Respawned in Marvel: The Ultimate Hunter System - Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Why don’t you become Superhero?

The morning air in Queens felt thick, carrying a heavy, unspoken tension that seemed to settle over the entire borough.

Inside Mid-Town High, the usual chaotic energy of a Tuesday morning had been replaced by a collective, nervous hum. Lockers slammed with a bit less force. Laughter was subdued. In every corner of the hallway, students were huddled in small groups, their faces illuminated by the pale glow of their smartphones. The screens all played the same terrifying, shaky footage: a massive, green-scaled monstrosity ripping a taxi cab to shreds on the Williamsburg Bridge, and a frantic figure in a red-and-blue mask desperately trying to hold the line.

Veer Pratap Singh stood in front of his locker, his expression carefully neutral. His eyes, however, flicked to the left.

Peter Parker’s locker was locked tight. There was no sign of the awkward, stuttering kid who usually fumbled with his combination right about now.

Veer let out a slow, quiet breath. So he took a beating, Veer thought. He had watched the news coverage last night from his quiet apartment in Astoria. He had seen the raw kinetic force the lizard creature possessed. If Peter had gone toe-to-toe with that thing, even with his spider-enhanced physiology, the kid was likely waking up this morning with bruised ribs, a mild concussion, and a terrifying realization of his own mortality.

“It feels wrong, doesn’t it? Being here today.”

Veer turned. Gwen Stacy was standing a few feet away, clutching a thick binder to her chest. She looked exhausted. The immaculate, composed class president was nowhere to be seen. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and the dark circles under her blue eyes were heavy. She looked small, vulnerable, and deeply shaken.

“The world rarely stops spinning just because we want off the ride, Gwen,” Veer said gently, closing his locker.

Gwen let out a shaky sigh and leaned her shoulder against the cold metal of the lockers next to his. “I know. It’s just… I can’t stop thinking about last night. My dad didn’t come home until five in the morning. He smelled like smoke and chemical fires.” She looked down at her shoes, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And I feel so stupid. I spent weeks planning that stupid birthday party. Worrying about the playlist, the food… and while we were standing in my backyard drinking soda, people were dying a few miles away.”

Veer’s gaze softened. Beneath his stoic exterior, the older, pragmatic soul within him felt a pang of genuine empathy for the girl. She was a teenager trying to make sense of a world that was rapidly expanding into a nightmare.

“Gwen, look at me,” Veer said. His voice was low, anchoring.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his.

“You didn’t cause the bridge attack. You didn’t invite the monster to New York,” Veer told her, his tone stripped of its usual dark irony. “You wanted to celebrate being alive for another year with your friends. That is a good thing. Do not let the chaos outside your house steal the warmth inside it. Feeling guilty because you were safe while others weren’t is a heavy burden, and it is entirely useless. Let it go.”

Gwen stared at him for a long moment. The frantic, anxious energy that had been vibrating off her seemed to settle just a fraction. She managed a small, fragile smile.

“You always do that, you know,” she murmured.

“Do what?”

“Talk like you’ve lived a hundred years,” she said softly. “It’s weird. But today… it actually helps. Thank you, Veer.”

“Don’t mention it. Have you heard from Peter?”

The anxiety quickly returned to Gwen’s eyes. She shook her head. “No. I texted him three times. It goes straight to voicemail. I’m really worried about him, Veer. He’s been so distant, and now with all this happening…”

“He’s resilient,” Veer said, knowing far more than he could ever say. “Give him time.”

—

The morning classes were a blur of nervous teachers trying and failing to keep their students focused on history and calculus. By the time the lunch bell rang, Veer was genuinely looking forward to the cafeteria. He had exactly twenty-two dollars to his name, which meant his lunch consisted of an apple and a stale granola bar he had found in the back of Chloe’s pantry, but he just wanted a place to sit and strategize his next financial move.

He pushed through the double doors of the cafeteria. The noise hit him like a physical wave—hundreds of kids shouting over each other, trying to process the trauma of the city’s new reality.

Veer kept his head down, navigating toward an empty table near the back windows, when someone stepped directly into his path.

“You’re a hard guy to track down, Veer.”

He stopped. Standing in front of him, with a tray balanced effortlessly on one hip, was Felicia Hardy.

She looked entirely out of place in the chaotic, fluorescent-lit cafeteria. She had the kind of effortless, striking confidence that usually paralyzed high school boys. Her platinum blonde hair caught the harsh light, and she was wearing a fitted leather jacket over her clothes that definitely violated the school dress code. Her pale blue eyes were fixed on him, dancing with a mixture of curiosity and bold amusement.

Around them, the immediate vicinity went quiet. A few heads turned. The captain of the cheerleading squad intercepting the quiet, baggy-clothed transfer student was a massive disruption to the social ecosystem.

“Felicia,” Veer said, his brow furrowing slightly in genuine surprise. He adjusted his grip on his backpack. “I wasn’t aware I was being tracked.”

“Well, you hide well. You’ve got this whole ‘invisible in plain sight’ thing going on,” she said, taking a step closer, totally ignoring the stares of the students around them. She tilted her head, a playful smirk touching her lips. “I’m getting a coffee from the kiosk. Come sit with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, delivered with the absolute certainty of a girl who rarely heard the word no.

Veer looked at her, then glanced at the kiosk. “I only have an apple. And my budget for overpriced school coffee is currently zero.”

Felicia let out a genuine, musical laugh. “I’m buying, Veer. Don’t worry, your pride will survive. Come on.”

Before he could argue, she turned and started walking toward a small two-seater table by the windows, fully expecting him to follow. Veer sighed, a slight, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Teenagers, he thought. He followed her.

They sat down, two steaming paper cups of coffee between them. Felicia took a sip, her eyes never leaving his face.

“So,” Felicia started, resting her chin on her hand. “Are you always this intense, or is it just a Tuesday thing?”

“Intense?” Veer echoed, peeling the sticker off his apple. “I think you’re confusing ‘intense’ with ‘tired’.”

“No, I don’t think I am,” she smiled, leaning in just a fraction. “Most guys in this school trip over their own feet if I look at them for more than five seconds. You just look at me like I’m a complicated math problem you haven’t decided if you want to solve yet.”

Veer chuckled softly, taking a bite of the apple. It was crisp, at least. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why the most popular girl in school is buying me coffee. Social charity? A dare? Or are you just bored?”

“A little bit of boredom,” Felicia admitted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But mostly, I’m just observant. I saw you in the hallway a couple of weeks ago. You bumped into Flash Thompson’s shoulder, and the guy flinched like you had a knife. Flash doesn’t flinch for anyone. But he’s terrified of you.”

She reached across the table, her manicured finger tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “You walk quietly. You don’t brag. You don’t try to impress anyone. It makes me wonder what you’re hiding under those oversized hoodies, Veer Pratap Singh.”

The conversation was smooth, carrying a natural, flirtatious rhythm that caught Veer slightly off guard. He had expected a superficial interrogation, but Felicia was sharp. She was reading the subtle physical cues he thought he was hiding.

“I’m hiding a severe lack of fashion sense and a very boring personality,” Veer deflected easily, meeting her gaze. “You’d be disappointed.”

“I doubt that,” she murmured, a soft, teasing edge to her voice. “I have a feeling you’re a lot of things, Veer, but boring isn’t one of them. What do you do when you’re not at school? You don’t play sports. You’re not in any clubs. Where do you go?”

“I work,” Veer said, thinking of the blood-stained mat of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “I do some heavy lifting. Try to pay the rent.”

Felicia’s expression softened slightly, a flash of genuine intrigue breaking through her playful facade. “You pay rent? Like, your own apartment?”

“Shared with a roommate,” Veer nodded. “Astoria. It has windows, a floor, and a landlord who enjoys yelling at me. It’s a very glamorous life.”

“You really are different,” she said, her voice dropping into a quieter, more intimate register. The cafeteria noise seemed to fade into the background. She wasn’t just flirting anymore; she was genuinely captivated by the anomaly sitting across from her. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against the sleeve of his hoodie. “Most guys my age are worried about video games. You’re out there actually living in the real world.”

Veer looked down at her hand, feeling a strange, unexpected flicker of warmth. He was a man trapped in a teenager’s body, bearing the weight of survival, debt, and violent underground fights. Having a pretty, intelligent girl look at him with such focused, genuine interest was… nice. It was a brief, fleeting moment of normalcy.

He looked back up into her pale blue eyes, a genuine smile finally breaking through his stoic mask. “The real world is highly overrated, Felicia. I’d trade it for a video game right about now.”

Felicia smiled back, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Maybe I can help you escape it for a while. We should—”

SLAM.

The violent crash of a plastic lunch tray hitting their table shattered the moment instantly. Hot coffee sloshed over the rims of their cups, burning Veer’s knuckles.

Veer’s eyes snapped up, his smile vanishing, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating glare of the arena fighter.

Flash Thompson was standing over their table.

But this wasn’t the arrogant bully looking to ruin a moment. Flash looked completely destroyed. His face was ashen, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying, and his hands were trembling so violently the tray rattled against the table. He was breathing in short, ragged gasps, staring wildly at Veer, completely ignoring Felicia’s existence.

Felicia recoiled, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. The soft, intimate atmosphere evaporated into the harsh fluorescent light. She looked at Flash with a mixture of shock and deep irritation.

“Are you out of your mind, Eugene?” Felicia snapped, grabbing a napkin to dab at the spilled coffee on her jacket.

Flash didn’t even look at her. “I need to talk to him,” he croaked, his voice cracking.

Felicia scoffed, standing up. The playful, vulnerable girl from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a wall of high-school ice. She looked down at Veer, her expression a mix of disappointment and annoyance.

“This date doesn’t count, Veer,” she said coolly, tossing the napkin onto the puddle of coffee. “We’re trying this again. Pick a table with better security next time.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, the click of her boots disappearing into the noise of the cafeteria.

Veer didn’t watch her go. His dark eyes were locked on Flash. A deep, heavy anger simmered in Veer’s chest. He had been enjoying that. For five minutes, he had felt like a normal human being.

“Eugene,” Veer’s voice was dangerously low, carrying a warning that made the hair on Flash’s arms stand up. “You have exactly five seconds to explain why you just did that, or I am going to throw you through that window.”

Flash ignored the threat entirely. The terror he usually felt around Veer was completely eclipsed by a desperate, crushing grief. He practically collapsed into Felicia’s empty chair, leaning aggressively across the small table.

“Do you have them?” Flash whispered frantically, tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “Super powers. Like the guy on the bridge. Do you have them?”

Veer’s brow wrinkled in deep confusion. The anger abruptly cooled, replaced by a sharp, tactical caution. He leaned back, putting distance between himself and Flash’s erratic energy.

“Why are you asking me this right now?” Veer demanded quietly.

Flash squeezed his eyes shut, a sob tearing its way out of his throat. He wiped his nose with the back of his trembling hand.

“Because of last night,” Flash choked out, his voice a jagged, broken whisper. “The bridge. My Uncle Marcus… he was on the bridge, Veer. He was stuck in traffic in his Lincoln.”

Veer went entirely still. The ambient noise of the cafeteria vanished completely.

“That… that lizard freak,” Flash sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “It picked up a city bus. It threw it. It crushed his car, Veer. He’s dead. Marcus is dead.”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over Veer.

Marcus.

The image of the bookie flashed in his mind. The salt-and-pepper hair. The scarred eyebrow. The gold tooth. The man who had driven him to the Brooklyn Navy Yard in that same black Lincoln Town Car. Marcus had been a cynical underworld figure, yes, but he had treated Veer with a bizarre kind of respect. He had been fair. He had been a fixed point in Veer’s chaotic new life.

And now, he was a casualty on the evening news. Crushed into a smear of metal and blood on a bridge because a scientist lost his mind.

Veer let out a long, slow sigh. He reached up, rubbing the bridge of his nose as a profound sense of exhaustion washed over him. The reality of this composite universe was brutal. Actions had consequences, and collateral damage wasn’t just a plot device. It was the people you knew.

“I am… deeply sorry for your loss, Eugene,” Veer said, his voice stripped of its usual edge. It was thick with genuine sorrow. “Marcus was a pragmatic man. I liked him.”

Flash leaned closer, his eyes wild, pleading. “If you have powers… if you’re like that guy on the TV… why don’t you do something? Why don’t you put on a mask? You could be a hero, Veer! Like Spider-Man! You could stop things like this from happening! You could save people!”

Veer looked at the grieving teenager sitting across from him. The irony of it was physically painful. Flash spent his days shoving Peter Parker into lockers, completely unaware that the boy he bullied was the very savior he was currently worshipping through his tears. Flash was desperate for a hero, and he was projecting that desperate hope onto the only person he knew who was capable of violence.

Veer kept his voice low, steady, and relentlessly gentle. He couldn’t give Flash the fantasy he wanted. He had to kill it, for both their sakes.

“Eugene, listen to me,” Veer said softly. “My abilities… they do not work like Spider-Man’s. I am strong, yes. I am fast. But that is it. That is the absolute extent of what I can do.”

“But you beat Kastro! You—”

“I punch hard,” Veer interrupted, his tone firm but empathetic. “That is not a superpower suited for saving a city. Think about the logistics, Flash. Look at the reality.”

Flash stared at him, his tears momentarily pausing.

“Last night,” Veer continued, his voice methodically breaking down the illusion. “When the bridge was attacked, I was standing in Gwen Stacy’s backyard. With you. We were drinking soda. If a monster attacks the Brooklyn Bridge, how exactly am I supposed to find out about it?”

Flash opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“I do not have a police scanner,” Veer said. “I do not have a radar sense. If I find out about an attack by watching the evening news, it is already too late. I cannot shoot webs from my wrists, Eugene. I cannot swing over Manhattan traffic at sixty miles an hour.”

Veer leaned forward, his dark, ancient eyes locking onto Flash’s broken ones.

“If I want to get to the Brooklyn Bridge from Queens, I have to walk to the subway. I have to wait for the train. By the time I arrive, the monster is gone, the damage is done, and the people are already gone.” Veer paused, letting the harsh truth settle. “I cannot patrol a city from the ground. I am no different from a normal person who just happens to be a bit stronger. You cannot call that a super power. And you certainly cannot save the world with a MetroCard.”

Flash stared at him. The desperate, manic hope that had been keeping him upright slowly drained from his face. The cold logic of Veer’s words left no room for argument. It destroyed the fantasy completely.

“So…” Flash whispered, looking down at his trembling hands. “You’re just… you’re just a guy.”

“I am just a guy,” Veer lied, protecting his Nen, his System, and his parents back home. “I am sorry I cannot be what you need me to be, Eugene. Truly.”

Flash didn’t say anything else. The energy seemed to completely leave his body. He nodded once, a slow, numb movement. He stood up from the table, his shoulders slumped, and walked away, looking smaller and more lost than Veer had ever seen him.

Veer sat alone at the table, the cold coffee pooling around the apple. He stared out the cafeteria window, feeling the weight of the city pressing down on him.

—

Deep beneath the bustling, sunlit streets of Manhattan, far away from high school cafeterias and grieving teenagers, the air was cold, damp, and smelled of centuries of rot.

The city’s ancient sewer system was a sprawling labyrinth of echoing brick tunnels and rushing, grey water. In the center of a massive, cavernous junction, illuminated only by the faint, sickly yellow glow of an emergency maintenance light, a massive shadow huddled against the curved brick wall.

Dr. Curt Connors sat on the damp concrete, his knees pulled to his chest. But the chest was no longer human.

It was covered in thick, impenetrable, dark green scales. His white lab coat hung in ragged, dirty shreds over a torso that was heavily muscled and terrifyingly alien. His right arm, the one he had lived without for so many years, was fully formed, ending in long, razor-sharp talons that effortlessly carved deep grooves into the brickwork every time his hand twitched.

He was shivering violently. It wasn’t from the cold of the sewer. It was from the violent psychological war tearing his mind in half.

“They are fragile,” a voice hissed. It didn’t come from the echoing tunnels. It slithered from the inside of his own skull. The voice was deep, resonant, and dripping with an ancient, predatory contempt. “They break. They bleed. They die from simple, pathetic things.”

“No,” Connors whispered aloud, his voice sounding grotesque, filtering through an elongated, reptilian throat. He clutched his scaled head with his massive claws. “The formula… it was meant to cure them. To fix the weakness. Not to… not to destroy.”

“Fix?” the reptilian split personality sneered within his mind, a cold, mocking laughter echoing in his brain. “Look at what you are now, Doctor. Look at the absolute perfection of this form. You feel no pain. You feel no fear. This world is sick, Connors. Humanity is a disease of weakness.”

Connors squeezed his yellow, slit-pupil eyes shut. Horrific memories of the bridge flashed behind his eyelids. The screaming of the commuters. The tearing of metal. But worst of all… the visceral, terrifying joy he had felt when his jaws had snapped through the reinforced steel of Ratha’s limousine. He had enjoyed the terror. He had reveled in the raw power.

“I wanted to save them,” Connors sobbed, a single tear cutting a path through the grime on his scaled cheek. “I just wanted a world without weakness. A world where soldiers don’t come home broken.”

“And you can have it,” the serum’s voice whispered, shifting from mocking to soothing, insidious and persuasive. “If they remain human, they will continue to suffer. They will lose their limbs, their minds, their loved ones. They will die in metal boxes on bridges. But if they evolve… if you give them the gift you have given yourself… there will be no more suffering. Only strength. Only perfection.”

Slowly, the shivering stopped.

“You can heal the entire world, Doctor.”

Connors opened his eyes. The human conflict, the guilt, the horror of what he had done—it all began to recede, buried beneath a rising tide of cold, reptilian clarity. The vertical slits of his eyes dilated in the gloom of the sewer.

The logic of the monster was flawless. Humanity was a terminal patient on life support. The lizard serum wasn’t a weapon; it was the only cure. To save the world, he just had to force the medicine down its throat.

His profound, desperate love to save humanity had finally reached its ultimate, twisted conclusion. It had turned him into the very thing he sought to protect the world from.

The Lizard stood up, his massive frame unfurling to his full nine-foot height. His heavy tail splashed into the dark water, a low, terrifying hiss echoing down the endless tunnels of New York.

“We begin,” the monster growled into the darkness.