I'm working on Marvel's Spider-Man in American comics.

Chapter 9 Hermann in Action
"Thanks, Spider-Man. Without you, we really wouldn't be able to deal with these dangerous guys." Sheriff George Stacy looked up at the figure squatting on the telephone pole to express his gratitude. The handcuffed criminal grumbled dissatisfiedly: "This is unfair! That freak can play with rockets like rubber balls. How can we deal with such a monster?"

"Shut up!" the young officer shouted. "How dare you, a guy like you who used a bazooka against a cop with only a pistol, say that?"

A police officer, seemingly a rookie, roughly stuffed the prisoner into the police car. George could only express his embarrassment with a silent smile, then said seriously, "We all know that your spider silk will take several hours to degrade. But this is Manhattan, and the entire city can't afford such a long traffic blockade."

"Oh, yeah." Spider-Man scratched his hood and suddenly snapped his fingers. "Acid will speed up the dissolution. If you can't get any chemicals," he pointed at the confiscated energy shield, "try this? Just stick it in the middle of the spider web and open it. Repeat a few times and you'll be able to stretch my spider web. As for the battery, that power coil should have it."

George nodded in thanks. Spider-Man stood up and just as he was about to shoot some webs, he suddenly remembered something and squatted down to remind Sheriff Stacy, "Oh, Sheriff, their weapons use Chitauri parts. It's only been four months since the Battle of New York, and already someone is using black market alien technology to arm ordinary criminals. You have to be careful."

"Thank you, Spider-Man. We will find out who is modifying this alien technology."

"You're welcome, your good neighbor is always at your service!" Peter Parker streaked across the sky amid the sound of spider silk spraying. He glanced at his watch and, as if remembering something, patted his head. "Aunt May's cake! Metello Cake Shop. What day is it today? Aunt May actually ordered a cake? Whose birthday is it, or is someone coming to visit?" He adjusted his direction mid-air. "Hope nothing goes wrong again. Oh, and I need to find my schoolbag."

In the shadows of the intersection, Hermann Schultz watched the entire battle with his hood lowered. He had to admit that the thug was right—one or two high-tech weapons were no match for a leotard-clad freak who could swing through the air. To defeat a monster, you had to become one.

Besides, Spider-Man isn't invulnerable. The child's bicycle thrown into the subway is proof of that—the tracker he'd attached to it showed a sudden change in altitude, indicating Spider-Man's willingness to lend a hand to a child on the street. This masked vigilante isn't a publicity-seeking jerk, nor a cold-blooded law enforcement machine; he's just a meddling, overly nice guy.

Since he is a pushover, there are ways to deal with pushovers. The entire New York can be used as a tool to kidnap him.

Herman weighed the backpack on his shoulder. Inside was the final batch of Chitauri parts they had plundered over the past few months, and it was all he needed to start a comeback. He slowly walked to the edge of Manhattan Island, then suddenly jumped off the embankment, landing precisely on a rusty maintenance ladder. In the humid air, the entrance to New York's sewers gaped like a huge mouth, waiting to swallow him.

He glanced behind him, making sure no one was following him. He then stepped over the railing at the entrance, which had been removed and fallen to the ground, and, clutching a key, continued down the sewer. The sewer was utterly dark, lit only by a few inspection lights. He could hear the scurrying of small animals like rats and cockroaches, the only other sounds being the dripping water and his own footsteps.

This key is a token given by the "buyer" to each seller. Only this key can open the door of that place. Herman stopped in an unremarkable corridor, inserted the key between the bricks that looked like they were covered with cement, and turned it.

The key made a sharp, scraping sound as it turned between the bricks. Hermann waited a full minute before an eerie green light appeared in the darkness. The brick wall slid aside, revealing several old-fashioned computers flashing green code. He dropped his backpack onto the stainless steel table, the clanging of metal jarring in the confined space.

"Yes, there have been fewer and fewer deliveries lately." A voice, tinged with electronic cacophony, echoed from the darkness. Three green dots of light, forming a triangular array, flickered from nowhere, scanning the package before a satisfied chuckle echoed. "Scarcity makes things valuable. Name your price, and I'll satisfy you."

"I don't want any money." Herman pulled out a crumpled list. "There are weapons made from these parts on the street. You should know who made them, right?"

The buyer's laughter was mixed with the murmur of electricity. "Want to make a fortune with this? Or start your own gang? No problem, these goods are enough to exchange for one or two pieces of customized equipment. What functions do you need? I can help you customize one on the spot."

"They were wiped out, easily."

Herman could sense the buyer's nonchalant response. "This is what happens to people who can't keep a low profile. The Avengers are in New York. Anyone who stirs up trouble will be dealt with by those circus guys."

"It wasn't the Avengers."

"What?! Who?!"

"It's Spider-Man." Herman's mouth curled up unconsciously, satisfied with the other party's suddenly high-pitched electronic voice. However, the "buyer" quickly calmed down: "That bug in the red and blue tights? That's unexpected. Ever since the alien invasion, all kinds of monsters have appeared."

The voice in the darkness suddenly turned gloomy. "A creepy crawler appeared in a New York skyscraper, and demons and skulls appeared in Hell's Kitchen. Ten years ago, people with super powers were mutants who were captured and imprisoned. Now, they are all superheroes. How humorous."

The silence of the "buyer" lasted for a few seconds in the darkness, and then suddenly a distorted electronic laugh broke out: "Aha! I remember now - was it you who did the 'fireworks show' at Midtown Bank this morning?" The mechanical voice suddenly took on a bit of appreciation, "Those well-designed weapons were designed by you? Now you want to upgrade?" Herman squinted his eyes in the darkness, and could only see three dark green electronic dots dancing in the darkness, like the eyes of a predator. "More than just upgrading." His voice sounded particularly gloomy in the echo of the sewer, "I want to be like Spider-Man. Look at this era -"

He clenched his fists. "With those costumed superpowered freaks running rampant, weapons alone aren't enough. What I want is... a complete transformation." A crumpled list was slapped on the metal table. "These parts should be enough to buy what I need."

The sound of machinery suddenly approached. Hermann saw three coldly glowing mechanical claws emerge from the shadows. One of them clamped the list and retreated into the darkness. Rusty hinges made a teeth-grinding sound.

"A complete renovation?" the "buyer" said, his voice tinged with playfulness, "Do you think I can get these?"

"You might not, but your boss definitely can." Herman stared at the three green lights. "After all, you can't just sell all your gains from the past few months for scrap, right? There are still a lot of modified weapons. They need a big buyer, right?"

A blinding flash of light suddenly illuminated the room. In the fleeting glare, Hermann glimpsed a massive sphere suspended in mid-air, its mechanical arms extending like octopus tentacles. As the glare faded from his retina, the electronic voice began to chime again: "The list has been sent to the big boss. He's always happy to have help clearing the streets of vigilantes. But I'm curious about one thing."

A mechanical claw suddenly approached Hermann's nose. "Why are you so obsessed with competing with those comedians? You don't look like you're doing it for the money..."

"Is there a problem?"

"Of course not." The mechanical claw handed over a wad of crumpled bills. "This is the money for your shipment."

"I used it to buy my materials."

"I know."

Seeing Herman hesitate, the mechanical claws stuffed the money into his pocket and said, "Think of it as an investment. The big boss is happy to help those who fight against the masked vigilantes. I know you black people have a hard time. You have to leave something for your family."

"……Thanks."

The mechanical claws gestured for a handshake. As Hermann gripped the cold metal, an electronic laugh echoed eerily through the pipes. "Pick it up tomorrow at the same time. By the way, you can call me Otto. That's what all my friends call me."

Herman left the sewers, but did not go to his secret base. Instead, he returned to Harlem through the intricate sewers. Starlight filtered through the manhole, trying to evoke his memories, but he could not remember the last time he went home - every time he went back, nothing good happened.

It's the same this time.

I pushed open the creaking door and saw a familiar body lying on the sofa, its chest bruised and blood spilled all over the floor.

"Soapy?"

"It's a gang fight," my mother said, sewing the shroud without looking up. "Just like your father and your brother, they were all killed by the boss, but he doesn't even have a home. I have to clean up first. The community church people will be here soon."

Hermann silently took out the bag of money. His mother expertly hid the bills. "Still tinkering with your 'business'? I thought it was over long ago."

"This is the last vote." Hermann stared at his friend's pale face and muttered to himself, "I have to do what I have to do. It's time to let the world remember who Hermann Schultz is."

(End of this chapter)