The reasoning behind the Spider-Man design was straightforward, starting with cost. The base materials were completely ordinary—available at any supermarket. The construction was simple enough that Peter Parker—a rough, sloppy guy—had cut and sewn one together himself. For someone with Maya's dexterity, it would be trivial.
But the most important factor was functional overlap. Maya and Spider-Man shared a core ability: wall-climbing. Peter gripped surfaces by firing tiny adhesive barbs from his palms, letting him traverse building faces at speed. Maya achieved the same through chakra adhesion applied through the soles of her feet. Both techniques demanded the same thing from a suit—lightweight, breathable fabric, full coverage, a one-piece design that moved without restriction. No more all-black hoodie in the dark.
Okay, all of that was complete nonsense.
Maya could fool other people, but she couldn't fool herself. She knew exactly what her real motive was.
She couldn't show her real face—that was non-negotiable; any idiot understood the value of a secret identity. And Spider-Man's look worked. The original storyline proved it: people loved that costume. If Maya wanted to rack up Influence Points efficiently, borrowing Spider-Man's visual brand was the path of least resistance.
She'd run through the alternatives:
Black Widow's leather suit—Maya didn't have the body for it yet.
Iron Man's armor—she couldn't build it.
Ant-Man's suit—the design was ugly; even the films had barely made it work.
Thor's look—absolutely not.
Hulk's "outfit" — the big green guy didn't exactly have one.
Captain America's suit—still popular? Yeah right—nobody even wants to wear it anymore; she'd get laughed to death wearing it out.
Her actual favorite was Superman's iconic red cape—sharp, timeless, impressive. The Kryptonian suit was stunning too. But this was the real world. Not even New York was full of people blind enough to miss a face.
At the end of the day, this came down to Influence Points. Once Maya had confirmed that the Frank Gardes incident had generated more points in a single evening than fifteen years of accumulated shameless self-promotion, her entire perspective had collapsed.
Fifteen years of hard work—outperformed by one night of crime-fighting. What?
She knew, logically, that Frank's death had been unusually dramatic and public—a perfect storm for Influence Points. The harbor rescue had also brought in several thousand points, while an entire math olympiad win had delivered just over a thousand. It was like comparing a top-tier national research scientist's annual salary to a celebrity heiress's monthly allowance. Yeah, she was talking about you, little fatty!
Still—she wasn't about to become a full-time Spider-Man, helping old ladies cross the street every evening after school. She wasn't even going to patrol for random street crime.
She'd already worked it out. Once a week, on a randomized night, she'd patrol the Hudson River waterfront. Human trafficking cases only. What had happened to those victims had shaken her—and that applied equally to non-Chinese victims going forward.
Other crimes, other nights? Only if she stumbled directly onto something. She had no interest in letting Influence Points consume her life. The whole point of accumulating them was to have a better life. Getting the order of causality backwards would make her the biggest fool imaginable.
Besides, the alien invasions were still over a decade away. She was grinding chakra every day regardless. Even if she went completely dark on Influence Points from this moment forward—if it really came down to it—she'd just do what Naruto did. Build up enough chakra to form a Rasengan the size of Manhattan and let those extraterrestrial idiots stuff themselves fat in one bite.
...You couldn't really blame her for the naivety—she'd arrived a bit too early. If she'd transmigrated just one year later, she'd already know: the aliens had been here all along.
Maya tucked the new fabric under her arm and stopped at the corner newsstand on her way home. Not the same stand as before—and not to pick up anything for Tom this time.
She wanted to see how the papers were covering last night's incident.
A few other people were already flipping through copies as she walked up. Maya went straight for the New York Times. The front page showed a formal photo of Frank Gardes—jacket and tie—under the headline: THE MOST PATHETICALLY HUMILIATING DEATH IN HISTORY.
She put it back. Picked up the Daily News. This one was worse: it had printed the double-eyed death glare from the crime scene, with the headline: IS THIS A COLLAPSE OF MORALITY, OR THE DEPTHS OF HUMAN DEPRAVITY?
She set that one down too. When she reached for the New York Post, the middle-aged heavyset owner let out a pointed cough and gestured at a small handwritten sign: DO NOT READ WITHOUT BUYING.
Maya composed herself. "Sir—you've probably read the coverage by now. Why is every paper sensationalizing this? Is there anything more factual out there?"
A young man nearby perked up and turned toward them.
The owner shrugged with the world-weary confidence of a man who'd seen it all. "What, you didn't watch the TV coverage last night? The TV had everything. These papers—if they just repeat what's already out there without some angle, some hook, some dramatic flair? Nobody buys them. Look: the Times, the Post, the Daily News, the NY Newsday—all of them going for maximum drama, all of them selling out. Then look at that one over there—the Bugle. Reads like a police report. Dry as dust. You want that one, kid?"
Before Maya could answer, the young man nearby suddenly spoke up, his voice sharp with indignation:
"The Bugle's editor personally cross-referenced every source, individually interviewed everyone who was present at the scene, and pulled first-hand material directly from the police department! He worked through the night to give New York readers an accurate account of —"
His companion grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him toward the door, speaking low and fast. "James. Calm down. I know the editor-in-chief said some harsh things, but our circulation really is lower than —"
"That doesn't justify it! Journalists are supposed to present the full truth, to let the public —"
Their voices faded as they moved further away. The owner snorted. "Was that pretty-boy the editor? I'd have fired him a long time ago. That kind of guy's got no future in this business." He leaned on his counter. "So—which one are you taking, kid?"
Maya snapped back to attention and paid for the Bugle.
She'd been distracted for a reason. She had just decided to co-opt Spider-Man's aesthetic—and within minutes, she'd run into an editor from the Daily Bugle. The coincidence bordered on ridiculous.
She didn't recognize him at the time, of course. Even with the distinctive jawline, even with the paper's name and his own first name—in the Marvel universe, the man was a relatively minor figure.
No one could have guessed that the future Daily Bugle editor-in-chief—legendary for his breathless, sensationalist anti-Spider-Man headlines—had once stood on a sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen, this earnest and idealistic, genuinely believing in journalism.
The irony was almost too good.