Hearing Jamal's cry, Lucius forgot all about Officer Bill and rushed inside with Dr. Barron in tow.
Barron peeled back Andrew's eyelid, checked the readings on the bedside monitors, then turned to the anxious father. "Mr. Lyon, Andrew's fine. He's fainted from blood loss — a temporary episode. He'll come around in a few minutes."
"What? He bled that much yesterday afternoon and you people didn't give him a transfusion?" Lucius demanded, incredulous.
Barron gave a pained smile. "St. Mary's has an excellent reputation, even here on the East Side. We don't make mistakes that elementary. I'm guessing the police drew more blood." He turned to Jamal. "Son, did the officers take any blood from your brother?"
"Yeah, a huge vial. They took my blood too." Jamal answered.
Lucius had regained his composure. A pensive look crossed his face. "So the tension between the government and mutants has escalated this far," he murmured. "Local precincts are already getting involved — with this kind of response time, this kind of impunity... A storm is coming."
Just then Andrew stirred with a groan, and Lucius shelved the mutant question. He strode to the bedside and whipped back the blanket. "Jesus. What happened to that? Dr. Barron — is it... can he still use it?"
Barron walked over, gave the area a clinical once-over, then paused and turned to a pretty, red-haired nurse in her early twenties. "Jessica, come give him an examination."
Thirty seconds later, Barron exclaimed, "A miracle. An absolute miracle! Completely severed yesterday afternoon, functional again this morning. Good lord — is Andrew truly not a mutant? It's a bit... aesthetically challenged, I'll grant you, but it's healed. How?"
Lucius, gaping like a fish: Perhaps, possibly, conceivably, maybe... it's bigger than mine?
That morning at the breakfast table, Maya heard the system chime again. She set down her plate, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and said, "Jennifer, take your time. I'm going to my room to read."
Door locked, Maya called out silently: System, show me my Influence Points and attribute panel.
Influence Points: 59,538
(Base 58,906. Healing Jutsu expenditure: −9,500. Last night's patrol — Chakra Scalpel energy gun: +8,300. Andrew's-manhood-gets-an-audience incident: +1,832.)
New Attribute:
Spatial Attribute Development: Bronze Lv. 5, 65% (Dipping your toes into the spatial domain — keep it up!)
Medical Ninjutsu: Gold Lv. 7, 35% (Tsunade's evaluation: "Maya, come be my apprentice! You're an enhanced fusion of Karin and Sakura. You developed a personalized medical ninjutsu in just a few hours — you're exactly the kind of genius the Hidden Leaf needs!")
Upgrading a Silver Lv. 7 Healing Jutsu to Gold Lv. 7 was exciting but not unexpected — last night's work on Andrew had earned it. Her medical abilities genuinely merited a Gold-tier rating.
The real thrill was the patrol earnings: 8,300 Influence Points in just a few hours. A few more nights like that and she wouldn't have to dread the gacha luck anymore.
Except that hope was beautiful, and reality was cruel.
"Damn it! You ungrateful American pigs — Madam President saved your lives! One life per person, the only one you'll ever get! The rubberneckers not giving IP, fine, whatever — but you twenty-three people hand over a grand total of 141 points? This is outrageous!"
One evening, Maya had just rescued the passengers of a flipped bus and blocked a speeding semi-truck that was about to plow into the wreckage. Without her, the pedestrians nearby were a question mark, but the bus passengers and driver would've been dead for certain.
She waited. And waited. No system chime. She opened the Influence Points panel and nearly choked on her own blood.
The scattered +0.01 trickles weren't worth mentioning. Even the people she'd directly saved were giving +8, +9 at best. Back when she'd rescued kidnapping victims, each person was worth two or three hundred. Just days ago, a single rescue netted at least +50. Had human life actually depreciated?
These last couple of nights especially — gone were the 8,000+ daily hauls. Breaking 2,000 had become a struggle. New Yorkers seemed to have simply gotten used to Spider-Man. The news barely mentioned her anymore, never mind headline treatment.
And Maya's guess was dead-on. Manhattan had genuinely normalized Spider-Man's existence. Crime-fighting and rescue work were met with a collective shrug of well, yeah, that's what Spider-Man does. Civilians she saved looked at their rescuer and thought, as expected. Some criminals had even started scheduling their heists for daylight hours, preferring broad-daylight robbery to a midnight run-in with the web-slinger.
"Forget it. I should ease off. Nightly patrols are earning less and less, and my Hansen Immortal-Ninja Art cultivation is slowing down. Matt seems about ready to drop, too."
Sighing, Maya ducked into a Turkish kebab shop on the corner.
"Boss, two kebabs — light on the cumin, no chili. Get those started, I'll run next door to the store."
"Got it — Spider-Man's usual, two kebabs, thirty bucks, to go!" The cashier jotted it down without a flicker of excitement. Spider-Man patronizing their shop had long since stopped being news.
The Shadow Clone left the order and slipped into the little supermarket next door. "Hey, Pete! Two blocks of tofu, a pound of lamb rolls, and a 1.5-liter juice."
Old Pete set down his radio and began stuffing items into a paper bag. "Spider-Man, word is you've hit the big time — sponsors lining up to sign you. Are we gonna see you in a TV commercial?"
The clone leaned against the counter. "Couldn't agree on a price. So far, only Coca-Cola's willing to cover my taxes and set up a dedicated account for me. Look — here's the logo." Maya tapped the Coca-Cola decal on her ODM box.
"Huh, I didn't even notice! Though I still think the old black spider stripes looked cooler. You know what you should do? Promote musicians. That bass speaker of yours is famous all over New York. People say you've got great taste — any song you play sends their album sales through the roof."
"Nah, I'm just earning enough for late-night snacks. The music's whatever I feel like listening to. Shilling for somebody else means torturing my own ears." Maya waved the idea off.
Old Pete gave a thumbs-up. "Well said! Your own happiness comes first. Money can't buy that. That'll be eight dollars."
"Here's ten. Keep the change."
"Ha ha, don't mind if I do! You've got that big contract now, after all!"