That evening, George and his family moved into Lucas's apartment. The NYPD captain had finally learned the truth about who his daughter and her boyfriend really were.
Lucas's powers he could just about stomach—he'd seen enough weirdness in New York to believe anything—but finding out his daughter was the masked "Ghost Spider" nearly gave the poor man a heart attack.
It took both Lucas and Gwen a long time to calm him down. Ironically, the one who took it best was Mrs. Stacy. Helen had simply sighed, told Gwen and Lucas to be careful and not get hurt, then went right back to making dinner like nothing had happened.
As for the two younger Stacy kids? They were completely ignored. Between shoveling snacks and fighting over the TV remote, they were hardly a priority.
Once the family settled into the apartment, Lucas finally relaxed. As long as they stayed inside, no one could touch them—Moguri's wards and enchantments saw to that.
When Lucas explained the Hydra situation, George surprised him by staying perfectly composed. Years on the force had trained him to keep his cool.
"So these people are after you," George said, crossing his arms. "Until this blows over, you're staying home. Don't take risks. We're comfortable now—we don't need you out there picking fights."
Ever since Gwen had convinced him to invest in Stark Industries stock, George had gone from middle class to small-time rich. If Helen didn't like their current place so much, he'd already have bought a house in the suburbs.
Lucas grinned. "Relax, Dad. You've seen what I can do. If I really wanted to, I could level half of Manhattan before breakfast."
He wasn't exaggerating. One full-scale Zodiac Meteor and Manhattan would be a crater.
George just sighed. "Yeah, well… try not to test that theory."
The next few days passed quietly. No signs of Hydra, no suspicious activity. Lucas began to think maybe they'd given up.
George pulled every string he could through the NYPD, but the department's reach only went so far. Anything tied to military or intelligence was above his clearance level, and he came up empty-handed.
Then, one lazy afternoon at the agency, Lucas, Gwen, and Skye were sprawled on the couch binge-watching dramas while Moguri lay between them, basking under two pairs of gentle hands.
The door suddenly swung open. A man in a black suit and sunglasses stepped inside, flashing a badge.
"Apologies for the intrusion," he said flatly. "Mr. Lucas Norman, the Director would like to see you."
All three froze. Normally, if S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted something, it was Natasha or Coulson who came knocking—not some unfamiliar rookie.
"Where are Natasha and Coulson?" Lucas asked, taking the badge from him. He checked it carefully—it was a genuine S.H.I.E.L.D. credential. Coulson had once taught him how to spot fakes.
"They're both tied up at headquarters," the agent replied smoothly. "The Director sent us instead. The car's waiting outside. We're heading straight to the airfield."
"Right…" Lucas said. "Give me a sec. I'll make a call."
He dialed Natasha—no answer. Then Coulson—same. Finally, Fury. Still nothing.
The agent didn't even flinch. "They're underground right now, sir. No signal."
Lucas frowned but didn't push. He turned to Gwen and Skye. "I'll check it out. Don't wait up for me—and keep an eye on my folks."
With that, he followed the agent outside and climbed into the waiting car. Sure enough, they were headed toward one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s restricted airfields.
"So what's the Director doing underground?" Lucas asked casually.
The two men in front didn't respond—or even glance at him.
Lucas smiled faintly. "All right, enough pretending. You're not Fury's men. Let me guess… Hydra?"
The moment the name left his lips, both "agents" stiffened. They reached for their guns—too slow.
Lucas grabbed the front passenger's wrist, slammed it against the door, and sent the gun clattering away. One punch later, the man slumped unconscious.
The driver jammed a breathing mask over his face and slammed a button on the console.
Hisssss—
Thick white gas filled the cabin. The car screeched to a halt.
Lucas coughed, eyes stinging. His head spun. The anesthetic was strong—too strong. He could barely keep his eyes open.
He tried to channel energy, but his limbs felt like lead. Then—sharp pain in his neck—and everything went dark.
The door yanked open. A squad of heavily armed men dragged him out—the same special ops team from before.
But as they hoisted him up, Lucas's hand shot out like a viper, seizing one soldier by the throat.
Crack!
The man dropped instantly.
Lucas could barely see. His vision was nothing but blinding white, his consciousness slipping, but instinct kept him fighting.
Another faint whoosh!—a dart embedded itself in his side. Lucas ripped it free and hurled it blindly. It struck home—right through an attacker's eye.
Then came more darts—five, six, seven, all slamming into him in rapid succession.
The tranquilizer overload finally took him down.
"Jesus—he took eight doses meant for an elephant," the squad leader muttered, kicking Lucas's limp form. "What the hell is this guy?"
He gave him another spiteful kick. "If the boss didn't need him alive, I'd have put a bullet in his skull already. Lost two men because of this freak."
After venting his anger, he waved to his men. "Tie him up. Clean the site. We're moving."
They bound Lucas in reinforced restraints, tossed him into another vehicle's trunk, and sped off into the night.
"His physiology's off the charts," the leader said once they were airborne in a transport plane. "Keep the sedative running nonstop—if it wears off, we're dead."
An operative hooked a drip into Lucas's arm, the anesthetic flowing steadily as ordered.
When Lucas finally came to, he was lying on cold concrete. The room was dim, damp, and stank of mildew—a cell, or a prison of sorts.
He tried to sit up, but the chains on his wrists and ankles clanked in protest.
It was freezing. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness.
Wherever he was, Hydra had him now.
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