"That's the core of it, isn't it? We can't expect a beat cop with a standard-issue Glock to go toe-to-toe with a guy who can bench-press a city bus," the guest interviewer on the screen explained with a smooth, reassuring tone. He leaned forward, his eyes locked onto the camera as if speaking directly to every nervous homeowner in Queens.
"The police are our bedrock for civil society. They handle the domestic disputes, the traffic, the everyday thefts. But when the world turns 'Super,' we need specialists. It's about a division of labor. Mutants have their enforcement teams, and now, New York has these Spider-heroes. If we let the specialists handle the monsters, the NYPD can focus on making our streets walkably safe again. It's not about helplessness; it's about tactical efficiency."
The host chuckled, a sound that felt a little too scripted for comfort. "A very pragmatic view, Sergeant. We can only hope our 'Good Neighbors' continue to keep their eyes on the skyline while the NYPD keeps their eyes on the pavement. Safety for all, provided by all!"
As the broadcast faded into a commercial for a high-end insurance firm specializing in 'Enhanced Battle Damage,' the giant screen in the square reset its loop. High above, perched on a gargoyle that had seen better centuries, Peter Parker and Huang Liang watched the pixels reset.
Huang Liang turned to Peter, his mask lenses narrowing in a look of genuine confusion. "Okay, Pete, level with me. How much did that set you back? I didn't know you had 'Prime Time Jumbotron' money. Are you secretly a trust-fund kid playing at being broke?"
Peter nearly fell off the ledge. "Are you kidding? Liang, I'm currently debating if I can afford the 'extra guac' on my burrito tonight. I just dropped my entire life savings on a used car and parts to keep Uncle Ben's old clunker from exploding. I don't have 'Positive PR' money. I don't even have 'Bus Fare' money right now."
Huang Liang's brows furrowed under his mask. If it wasn't Peter, then who? His phone vibrated—a custom encrypted ping. He pulled it out, seeing a message from Jack.
"Mystery solved," Liang muttered, a small smirk playing on his lips. "It was Jack. He's been playing the media game while we were playing tag with a glider-freak."
"Jack? The guy from the precinct?" Peter asked, swinging his legs over the edge. "Why would he go through all that trouble for us?"
Huang Liang read the follow-up message aloud, his voice dropping an octave to mimic Jack's weary professionalism. "Don't thank me. I'm just managing the fallout. The world is getting weirder, Liang. The police are starting to look like cardboard cutouts in the face of these new threats. If I don't frame this as a partnership now, the public will either start a riot out of fear or stop respecting the badge entirely. I'm just giving the citizens someone to blame—or cheer for—so my guys can do their jobs without being laughed at."
"Smart," Liang admitted, looking down at the tiny people scurrying below. "He's right. In a world where a guy in an iron suit can level a building, a badge and a whistle don't carry much weight unless they're backed by a friendly neighborhood heavy-hitter."
While the duo contemplated their new status as PR icons, several miles away in a quiet, sun-drenched bedroom in Forest Hills, another perspective was shifting. Gwen Stacy sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop open but her eyes fixed on the television mounted to her wall. She had been rewatching the grainy cell-phone footage of the Spider-Duo on repeat.
"So... not mutants," Gwen whispered to herself, her fingers tracing the screen where a close-up of Huang Liang's wrist-mounted tech was visible. "Mechanical. High-pressure pneumatic delivery systems for a synthetic polymer. Ingenious."
Gwen stood up and walked to her mirror, looking at her palms. She remembered that day at the Oscorp spider exhibit—the sharp sting, the fever that followed, and then the terrifying realization that she could stick to the ceiling. She had spent weeks terrified she was turning into a 'monster,' a mutant that her father, Captain Stacy, would eventually have to hunt down.
But the news report had changed everything. It gave her a category. If those guys were 'tech-prodigies' using gadgets to augment their weird abilities, then she wasn't a freak. She was a potential hero.
"I can do the wall-crawling. I can do the strength. I just can't do the webs," she mused, a spark of scientific challenge lighting up her eyes. "But if they can build it, I can build it better. And I definitely need a better outfit than these sweatpants. If I'm going to be a 'Good Neighbor,' I might as well look the part."
Unknown to her, she was the only 'Spider' in existence whose powers didn't include the organic web-spinning present in the current Peter Parker. She was an anomaly, a brilliant mind catalyzed by a radioactive bite, and she was already planning her debut.
Back at the Wing Chun Martial Arts Academy, Huang Wen was blissfully unaware of the burgeoning Spider-Woman in the suburbs. He was too busy dealing with the headache of high-level espionage. His phone buzzed with a direct line from the man who never slept: Nick Fury.
"Natasha is on the move. Consignment of Adamantium and Vibranium is inbound. Check your doorstep. Don't make me regret the express shipping."
Huang Wen rubbed his temples. "Dammit, Nick. Why so fast?"
He had made a deal: the metal for the man. One hand delivers the goods, the other delivers the Captain. But there was a slight logistical hiccup—Steve Rogers was currently a very handsome, very unconscious popsicle in the middle of a slow-thaw cycle. He couldn't exactly hand over a comatose legend and say, 'Some assembly required.' He needed time to let Steve wake up naturally, or at least until the man didn't look like he'd been living in a freezer for seventy years.
Just as he was contemplating how to stall a man as paranoid as Fury, a blacked-out transport truck screeched to a halt in front of the academy.
The back door hissed open, and the "delivery driver" stepped out. This wasn't some guy in a brown uniform looking for a signature. It was Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow. She was dressed in a tactical leather suit that looked like it cost more than the building she was standing in, her red hair caught in the afternoon breeze. She didn't walk; she prowled toward the entrance with a grace that screamed 'I can kill you with a toothpick.'
John, who had been swept into the academy's inner circle but still felt like a bouncer at a supernatural club, stepped forward to intercept her. He recognized her instantly. This was the woman who had played with Zhong Qiang's heart, the spy who had infiltrated their school under false pretenses.
"Hold it right there," John said, his voice firm despite the cold sweat forming on his neck. "This is a private school. No unannounced visitors, especially not ones with your history."
Natasha stopped, a playful, yet razor-sharp smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Relax, John. I'm not here to break hearts today. I'm here as a courier. I have two very heavy, very expensive boxes for your boss. Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to leave these on the curb for the neighborhood kids to find?"
John didn't budge. He remembered how Huang Wen had exposed her, the cold way she had left. He wasn't about to let a snake back into the garden.
Upstairs, Huang Wen's voice drifted down, echoing through the halls with a calm authority that silenced the murmurs of the curious students on the first floor. "Let her up, John. She's carrying the grocery bill Nick Fury owes me."
He was actually glad Fisk and Zhong Qiang weren't around. They had gone to assist Jack with some 'civilian logistics' after lunch. If Zhong Qiang had been here to see his ex-girlfriend strolling in like she owned the place, the ensuing drama would have been enough to fuel a soap opera for three seasons.