A Shocking discovery

 In a dim, oil-slicked back alley of Manhattan, Herman Schultz paced like a caged animal. His sharp, narrow eyes flicked back and forth beneath dark brow line, a distinct scar jaggedly cutting through his left eyebrow above a coarse goatee and mustache.

"Hurry the hell up," Herman growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Do you have my damn goods or not?"

The dealer leaning against the brick wall raised both hands, smirking lazily. "Easy, partner. We got the stuff, just wait. Damn, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do. What, didn't your wife and kid leave you?" The guy chuckled to himself, tossing a cigarette butt onto the wet pavement.

Herman’s face twisted into sheer rage. He slowly rolled up his denim sleeves, exposing thick, calloused forearms and a glinting gold wedding ring on his left ring finger. He clamped his fists tight. Suddenly, a low, bone-rattling hum resonated from his skin. His hands began to glow a sickly, radiant yellow, vibrating so violently the air around his knuckles distorted into shimmering heat waves. Puddles at his feet rippled violently.

"Wanna say that again, punk?" Herman spat, his jaw tight. "Remember what I told you before? My powers are completely unstable without this technology. You keep pushing me, and you, me, and everyone within fifteen feet are going to be nothing but bloody stains on this brick."

The dealer’s smirk vanished instantly. His face went pale as his teeth chattered from the sheer kinetic frequency thrumming through the air. "Alright! Alright, man! Relax!"
He scrambled to lift a heavy, metallic briefcase onto a dumpy crate and popped the latches. Inside lay two heavily reinforced, quilted gauntlets lined with shock-absorbing alloy and intricate tuning dampeners.

Herman reached down, his vibrating hands steadying the second his fingers brushed the polished metal. He grinned, his dark eyes lighting up with cruel satisfaction. "Hell yeah."

"Alright," the dealer exhaled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Where’s my money?"
Herman snapped the case shut, his smile turning cold. "Your money, huh?" He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick stack of bills, and slapped it into the dealer's chest.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the dealer chuckled greedily, thumbing through the cash as he backed away down the alley. "The big boss thanks you for the generous tip."

Once the dealer vanished around the corner, Herman slid his broad forearms into the heavy gauntlets. The metallic clasps locked down with a heavy hydraulic CLICK. He raised his right fist, flexed his fingers, and slammed a trial shockwave directly into a parked sedan on the main street.

BOOOOOOM!

A concentrated blast of pressurized, kinetic air erupted from his fist with a deafening roar. The force hit the car like a freight train, crushing the side doors inward and launching the two-ton vehicle fifty feet into the air, flipping it three times before it smashed into the pavement.

Herman threw his head back and laughed—a boisterous, maniacal sound that echoed off the high-rises. He pointed his gauntlets toward the ground, releasing twin bursts of kinetic thrust that launched his heavy frame straight up onto the rooftops, tearing across the skyline like a walking earthquake.

Meanwhile, across town in the Midtown High gymnasium, Jackson was sitting on the wooden bleachers, rubbing the back of his neck as the floor beneath his sneakers suddenly hummed with a faint, phantom tremor.

What the hell was that? Jackson thought, his skin prickling.

"Walker! Pay attention!" Coach Patrick roared, blowing a whistle that echoed loudly off the cinderblock walls.

Before Jackson could even respond, a sudden, sharp prickle flared at the base of his skull—a violent BZZZ-BZZZ of his Spider-Sense. Without breaking eye contact with the coach, Jackson casually bent over, pretending to tie his shoelace.

A split second later, a red dodgeball whizzed at sound-barrier speed directly through the space where Jackson’s head had been, slamming violently into an unsuspecting kid sitting three feet away with a loud THWACK!

Coach Patrick blew his whistle again. "Walk it off, kid! Walk it off!"
Jackson stood up, dusting off his jeans with an innocent grin as Flash Thompson walked past, tossing another red dodgeball up and down in his palm.

"Wow, Flash," Jackson called out smoothly. "How are you the star athlete again? That form was almost human."

Flash stopped, turning his broad shoulders toward Jackson, his jaw flexing. "I guess you want another ass-whooping, huh, Walker?"

Jackson raised both hands defensively, a lopsided smile on his face. "No, no. I'm a peaceful man, Flash."

(Man, this guy acts like he walked straight out of a cheesy 80s teen movie, Jackson mused internally, looking straight ahead. It’s the 21st century. Talk about a sad life, right fellas? Oh... that's right. Nobody else is in here reading my thoughts except the weirdos tuning into my head right now.)

Melody brushed past the bleachers, swinging her backpack over one shoulder as she stepped between them. "Leave him alone, Flash. Don't you have a remedial study hall to get to?"
Flash scoffed, backing off with a sneer. He glanced back at Jackson, a cocky grin breaking across his face. "You see that, Walker? That’s how you get a girl, punk."

As Flash strutted past, he shoved his shoulder hard into Jackson's chest, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling back onto the gym floor.

Harry hurried over, offering a hand and yanking Jackson back up to his feet. "Don't worry about him, Jackson. He's just an idiot."

Jackson dusted his knees off with a low sigh. "Yeah, Harry. I know."

Before they could walk toward the locker rooms, the school intercom crackled to life with a blast of static. "Can Jackson Walker please report to the Principal's office? Jackson Walker to the front office."

Jackson turned to his friend with a dramatic bow. "Duty calls. See ya, Harry."

Harry waved him off as Jackson walked down the polished hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the tile. What could this be about now? he wondered, adjusting his shirt. Did someone find out I used the chemistry lab equipment to formulate synthetic web-fluid again?
He stopped at the wooden door marked ADMINISTRATION, knocked twice, and waited.
"Come in," a soft, poised voice called from inside.

Jackson peeked his head in, taking in the room. Sitting behind a neat mahogany desk was a brown-skinned woman with thick, dark hair styled in a high, elegant Afro puff. She wore thin, rimless glasses and a sharp tailored blazer.

Jackson slid into the room with a wide, charming smile. "Hello, Miss Universe! How are you today? Has anyone ever told you that you look absolutely stunning?"

Principal Universe raised an eyebrow over her glasses, her face completely unimpressed. She gestured silently with a pen toward the leather chair opposite her desk.

Jackson cleared his throat, sitting down and sitting up straight. "So... what’s the verdict?"
Principal Universe leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers. "Mr. Walker, I have to be honest with you. You are an extraordinary student. You’ve won every district science fair since ninth grade, your test scores are off the charts, and you're breezing through advanced placement. Your physics teacher, Mr. Banner, talks about you constantly—he’s genuinely amazed by how gifted you are."

Jackson blinked, scratching the back of his head in confusion. "Well... thanks, Mrs. Universe. But... why call me in?"

(Why is she buttering me up like this?) Jackson’s inner voice raced. (Not that I’m complaining, but this usually comes right before the hammer falls. Still, beats getting called a 'web-punk' by bank robbers or a 'loser' by Flash. Then again, they're basically the same thing, except a thug actually has a higher IQ than Flash.)

Principal Universe reached to the side, grabbing a thin folder and slapping it onto the blotter between them.

"You are brilliant, Jackson. But your grades are starting to slide," she said, her tone turning stern. "Your teachers tell me you vanish for forty minutes at a time during 'bathroom breaks', you skip study periods, and when you are in class, you’re nodding off on your desk. What is going on at home?"

Jackson chuckled nervously, shifting in his seat. "Well... I hope this therapy session isn't going to show up on my mom's insurance."

Mrs. Universe let out a short huff, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress a faint smile. "It's free, Walker. But seriously..." She leaned closer, her eyes dead serious. "...if you keep this up, I’m going to have to put you in summer school."

Jackson gulped, a chill running down his spine. (Oh, man. Mom would literally end my existence. She'd frame my skin on the wall next to my Fantastic Four posters.)

"I got it! Loud and clear!" Jackson nodded furiously, standing up. "100% attendance from now on!"
Mrs. Universe gave a single, satisfied nod. "Good. Oh... and happy early birthday, Jackson."

"Thanks!" Jackson darted out of the office, sliding into a quiet side stairwell. He whipped out his phone and tapped the screen. His jaw dropped. A dozens missed emergency alerts?

"Whoa... I forgot to turn my notifications back on after the mid-term!" he muttered, scanning the live NYPD scanner feeds. MASSIVE STRUCTURAL DAMAGE REPORTED IN LOWER MANHATTAN. SUSPECT UNKNOWN.

Jackson reached into his backpack, pulled out a thumb-sized micro-drone he’d built last week, and tossed it into the air. The drone zipped into the hallway ceiling panel, spliced into the school's bell system, and triggered a loud, piercing BZZZZZZ! signaling an early dismissal.

Within seconds, the halls flooded with cheering students. Jackson slipped out a side fire escape, sprinted into the alley, and threw on his suit in three seconds flat. He pulled the mask down, launched a web line toward a high-rise, and soared into the Manhattan sky.

Thwip!

As he swung high above the yellow cabs, a sharp electronic chime echoed inside his cowl. An incoming call from an unknown number flashed across his visual display lenses.

Jackson tapped the side of his mask. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Spider-Man," a tired, husky voice growled over the line. "This is the Police Captain."

Jackson nearly missed his next web-line, catching himself mid-air with a awkward glide. He deepened his voice by an octave, trying to sound dark and mysterious. "Oh! Hey! I mean... ahem. Greetings, Captain. H-How did you get this frequency?"

The man over the line let out a low, weary chuckle. "I used to be a detective, kid. Probably before your time. Look, once you get to the scene on 4th Street, find me. Blue and white dress uniform, badge, white hair, dark blue eyes. Look for the guy who looks like he hasn't slept since the 90s."

Jackson chuckled softly into his mask. "Self-deprecating humor? Bold strategy, Cap."

"Yeah, well, it’s hard to hurt my feelings," the Captain replied dryly. "I’m tough. Like an ironclad beetle."

The line went dead.

Jackson stared at his HUD in absolute bewilderment. "Ironclad beetle? Man... who the hell makes a reference like that?"

A few minutes later, Jackson shot out from between two skyscrapers, landing with a light, silent thud on the hood of a parked squad car. He waved casually to the dozen officers milling around the cordoned-off street.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of snow-white hair, sharp blue eyes, and heavy dark circles stepped out from behind the police tape.

"Hey, Spider-Man. You made it," the officer said, extending a hand. "Name’s George Stacy. But please, call me Stacy."

Jackson shook his hand, his white lenses narrowing slightly. "Officer Stacy. What happened here? Looks like a bomb went off."

Captain Stacy looked around at the shattered storefronts lining the block. "Witnesses say it was a single guy running around with some kind of high-tech weaponry. Level 4 threat, minimum."

Jackson turned his head, his mask lenses zooming in on a massive glass display window fifty feet away. The frame was completely intact, but the entire plate of glass was gone—reduced to microscopic, crystal dust covering the sidewalk.

"Look at that window," Jackson said, walking over and kneeling down to touch the fine powder. "The glass didn't shatter from an impact or a blast wave. It vibrated until the molecular structure collapsed. All the glass burst simultaneously. Someone’s playing with directional vibro-shock technology."

Stacy’s eyebrows shot up. "Makes sense... I got a report that high-frequency tech was stolen from an Oscorp transport two weeks ago. They’ve been quietly searching for it."

Jackson stood up, scanning the pavement. Deep, black rubber skid marks led down the street toward an overgrown side alley. "Tire tracks. A car stopped right here before it got obliterated."
He walked toward the darkened alleyway. But before his boot could hit the curb, a sudden, searing spike of pain shot through his brain—his Spider-Sense screamed in absolute overdrive.

DANGER!

Behind him, an NYPD officer drawn from the perimeter raised a glock, pointing it directly at Jackson's back.

Without turning around, Jackson snapped his right wrist backward. THWIP! A blob of thick webbing plastered over the gun's muzzle just as the officer pulled the trigger. CLICK-PFT! The backfire blew the slide off the firearm. The rogue officer turned to run, but Jackson spun, firing two rapid web-cables that wrapped around the man's ankles, yanked him off his feet, and pinned his arms firmly to the asphalt.

Captain Stacy drew his service weapon, his eyes wide with confusion. "What the hell are you doing, Spider-Man?! What's your problem?!"

"He's not one of your men, Captain," Jackson said coldly, stepping over the bound man and crossing his arms. "He was waiting for me. He knows who supplied that shock tech, and he's gonna tell me."

The fake cop spat at Jackson’s boots. "Like hell I will, you masked freak!"

Captain Stacy stepped forward. "Spider-Man, let the department handle—" "I've got this," Jackson interrupted, grabbing the fake officer by his collar with one hand and launching himself three hundred feet straight up into the air.

Ten minutes later, the fake cop was screaming at the top of his lungs, dangling upside down by his ankle five hundred feet in the air over the sheer vertical drop of the Empire State Building.

"Listen to me, man!" Jackson called out casually, leaning against the cold stone spire with his arms folded. "I really don't wanna drop you! Just give me a name!"

"Y-You're crazy, bug!" the man shrieked, his face bright red, wind whipping his jacket. "You ain't gonna drop me! You're a hero! You're a damn loser!"

Jackson narrowed his lenses down into thin, razor-sharp slits. The pure white, blank eyes staring down at the man offered zero emotion, zero humanity—just an empty, terrifying facade.
BZZZ-BZZZ.

Jackson's phone vibrated inside his suit. He casually unlatched his grip on the guy's ankle.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The man plunged straight down toward the Manhattan pavement, screaming bloody murder.
Jackson checked his caller ID. Melody.

He dove off the ledge, falling parallel with the screaming man, caught the guy's belt with his left hand, fired a web line, and swung gently into the side of a glass skyscraper. He slammed the man flat against the reinforced glass, holding him there with one hand while tapping his mask with the other.

"What's up, Mel?" Jackson asked casually.

Over the speaker, Melody was lying on her bed, flipping through a textbook. "Hey! Are you still coming over with Harry tonight? Or are you 'busy' again?"

Jackson pulled out a roll of webbing, slapping the screaming man repeatedly against the glass wall until he was completely wrapped up like a fly in a cocoon.

"I can swing by," Jackson winked at the terrified man. "I'm just finishing up a job interview right now. I'll be over as soon as I wrap things up."

Melody raised an eyebrow over the phone. "A job interview? With your schedule? Gotta say, Walker, I'm impressed. Garfield couldn't pull that off."

Jackson sighed loudly. "You are hilarious, Mel."

Melody laughed and hung up. Jackson grabbed the fake officer’s tactical phone from his pocket, holding it up to the man's terrified face.

"Password?" Jackson asked.

"Go to hell!"

Jackson took the man's thumb, pressed it against the scanner, unlocked the device, and instantly mirrored the entire hard drive to his own mask display. He scrolled through dozens of encrypted messages from a single contact labeled 'THE BIG MAN'.

"Shh... Papa’s checking your phone," Jackson whispered, firing a final web-shot over the man’s mouth. "Let’s see who’s pulling your strings..."

Across the city, inside the marble lobby of the Manhattan First National Bank, the heavily armored doors swung open.

Herman Schultz strolled through the entrance, his broad shoulders squared, his gauntlets humming with a subtle, dangerous glow beneath his coat.

A teller behind the bulletproof glass smiled politely. "Welcome to First National, sir. How can I help you today?"

Herman grinned, his scarred eyebrow twitching. "You can help me... by giving me every single dollar in that vault."

The teller's smile froze. She quietly hit the silent alarm beneath her desk and gestured toward two armed security guards standing near the pillars.

Herman didn't hesitate. He took one step forward and threw a heavy right hook into the air.

FBOOOOM!

A concentrated, golden wave of kinetic force erupted from his gauntlet, slamming into the first guard's chest. The man flew fifty feet across the marble floor, crashing through a solid stone pillar that crumbled under his weight.

Herman spun around, grabbed the second guard by his head, and slammed him face-first through the reinforced bulletproof glass counter. The glass shattered into a million pieces. The teller screamed in terror, throwing her hands over her head as she fled down the back hallway.

Herman vaulted over the destroyed counter, approaching the massive, foot-thick steel vault door. He planted both gauntlets flat against the metal dial.

The gauntlets began to glow bright, blinding crimson. The air inside the bank vibrated so violently that light fixtures exploded overhead, and marble tiles cracked down the center.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-KABOOOOOOM!

The heavy steel vault door was literally torn from its hinges, blown inward like a tin can. Herman walked into the vault, laughing like a maniac as he stuffed duffel bags full of banded hundred-dollar bills.

Sirens wailed outside. Four police officers rushed into the ruined lobby with weapons raised. "NYPD! Put your hands in the air! NOW!"

Herman turned around, holding two bulging duffel bags, his smile widening. "Try me, punks."
The officers opened fire. Herman raised his arms in an X-shape, pulling a trigger inside his grip. A spherical, glowing golden shock-barrier snapped into existence around him. The bullets slammed into the kinetic field and disintegrated into harmless dust.

Herman flexed his arms outward.

KABOOOOOOM!

The barrier expanded in a violent, three-hundred-degree blast wave. The entire front facade of the bank erupted outward. Cruisers were flipped onto their roofs, officers were sent flying into the street, and heavy stone debris slammed down, trapping three cops under crushed masonry.
Herman casually stepped over the smoking rubble, leaped onto a nearby rooftop, and vanished into the city.

Twenty minutes later, Jackson dropped onto a rooftop overlooking the destroyed bank, holding his smartphone in his hand. On the screen, a news broadcast was live-streaming.

J. Jonah Jameson’s furious face filled the screen: "—and this crazy, unhinged lunatic is running around our streets with military-grade seismic gauntlets! The media is calling him 'THE SHOCKER'! Well, I like that name! SHOCKER! And where is Spider-Man?! Nowhere to be seen! That wall-crawling menace is probably in league with this goddamn—"

Jackson clicked the screen off with a sigh. "Unbelievable."

He dropped into the ruined lobby, his lenses sweeping over the devastation. Captain Stacy was already there, kneeling next to a paramedic who was treating an injured officer.

"Spidey," Stacy said, standing up. "Glad you made it. We managed to pull security footage of the guy from the vault cameras."

Jackson tapped his mask. A blue laser beam scanned Stacy's phone screen, taking high-resolution captures of Herman Schultz's face, his scar, his height, and the detailed schematics of the vibrating gauntlets.

"Send that full file to my encrypted server," Jackson said, his tone dead serious. "I'll cross-reference the kinetic signature against the Oscorp theft records."

Captain Stacy nodded, tapping his screen. "Done. I'll keep you updated. If we trace his secondary hideout, I'll ping your frequency."

Jackson gave a single nod, shot a web line toward the sky, and yanked himself up into the clouds.
(If I don't catch this guy fast,) Jackson thought, his chest heaving as he swung through the cold autumn wind, (he’s gonna tear this entire city apart piece by piece.)

To Be Continued...