Power of Hercules in MCU - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: A Glimmer of Heroism

The final bell shrilled, releasing the pent-up energy of Midtown Science High’s student body into the hallways. Rudra moved with the tide, his mind already calculating the optimal meditation time he could squeeze in before his parents expected him home. He was aware, with a certainty that tingled at the edges of his Accelerated Probability, that Flash Thompson and his band of disgruntled acolytes were not going to let the perceived slights from the swimming class go unanswered. Their hostile intent had been a palpable miasma around them for the rest of the afternoon.

As he cut across the sparsely populated back parking lot, a shortcut his predecessor often took, they materialized from behind a row of beat-up cars, just as his internal simulations had predicted. Flash, flanked by three of his larger, less intellectually gifted friends – Bulk, Knuckles, and Weasel, as Rudra had privately, and uncharitably, nicknamed them. They fanned out, blocking his path, their expressions a mixture of playground menace and genuine resentment.

“Well, well, well,” Flash drawled, cracking his knuckles with a theatricality that was more comic than intimidating. “Look what we have here, boys. Little Singh, all grown up and thinking he’s something special.”

“Lost, freak?” Knuckles grunted, taking a step closer.

Rudra stopped, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He met Flash’s glare with a calm, almost placid expression. Inside, he was assessing them. Their clumsy stances, their telegraphed aggression. His Hercules Method panel helpfully offered no discernible ‘Level’ for any of them; they were, in terms of raw power, effectively zero. This wasn’t a fight; it was pest control.

“Just heading home, Flash,” Rudra said, his voice even. “Don’t want any trouble.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Flash sneered. “You’ve been asking for trouble for a while now, Singh. Getting too big for your dorky britches. Showing off those… those fake muscles.” The jealousy was practically dripping from his words. “We’re just here to teach you some respect.”

Flash lunged, a wild, telegraphed right hook arcing towards Rudra’s face. Rudra’s Accelerated Probability had shown him this exact clumsy attack a full second before it launched – the shift in Flash’s weight, the angry glint in his eye, the overextension of his shoulder. He didn’t need to tap into his Level 20 strength; that would be like using a cannon to swat a fly, with potentially lethal consequences for the fly. He also didn’t need to consciously activate any specific named ability. His enhanced reflexes, a passive benefit of his training, were more than sufficient.

With a minuscule shift of his weight and a slight tilt of his head, Rudra let Flash’s fist whoosh harmlessly past his ear, so close he could feel the air stir. Flash, overbalanced by his own momentum, stumbled forward. Rudra’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to gently tap Flash’s extended elbow, subtly altering its trajectory. Flash yelped as his fist, instead of connecting with Rudra, slammed into the surprisingly solid side of Knuckles, who had been lumbering in from the side.

“Oof! Watch it, man!” Knuckles howled, clutching his now-throbbing jaw, glaring at a bewildered Flash.

Before Flash could recover, Bulk charged from another angle, bellowing like a wounded moose, arms wide for a tackle. Again, Rudra saw it coming. He sidestepped with fluid ease, his foot subtly extending just enough to catch Bulk’s ankle. Bulk, all forward momentum and no grace, tripped spectacularly, his trajectory carrying him face-first into Weasel, who had been trying to circle around behind Rudra. The two of them went down in a tangled, groaning heap of limbs.

“What the—?” Flash stammered, staring at his downed comrades, then back at Rudra, who hadn’t even broken a sweat. Rudra hadn’t thrown a single punch, hadn’t even appeared to exert himself. He was just… there, and they were flailing around him like drunken toddlers.

Flash, his face a mask of fury and confusion, charged again, screaming incoherently. This time, Rudra simply pivoted on the ball of his foot, allowing Flash to rush past him. As Flash’s momentum carried him forward, Rudra lightly pushed the small of Flash’s back. Flash, unable to stop, careened headfirst into the padded door of a dumpster with a dull thud, sliding down to sit in a dazed heap amidst overflowing garbage bags.

Silence descended, broken only by the groans of Flash’s three friends untangling themselves and Flash’s own winded gasps. They stared at Rudra, not with anger anymore, but with a dawning, bewildered fear. He hadn’t fought them; he’d played with them, effortlessly turning their own aggression back on themselves, making them look like utter fools. There were no marks on him, his breathing was even, his expression still maddeningly calm.

Rudra looked at Flash, who was gingerly touching a rapidly forming bruise on his forehead, garbage juice staining his expensive athletic pants. A small, almost pitying smile touched Rudra’s lips. He adjusted his backpack.

“Like I said,” Rudra said softly, his voice carrying easily in the sudden quiet. “No trouble.”
He then simply turned and walked away, leaving the four of them sitting or standing amidst their own ruined ambush, staring after him with wide, frightened eyes. They were all just teenagers, fueled by ego and misplaced aggression. They had expected a brawl, maybe a few bruises. They hadn’t expected… whatever that was. Rudra’s calm, his almost supernatural evasion, was far more terrifying than any display of brute force could have been. It was alien, incomprehensible, and it left them shaken to their core.

—

[Gwen’s An Unforeseen Duty]

“Seriously, Gwen, I still can’t get over Singh’s transformation,” Felicia Hardy declared, expertly navigating a crack in the sidewalk as they walked away from Midtown Science, heading towards her house. The afternoon sun was warm, and the usual post-school chatter of students filled the air. “One minute he’s, you know, Rudra, and the next he’s طلع like he spends eight hours a day in the gym with a personal trainer named Sven. Who knew he was hiding that under all those baggy t-shirts and existential angst?”

Gwen laughed, a genuine laugh that felt good after the tension of maintaining her silent pact of ignorance with Rudra all day. “He does look… different,” she admitted, choosing her words carefully. Different was an understatement. The image of Rudra in his swim trunks, the lean, sculpted power of his physique, was unexpectedly vivid in her mind. It was a jarring contrast to the boy she had woken up next to that one chaotic morning – a boy who had been softer, less defined, more… dorky. This new Rudra was an entirely different species.

“Different?” Felicia snorted. “Girl, he’s a Greek statue come to life. A slightly awkward, terribly dressed Greek statue who probably still alphabetizes his manga collection, but a statue nonetheless.”

“Can’t wait to get to your place, Fee,” Gwen said, changing the subject slightly, though a blush warmed her cheeks. “Your dad still hide those craft beers in the back of the produce drawer in the fridge? Because after that swimming class display and nearly acing that impossible calculus quiz, I think today officially calls for one. Or two.”

Felicia grinned. “You know the drill, Stacy. Operation Quiet Raider will commence shortly. My dad’s working late, so the coast should be clear.”

They turned onto a quieter residential street, lined with older, well-kept brownstones. Their laughter faded as they saw the scene unfolding a little way down the block, near the mouth of a narrow alleyway.

A young woman, probably not much older than themselves, was pressed against a brick wall by two rough-looking men. A third man stood slightly apart, leering, effectively blocking her escape. The woman’s face was pale with terror, her body language screaming fear. The men were closing in, their intentions chillingly clear from their aggressive postures and lewd comments that drifted towards Gwen and Felicia on the slight breeze.

“Oh my god,” Felicia breathed, her hand instinctively grabbing Gwen’s arm, her earlier levity vanishing. “Gwen, call 911! Quick!” She fumbled for her phone, her fingers suddenly clumsy.

Gwen’s heart pounded. Her enhanced senses, a constant thrum beneath her awareness since the OsCorp spider incident, flared to life. She could hear the woman’s terrified, shallow breathing, the men’s guttural laughter, the scrape of a shoe as one of them took another step closer. She saw the glint of something metallic in one man’s hand – a knife.

Police. Yes, police were the answer. But how long would they take? Seconds could be an eternity for that woman.

A surge of adrenaline, hot and fierce, coursed through Gwen. This was it. This was what her strange new abilities, her impossible strength and speed, were for. It wasn’t a choice, not really. It was a responsibility.

“No time, Fee,” Gwen said, her voice low and tight, a strange calm settling over her. “Stay back. And call them anyway, tell them what’s happening.”

Before Felicia could protest, Gwen was moving.

She didn’t run; she flowed. The world seemed to slow down around her, her perceptions sharpening to an incredible degree. She saw the trajectory of the leering man’s gaze, the way the knife-wielder held his blade, the subtle shift in weight as the third man prepared to grab the woman.

She covered the distance in a blur of motion that would have been impossible just weeks ago. The man blocking the alley entrance turned, surprised by her sudden appearance, his eyes widening as she launched herself into the air, not with a normal jump, but with a spider-like bound that carried her over his head. She twisted mid-air, her foot lashing out to connect solidly with the side of the knife-wielder’s head. He went down with a grunt, the knife clattering onto the pavement.

She landed lightly, already spinning to face the third man, who was lunging for the now-screaming woman. Gwen’s hand shot out, intercepting his arm, her grip like steel. His eyes bulged in shock and pain as she applied a twisting pressure he couldn’t have anticipated. With a sharp cry, he stumbled back, clutching his wrist.

The first man, the one she’d jumped over, recovered his senses and charged at her, bellowing. Gwen met his rush, not by bracing, but by sidestepping with impossible agility, her hand striking out like a cobra at a cluster of nerves in his neck. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

It was over in less than ten seconds. Three assailants, neutralized, groaning or unconscious. The young woman was slumped against the wall, sobbing, but physically unharmed.

Gwen stood, breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from the sheer, raw intensity of the experience. Her fists were still clenched, a tremor running through her limbs. She felt a dizzying cocktail of emotions: fear, exhilaration, and a profound, almost terrifying, sense of her own capability. The raw effectiveness of her powers in a real-world, life-or-death scenario was staggering. This was what she could do. This was who she now was.

—

Felicia’s jaw was somewhere around her knees. She’d fumbled her call to 911, stammering out a location and a garbled description of an assault in progress, all while watching her best friend, Gwen Stacy – smart, pretty, occasionally stressed-about-calculus Gwen Stacy – transform into a veritable whirlwind of righteous fury. One minute Gwen was beside her, talking about beer and boys; the next, she was a blonde blur, taking down three grown men as if they were training dummies.

“Gwen?” Felicia finally managed, her voice a squeak, as Gwen helped the tearful victim to her feet, speaking to her in low, soothing tones. “What… what in the actual hell was THAT?”

The victim, after a torrent of grateful, almost incoherent thanks, quickly hurried away, clearly wanting to put as much distance between herself and the scene as possible. Gwen turned to Felicia, her chest still heaving slightly, her blue eyes bright with a mixture of adrenaline and something Felicia couldn’t quite name – power, maybe.

“Fee, it’s… it’s okay,” Gwen said, trying for a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Everyone’s safe.”

“Safe? Gwen, you just went full-on superhero! You were like… like something out of a comic book! How did you do that? When did you learn how to do that? Are you secretly a ninja? Because if you are, we need to have a serious talk about your definition of ‘best friend’ secrets!” Felicia’s words tumbled out, a torrent of shock and dawning excitement.

Gwen managed a shaky laugh. “No, not a ninja.” She led Felicia away from the scene, just as the distant wail of sirens began to grow louder. “Let’s get to your place. I… I don’t know how to explain it properly. It’s new. I’ve just… changed. I’m stronger, faster than before. Way stronger and faster. I don’t fully understand it myself yet.”

At Felicia’s house, safely ensconced in Felicia’s artfully cluttered bedroom – a haven of band posters, fashion sketches, and an impressive collection of black clothing – the story began to emerge, albeit in vague terms. Gwen admitted that for the past few weeks, she’d been noticing changes in herself, an increase in strength, agility, senses. She didn’t mention a spider, or OsCorp, or anything that would sound certifiably insane. She just knew she wasn’t normal anymore. Today was the first time she’d truly unleashed it.

Felicia listened, her initial shock slowly morphing into an intense, almost feverish, excitement. Her green eyes, usually cool and appraising, were wide and shining. “Gwen,” she said, her voice hushed with awe after Gwen finished her hesitant explanation. “This is… this is incredible. You have powers. Real powers.”

Then, Felicia’s expression shifted, the excitement giving way to a deeper, more somber emotion. She walked over to her window, staring out at the city street below. “Gwen,” she began, her voice suddenly tight, “you know about my real Dad. I told you he died in a car accident.”
Gwen nodded. It was the story Felicia had always told.

Felicia turned back, her eyes now shadowed with a pain Gwen had rarely seen. “That wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth. It… it wasn’t an accident. He was murdered, Gwen. By gangsters. Some low-level crew they’d inadvertently crossed, something to do with my dad’s old business associates before he tried to go straight. The police… they tried. But the guys who did it were slippery, connected. They were never caught. They just… got away with it.”

A tear traced a path down Felicia’s cheek. “I felt so helpless, Gwen. So angry. This city… it’s full of people like that, preying on the weak, thinking they can get away with anything.”
She looked at Gwen, her gaze fierce and pleading. “Someone like you, Gwen… someone with your abilities… you could actually do something. Something real. You could stop people like the ones who hurt my Dad. You could give people hope. You could be the justice that people like me never got.”

Gwen listened, her heart aching for her friend. Felicia’s pain was a raw, tangible thing in the room. The idea of using her powers to help others, to fight crime, had been a nebulous concept in Gwen’s mind since her own transformation, solidifying after today’s intervention. But Felicia’s passionate, deeply personal plea gave it an undeniable weight, a profound sense of purpose. It wasn’t just about stopping random muggings anymore; it was about fighting a larger darkness.

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of Felicia’s confession and the implication of Gwen’s new reality settling between them. Felicia, true to her word, had managed to liberate a couple of her father’s craft beers from the back of the fridge, and they sipped them slowly, the slightly bitter taste a counterpoint to the heavy emotions.

Then Felicia’s eyes lit up with a new, determined spark. “Okay,” she said, wiping away the last of her tears. “If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be… this amazing, crime-fighting badass… you can’t just run around in your jeans and sweater. You need a look. A symbol. Something that tells the bad guys they’re about to have a very, very bad day.”

Gwen looked at her, surprised. “A look? Like a… costume?”

“Exactly!” Felicia exclaimed, jumping up, her earlier grief now channeled into an almost manic creative energy. She started rummaging through a trunk filled with old clothes, fabric remnants, art supplies. “We need something that says ‘I’m here to save you, but also, don’t mess with me.’ Something sleek, something that lets you move. Something… iconic.”

An hour later, Felicia’s bedroom floor was covered in sketches, fabric swatches, and discarded ideas. They talked colors – whites, blacks, maybe a shocking pink or teal as an accent. They discussed materials – something durable, flexible. Gwen mentioned wanting a mask, something to protect her identity, to separate Gwen Stacy, high school student, from this new, emerging persona. Felicia, her design instincts now fully engaged, was a whirlwind of ideas, her earlier pain transformed into fierce, focused creativity.

Gwen watched her friend, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. The path ahead was uncertain, dangerous, and more than a little terrifying. But looking at Felicia’s determined expression, at the nascent designs for a hero’s attire spread across the floor, Gwen felt a flicker of something new: not just responsibility, but also a hesitant, burgeoning hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could actually do this. Maybe they both could.

The city needed a hero. And perhaps, improbably, that hero was her.