Chapter Text
Herman Schultz never expected heights to feel this powerful.
A year ago, he would have looked up at the glass crown of the skyscraper beneath his boots and seen nothing but risk, police sirens, and the kind of fall that ended lives early. Now, the wind howled around him like an audience, tugging at the stitched seams of a suit he'd made with his own clumsy hands. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it held together so far, and so did he.
The city stretched endlessly below, a glowing circuit board of neon veins and blinking windows. New York always looked cleaner from this high up. Smaller, too. Like its problems could fit in the palm of your hand if you just reached far enough.
Herman wasn't used to being this high yet. Most nights he stuck to mid-rise rooftops and fire escapes, places where the ground didn't look like an abstract painting. Tonight was different. Tonight, he'd climbed higher than he ever had before, partly to prove he could…and partly because the fear still thrilled him.
He shifted his weight, boots scraping lightly against gravel. A faint vibration hummed through the soles. his reflexive comfort, the subtle buzz he'd learned to maintain without thinking.
It still amazed him. A year, and the sensation hadn't dulled.
One year since the spider bite.
One year since everything went wrong and right at the same time.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping the quiet in half.
Herman sighed. He didn't need to check to know who it was. The timing was too perfect. Still, he pulled the phone out and glanced at the notification glowing against the dark.
DAILY BUGLE BREAKING NEWS: "Vigilante Menace Strikes Again"
He snorted. "Catchy."
He opened the article anyway, thumb flicking across the screen. Grainy photos filled the page, him mid-jump, him gliding, him punching a car thief into the hood of his own getaway vehicle. The headline screamed accusations. Words like menace, criminal, and masked liability jumped out in bold.
Herman locked the screen.
"Well," he muttered to the empty sky, "they're not wrong."
Hero wasn't the right word for him. He knew that. Heroes didn't start their nights checking debt tallies. Heroes didn't keep mental lists of how many bones they'd broken for the sake of staying alive. Heroes didn't owe money to a man literally called the Executioner of New York.
He leaned against the cold metal railing at the rooftop's edge and stared out at the city lights again.
The spider had been a job. Just another heist. Grab the specimen, hand it over, get paid, move on. Except he'd slipped. The glass cracked. The spider bit him and promptly died. The job failed.
And the Executioner did not tolerate failure.
So Herman Schultz became something new. Something useful. Something that could pay back what he owed in bruises and broken criminal enterprises.
The phone slid back into his pocket.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tug of his suit. The fabric was thick in some places, too thin in others. The stitching across his chest puckered slightly where he'd redone it three times after a disastrous experiment with reinforced thread. The mask's eye lenses were uneven if you looked too closely.
Knitting classes had helped more than he expected.
He smiled faintly at the thought. The instructor still thought he was making "winter sports gear." He hadn't corrected her mostly because he was busy admiring her body. Also, it was hard to explain that you needed better seam durability because you routinely punched through car doors.
A stronger suit was coming. He could feel it. Something sleeker. Something worthy of whatever this was.
Something that didn't scream DIY disaster.
He stepped closer to the edge.
The wind surged upward, whipping his hood and rattling the grappling hook at his belt. He toyed around with making something like spider webs, but chemistry had never been his thing, and the grappler worked well enough. Combine that with vibration-powered jumps, and he could stay airborne longer than most people thought possible.
Herman crouched low, hands resting on the gravel. Vibrations built beneath his palms, humming like a distant train. The rooftop trembled slightly under the pressure. His muscles coiled instinctively, his body remembering the physics his brain still struggled to trust.
"Okay," he murmured to himself. "You have done this a million times already, Herman! You can do it again. One. Two. THREE!!!"
He jumped.
The rooftop vanished beneath him in an explosive blur of motion and shattered pebbles. Air roared in his ears as the city rushed upward to meet him. For a heartbeat, there was nothing, no ground, no sky, just gravity and him.
Then he fired his grappling hook.
The line snapped taut, swinging him forward in a sweeping arc between towers. Wind tore laughter from his throat before he realized he was doing it.
God, he loved this part.
He released the line at the apex of the swing, vibrations surging through his legs as he kicked off empty air. The boost sent him soaring across a gap that would've terrified him a year ago. Now it felt like flying, clumsy, improvised flying, but flying all the same.
Below, sirens wailed faintly.
Herman angled toward the sound without thinking.
Old habits. New motivations.
A convenience store robbery unfolded beneath him like a stage play. Two masked men shouted at a trembling cashier. A third stuffed cash into a backpack with frantic efficiency. Their getaway car idled outside, exhaust billowing in nervous puffs.
Amateurs.
Herman landed silently on the awning above the door.
He paused for half a second, listening to the rhythm of their voices, the panic in the cashier's breathing, the ticking clock of the police response he could feel through the pavement like distant thunder.
Debt payment time.
He dropped.
The first robber barely had time to shout before Herman's vibrating fist connected with his shoulder. The impact carried a low, resonant thrum that rattled the glass windows. The man crumpled instantly, weapon skittering across the tile.
The second swung wildly. Herman sidestepped, grabbed his jacket, and redirected the momentum straight into a soda fridge. The door shattered with a fizzing explosion of carbonated chaos.
The third ran.
Herman let him make it three steps before firing the grappling hook. The line snagged the fleeing man's ankle and yanked him off his feet in a spectacular wipeout.
Silence fell.
The cashier stared at Herman like he'd dropped from another planet.
Herman raised a hand awkwardly. "Uh. You're welcome?"
The man nodded so fast it looked painful.
Sirens grew louder.
Time to leave.
Herman stepped outside and launched skyward again before the first patrol car screeched to a halt.
He landed on another rooftop minutes later, chest rising and falling steadily. The adrenaline faded, leaving the familiar quiet behind.
One year in, and the rhythm had settled into something almost normal.
Almost.
He sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge. Far below, the city continued its endless motion, unaware of the man perched above it trying to decide what kind of person he wanted to be.
His phone buzzed again. He didn't check it this time.
Instead, he leaned back on his hands and stared up at the stars, faint and stubborn against the city's glow.
The wind answered with a distant howl, tugging at the imperfect seams of his homemade mask.
Herman Schultz smiled behind it.
Herman´s tiny studio apartment greeted him with the same peeling paint, flickering kitchen light, and stack of magazines and tools on the table that had been there every night for the past year.
Home sweet home.
He dropped the grappling hook belt onto the couch and peeled off his gloves. His fingers tingled as the residual energy faded, like static crawling under his skin. It was the good kind of ache. The I survived another night kind.
Herman shuffled toward the fridge, opened it, and stared at the lonely contents.
Half a soda. Expired milk. Mustard.
He closed the fridge.
"Takeout again," he muttered to himself.
His phone rang before he could grab the menu drawer. The screen lit up with a name that instantly knotted his stomach.
Micro.
Herman groaned. "Of course."
He answered on the third ring. "Tell me this is a social call."
Micro's voice came through crisp and flat, like a spreadsheet given human form. "An old power player has arrived in New York."
Herman slumped into a chair. "Define old."
"Ancient," Micro corrected. "From the seventies."
A pause.
"…What?"
"It´s Mysterio."
Herman blinked. "Mysterio is dead."
"Possibly," Micro said. "Possibly not. This is most likely a copycat. The distinction is irrelevant."
"Easy for you to say."
"The Executioner wants them gone."
Herman rubbed his face. "Gone gone?"
"No death warrant has been issued. Yet. You are to 'play superhero' and remove the problem."
Herman groaned louder this time. "I hate it when he has me fight freaks."
"You owe him," Micro replied, tone unchanged.
Yeah. He did.
"Where am I going?"
"The docks. Mysterio invited the Executioner to a meeting."
Herman frowned. "And he's sending me instead? Isn´t he worried that will tip off the other families?"
"You are the Anarchid. You stick your nose in everyone´s business."
Herman sat up straight. "You know I hate that name."
"It is factually correct."
"I don't care if it's tax-deductible. I hate it."
Micro ignored him. "You will attend the meeting. Neutralize the threat."
The line clicked dead before Herman could argue.
He stared at the phone.
"…I need better bosses."
The docks at night felt like a different city.
Fog rolled in thick waves across the Hudson, swallowing light and sound until the world shrank to a handful of dim lamps and creaking wood. Cargo containers loomed like sleeping giants. Water slapped rhythmically against rusted hulls.
Herman crouched atop a crane arm, scanning the shadows.
No theatrics. No glowing fishbowl helmet. No dramatic monologues echoing across the harbor.
"Great," he whispered. "The illusion guy picked the foggiest place in New York. That's not ominous at all."
Just then his warning sense screamed at him to MOVE!!!!
Herman moved on instinct. He hurled himself sideways just as a winged blur tore through the air where his head had been. The gust alone nearly knocked him off the crane.
A figure hovered in the mist, mechanical wings slicing the fog into swirling ribbons.
The man wore tactical gear and a visor that glowed faintly red.
"My name is Sam Wilson," the man announced calmly. "But you can call me the Vulture."
Herman blinked behind his mask. "You practiced that introduction, didn't you?"
"I did."
"It shows."
The Vulture tilted his head. "My employer suspected the spider-themed vigilante was working for the Executioner. This trap confirms it."
Herman spread his hands. "Whoa, whoa, working for is a strong phrase. Think of me as aggressively freelancing."
"I was hired to kill you regardless."
"Ah," Herman said. "Straight to the mission statement. And without buying me dinner!"
The Vulture dove.
Herman barely raised his arms before the impact hit like a freight train. They crashed through stacked crates in an explosion of splintered wood. Herman skidded across the dock, vibrations screaming through his bones.
He pushed himself up, dizzy. "Okay. You hit harder than your branding suggests."
The Vulture didn't respond. He launched again.
Herman fired the grappling hook and yanked himself upward just in time. The winged man slammed into the dock hard enough to crack concrete. Shockwaves rippled outward.
Not good.
Herman leapt, channeling vibration energy into a long arc kick. His boot connected with the Vulture's shoulder.
The man barely moved.
Instead, a gloved hand snapped out and grabbed Herman midair.
"Oh," Herman wheezed. "That's new."
The Vulture hurled him like a missile.
Herman crashed through a stack of cargo containers, metal screeching as they collapsed around him. His vision flashed white. Warning sense blared nonstop, a siren inside his skull.
He staggered to his feet anyway.
Super strength. The gift that kept on giving.
And getting him into worse trouble.
The Vulture descended slowly, methodical and patient. "You are inexperienced."
"Rude," Herman muttered.
"You compensate with strength. That will not be enough to survive me."
Herman wiped blood from his lip. "It's gotten me this far."
"Not far enough."
The Vulture surged forward again, faster this time. Herman blocked the first strike, dodged the second, and failed the third. The wing clipped him mid-torso and launched him off the dock.
The Hudson swallowed him whole.
Cold shock crushed the air from his lungs. Darkness churned around him as the river dragged him downward.
Herman's limbs thrashed instinctively before his brain caught up.
Wait.
An idea sparked.
He went limp.
Above, a shadow circled the water. Waiting. Watching.
Herman forced himself to stay still, letting the current tug him deeper. Seconds stretched painfully. His lungs burned. His chest screamed for air.
Come on take the bait…
The shadow faded.
Herman kicked hard and rocketed upward, bursting from the surface with a desperate gasp. He grabbed a barnacle-crusted piling and hauled himself onto the dock, coughing river water onto the wood.
He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the fog.
"…Yeah," he wheezed. "This isn't going to be straightforward."