the padding out of heavy hockey guards, using the rigid shells as mounting brackets for the new gauntlets. He threaded thick, insulated copper wiring through the arm-guards like artificial veins. He cannibalized the surviving Chitauri cores from his original prototypes, stripping wires and twisting the exposed copper with his teeth.
The sun began to set, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Herman wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a thick canvas glove. He slid his left arm into the heavy, redesigned Shocker Gauntlet.
He connected the primary battery lead. A small indicator light on the casing flashed green.
He slowly curled his fingers into a fist. The internal pressure sensors engaged. The light shifted from green to yellow.
Herman squared his stance. He threw a sharp left jab at the empty air.
The light snapped red.
A deafening, high-frequency scream ripped through the corridor. The displaced air kicked up a massive cloud of concrete dust. The concussive recoil hit Herman like a freight train, launching him backward off his feet. He slammed hard into the cinderblock wall.
He slumped to the floor, coughing violently through the dust. He looked down at the smoking gauntlet.
A massive grin broke across his face.
"I did it," he wheezed, laughing into the empty room. "I actually did it."
Now he just needed the kinetic-absorption suit to handle the recoil. He looked at the duffel bag full of gold-titanium alloy—the exact same material Tony Stark used for the Iron Man plating. It would take him roughly a week to machine the right gauntlet and fabricate the armor.
"Enjoy your week, Spider-Man," Herman whispered.
While Herman built his arsenal, the Avengers were quietly hunting Spider-Man.
In the sprawling, glass-walled executive suite of Oscorp, Tony Stark sat across from Norman Osborn. The meeting was aggressively unfriendly.
Norman Osborn was only a few years older than Tony, but he projected a much heavier, more grounded authority. He wore a dark green bespoke suit, his brown hair slicked straight back. He looked like Obadiah Stane—a ruthless, pure-blooded businessman. Tony, sitting in a vintage band t-shirt under a blazer, immediately disliked him.
"Anthony. It has been a long time."
"Has it, Osborn?"
"When your assistant requested this meeting, I assumed Stark Industries was pivoting back to biotechnology," Norman said, pouring a glass of champagne. "I am relieved I won't have to crush you in the market."
"I handed the keys over to Pepper," Tony said, ignoring the glass Norman offered. "Unless something catches on fire, I don't look at the portfolio."
Norman smoothly transitioned. "So, when is the wedding?"
Tony blinked. "What?"
"Marriage. Starting a family. Having a son." Norman smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Those were the defining years of my life. You and I are peers, Anthony. We are both in our forties, yet you have no heir."
"Pepper and I aren't rushing anything," Tony deflected, thoroughly annoyed by the sudden paternal interrogation. "Let's pivot back to why I'm sitting in your office. What do you know about Spider-Man?"
Norman didn't flinch. He set his glass down. "I read the papers. Why?"
"Hank Pym ran an analysis on the kid's webbing," Tony said, leaning forward. "The tensile structure is a molecular match for a classified project run by one of your former geneticists. Richard Parker. I want his file."
"I cannot help you," Norman said smoothly. "Richard Parker left this company five years ago. His entire portfolio was reassigned. If you are asking if Richard Parker is running around New York in a mask, I have no idea."
"So his research has just been gathering dust?" Tony pressed.
"We hit a dead end," Norman admitted easily. "We engineered several cross-species arachnids. Unfortunately, during the Oscorp Expo six months ago, a containment unit was compromised. The specimens escaped. We never recovered them."
Silence fell over the office.
Tony stared at Norman. Norman offered a thin, perfectly calm smile.
"As I said, Anthony. If you are looking for Spider-Man, I cannot help you."
"Right."
Tony stood up, buttoned his blazer, and walked out of the office without shaking hands.
As the elevator doors closed, JARVIS's voice chimed in Tony's earpiece. "Your exit was a direct violation of standard corporate etiquette, sir."
"I stopped caring about etiquette in a cave in Afghanistan," Tony muttered. "JARVIS. Pull the satellite and internal security feeds from the Oscorp Expo six months ago. Cross-reference the attendee list. Run a facial recognition sweep for anyone matching Richard Parker's genetics."
Back in the executive suite, Norman Osborn stood looking out over the Manhattan skyline.
"Green Goblin," Norman said to the empty room.
The hidden Osborn proprietary AI flared to life on his desk monitor. "Awaiting input."
"Search parameter: Richard Parker."
Across the city, two massive artificial intelligences tore through the exact same database.
[MATCH FOUND: RICHARD PARKER.]
[SECONDARY MATCH IDENTIFIED: PETER BENJAMIN PARKER. RELATION: SON.]
The search took exactly eight seconds.