At Midtown High School, in a well-appointed freshman classroom with TVs, radios, and folding blackboards.
Despite Peter's inner reluctance, Ned, assuming they had reached a mutual understanding, ended up sitting next to him as his desk mate, considering them friends.
Other students were still trickling in, choosing their seats.
Taking advantage of the time, Ned struck up a conversation with Peter, "Peter, who's your favorite hero in the Avengers?"
"Hero?" Peter replied without hesitation, "Iron Man."
"Oh, wow!"
Ned got even more excited, talking so animatedly that he was practically spitting, "I love Iron Man too! His suit is so cool, and of course, he's super-rich. But he's only my second favorite—my number one has to be the Symbol of Peace! He's the real number one hero!"
Peter didn't argue with that.
In fact, in New York City, whenever people discuss this topic, everyone instinctively reserves the top spot for the Symbol of Peace. It's almost a universal consensus.
When the Symbol of Peace is mentioned, no one compares him to other heroes. After all, he was the first superhero, the one who ended the long World War II, founded the Avengers, and saved the world several times. His fame and accomplishments are unmatched by any other hero.
The Symbol of Peace is more than a hero; he represents a belief, a concept that transcends the scope of heroism itself.
Peter's lips curled into a small smile. If the chubby Ned in front of him knew that Peter had once fought the Symbol of Peace (and got thoroughly beaten), he'd probably be so shocked that his jaw would drop.
"Are we just going to sit here and wait for people?"
A male student near the podium clicked his tongue in boredom, grabbed the remote from the podium, and turned on the television next to the blackboard.
The channel that came on was the news, and the footage of a raging fire immediately caught the attention of all the students in the classroom.
"At 6:50 p.m. last night, a fire broke out at the five-star Remy Hotel on Main Street in Queens. The fire was extensive, engulfing the entire fifth floor. Fortunately, there were no casualties, thanks to a mysterious individual dressed in a red and blue suit..."
As the reporter told the story, a video was shown of a blurry Spiderman swinging his webs back and forth, rescuing residents from the fifth floor and lowering them safely to the ground.
Ned watched in surprise and said, "Wow, is that a new hero? It looks like this guy can fly."
"No, he probably can't fly." Peter touched his nose; it felt pretty good to see himself on TV like that.
Ned continued his analysis, "His outfit looks like it was inspired by Iron Man's design. Do you think it's based on Iron Man's suit?"
"Well..." Peter wasn't sure what to say, since his Spider-suit was indeed made by Tony, so Ned was unknowingly pretty close to the truth.
"If he's a new hero, he should have a name, right? Let me think... How about 'Fire Monkey Man'? That sounds cool, doesn't it?" Ned said it enthusiastically, eager to hear Peter's opinion.
Peter couldn't help but correct him excitedly, "It's Spiderman, not Fire Monkey Man!"
"Uh..." Ned looked completely baffled, clearly taken aback, and the other students also turned their puzzled gazes toward Peter.
"Childish," A short-haired girl sitting quietly in the corner remarked while reading a book. She looked up at Peter briefly.
"Uh, I mean, that's what I heard," Peter said awkwardly, shrugging and burying his head in his arms, resting on his backpack.
The news segment ended with a summary: "The cause of the fire is still under investigation. The police have preliminarily ruled out an accidental fire, suggesting that this incident may have been deliberately set. Stay tuned to New York News for updates on this developing story..."
"Deliberately set?"
Peter lifted his head, remembering the mysterious figure from last night - the one with the glass helmet, clad in armor and cloak, disappearing into the night sky in a trail of red mist.
Who could that person be?
...
At this very moment, in a New York restaurant.
A man in his thirties, with stubble and a weathered face that could no longer be considered young, wore a waiter's uniform and crouched dejectedly at the entrance of the restaurant, lost in thought.
His name was Scott Lang. He had been released only a few months ago after serving time for theft. Though he was able to find a low-paying job, he was also struggling to regain custody of his young daughter after a divorce.
Scott needed money-, a lot of it. Working as a waiter, he'd never earn enough, not even in a lifetime.
Perhaps knowing Scott's current situation, some of his "old friends" reappeared in his life with a tempting proposition.
After hearing their proposal, Scott didn't take long to react and immediately reject it. "Another theft? Come on, I cleaned up my act. I can't go back to jail!"
"Shh, buddy, keep it down."
One of the burly, bearded men put a hand on Scott's shoulder and lowered his voice. "We really need you on this one. I swear this is the last job. If you do it, the money you'll earn will not only secure your future, it will also bring your daughter back to you."
Scott remained silent, but he was tempted. He'd do anything for his daughter.
"Tell me about the target," Scott said, his voice serious.
"I knew you wouldn't say no."
The bearded man clenched his fist in excitement and explained briefly, "The target is a businessman and scientist who owns several properties in New York. He owns a mansion that's been vacant for a long time. As far as we know, there's a high-security vault inside. Oh, and the businessman's name is Hank Pym..."
Later that night, a van with the curtains drawn was parked on a street near the villa.
"I'm going in."
Dressed in all black, Scott Lang put on his earpiece and mask before quietly exiting the van through the back door. The others stayed behind, operating various devices to jam local surveillance and signals while keeping a close eye on the surrounding streets. Their professionalism rivaled that of international thieves.
After leaving the van, Scott headed straight for the target villa. He reached the wall, deftly scaled it, and after unlocking a security window with his tools, he slipped into the house.
"Go through the hall, stairs on the right, up to the second floor. The target is in the third room on the right..."
Following the instructions coming through his earpiece, Scott turned on his flashlight and made his way to the second floor storage room. When he saw the fingerprint-locked door, a small smile appeared on his face.
This was a piece of cake for him, nothing he couldn't handle.
Using duct tape, he lifted an old fingerprint off the doorknob, then replicated it to bypass the security system.
Five minutes later.
Scott bypassed all the alarms and successfully entered the storage room, where he found a reinforced steel vault door, two meters long and one meter wide.
"No wonder you needed me. This is a tough nut to crack," Scott remarked in awe.
"What is it?" His partner asked, feeling nervous and uncertain.
"It's a 1910 Carbondale, made with steel from the TitanFury."
Scott smiled his trademark grin. "Remember the iceberg? Its cold resistance isn't great."
As a former chief engineer, Scott was also a first-rate thief. He knew right away how to crack the safe.
He drilled small holes in the main structure of the vault, filled them with water, then quickly froze them with liquid nitrogen, causing the inner and outer layers of the vault to freeze solid...
Boom!
Soon after, the entire vault door blew off, crashing violently to the ground.
Hearing the crash, his partners on the other end of the earpiece couldn't contain their excitement. "Quick, check what's inside!"
Scott was equally thrilled. He leaped over the fallen steel door and entered the vault.
But inside, it was completely empty—except for a dusty, deep-red motorcycle suit and a strange helmet sitting on a table.
"What the hell is this?"
Scott's jaw dropped, leaving him speechless.
(End of chapter)
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