Arc 4 - Ch 1: Midtown High

Date: Tuesday, September 7, 2010.

Location: Four Season Hotel Downtown, Manhattan, New York

As the morning sun bled into the Empire Suite in the Four Seasons Downtown, Tyson anticipated his first day at Midtown High with excitement.

Bzzz. Bzzz. His phone vibrated on the marble bedside table, the screen lighting up with a new message. Picking it up, he saw it was from Illyana Rasputin, his now ex-girlfriend. They'd only just broken up a few days earlier. The memory was still tender in his mind.

Good luck at Midtown, Ty. Remember, try to have fun. Think normal thoughts.

Despite the ache in his heart, Tyson managed a small smile. Illyana had ended things because she wanted him to experience everything that high school had to offer without worrying about her, especially with her training to be a sorcerer on the opposite side of the world. Quickly, his fingers tapped out a reply.

Thanks, Illyana. Hope the training is going well.

No sooner had he sent the message, than another text from Illyana popped up. 

Before I forget, here's Jean's and Jubilee's numbers. Don't be a stranger to them, okay?

He texted back before saving the new contacts.

Got it. Thanks… Miss you.

Setting the phone down, Tyson's gaze drifted around the room, finally landing on the shopping bags from yesterday. Getting a new cell phone after Illyana left hadn't been his only therapy purchase. There was a sense of independence, and perhaps rebellion, in buying the new, leather jacket that lay crisply folded among other things. It was completely unlike his old style, his way of stepping into this new chapter of his life. The jacket was a piece of the person he was becoming, the person he wanted to be… Plus it matched his new ride.

His routine was simple; a quick shower, followed by a breakfast of scrambled eggs and waffles, bacon, and sausage that was delivered to the room. After dressing up in casual jeans, and a t-shirt, and throwing on his new leather jacket and matching gloves, Tyson grabbed his backpack and headed out. 

Inside the Four Seasons underground parking sat a black motorcycle, which he'd bought the previous day. This purchase was made with the money earned from pawning some gold he'd acquired from the Federal Reserve. Tyson found himself flush with more cash than he knew what to do with. After the paperwork, courtesy of the Ancient One, he had a license and the legal proof needed to make these purchases.

Straddling the motorcycle, Tyson donned his helmet. More for blending in than safety. With his skull reinforced by indestructible Adamantium and a healing factor that laughed in the face of injury, Tyson was virtually unbreakable. But he needed to maintain appearances. The motorcycle thundered to life, and with a final look at the towering elegance of the Four Seasons, Tyson revved the engine and sped off toward Queens. 

The wind rushed against him, tugging at his jacket and roaring in his ears, the city becoming a blur of color and motion. The iconic structures of Manhattan slowly gave way to the more grounded, community-driven landscape of Queens. As he navigated through the traffic, Tyson couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration. 

Finally, Midtown High came into view, students milling about, chatting and laughing in groups. As Tyson rolled into the school parking lot, the low growl of his motorcycle's engine turned several curious heads. He couldn't help but feel a small surge of satisfaction. Yet, that sense morphed into concern as he noticed a crowd gathering not far from where he parked. Swinging his leg over the bike and removing his helmet, Tyson strode toward the commotion. As he drew closer, his eyes caught sight of a boy at the center of it all. 

He was lean, not particularly tall, with tousled brown hair and a kind of nerdy air about him. He wore a simple combination of a T-shirt and jeans, both of which looked one size too big as if he'd inherited them from someone older. The boy's glasses were slightly askew, and his books were scattered on the ground. Recognition flickered in Tyson's mind.

Tobe…Peter Parker.

The reason for the crowd's interest became clear. Towering over Peter was another student, broad-shouldered with a confident smirk plastered across his face. His skin was tan, his hair styled heavily with gel, and his letterman jacket seemed to scream "popularity." This had to be Flash Thompson, a stereotypical high school jock, known for his athleticism and his less admirable trait of being a bully.

"Come on, Parker," Flash jeered, shoving Peter, who stumbled as he was attempting to rise to his feet. "Stand up for yourself, Peter. Or are you just good at hiding behind those science books of yours?"

The crowd laughed; Tyson's fists clenched at his sides, heat rising in his chest. He pushed through the gathered students, his size making it all too easy. As he stepped into the circle, his shadow momentarily engulfed both Peter and Flash. The crowd's laughter died down.

"Hey!" Tyson called out, his voice deep and commanding, drawing every eye to him. He towered over Flash, his 6'6 frame broad and muscular, eclipsing Flash's 6'2 lean athletic build. "That's enough."

Flash's eyes widened, clearly taken aback by Tyson's sudden appearance and imposing stature. But he recovered quickly, "This doesn't concern you. Why don't you mind your own—"

Tyson cut him off, pointing at Flash, "You're going to," and then back at himself in turn "Tell me what to do." He asked threateningly. "Go ahead… finish what you were saying." Tyson's voice was calm, but it carried an edge, a silent warning daring Flash to continue. 

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Flash sized Tyson up, his gaze traveling up and then down, the smirk fading when he realized he was significantly outsized. There was a moment, a silent standoff, where it seemed Flash might escalate the situation.

But then, something unusual at Midtown happened.

Flash backed down.

"Fine," he muttered, the word laced with frustration. He shot Peter a final, warning look. "This isn't over, Parker."

With one last glare at Tyson, Flash turned and disappeared into the dispersing crowd, his friends trailing after him. The circle of spectators broke up as the excitement of the confrontation passed, leaving Tyson with Peter, who was slowly gathering his books. 

Tyson extended a hand, offering a small, reassuring smile. "You alright, Peter?"

Peter looked up, a mix of gratitude and surprise in his eyes behind those slightly skewed glasses. He took Tyson's hand and pulled himself up. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. Thanks, uh…"

"Tyson," he filled in, still holding Peter's gaze, ensuring his sincerity was evident.

"Thanks, Tyson," Peter repeated. He glanced away for a second, awkwardly adjusting his glasses, before adding, "You didn't have to, you know, step in. But I'm glad you did."

Tyson gave a slight shrug, "I couldn't just stand there and watch," he said. Then, with a playful glint in his eye, he added, "Plus, it was a pretty good way to make an entrance on my first day, don't you think?"

Peter laughed, the sound light and relieving, pushing away the last remnants of tension in the air. "You're not wrong," he admitted. "So, you're new here? I haven't seen you around before."

"It's my first day," Tyson confirmed, "And by the looks of it, just in time, huh?"

Peter's gaze drifted to where Tyson had gestured, landing on the motorcycle parked a short distance away. His eyes widened behind his glasses. "That's yours?!" he asked, a note of incredulity mixed with admiration in his voice. "Your parents let you ride that?"

A shadow passed over Tyson's features, his smile fading slightly. "My parents aren't around," he said simply.

Understanding flashed in Peter's eyes, and his expression softened. He of all people knew the pain of not having parents around, the gaping absence that was left in everyday life. "I get it," he said sincerely. "I lost my parents too. I live with my Aunt May and Uncle Ben."

For a moment, the air between them was charged with a mutual understanding.

"Looks like we have more in common than I thought, Peter Parker," Tyson said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile.

Tyson clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, "There's strength in numbers." he said, trying to lighten the mood. "I helped you up. Maybe you can repay the favor and help me find my first-period class."

Peter chuckled, and just like that, the air around them felt lighter. As the bell rang in the distance, signaling the start of the school day, Tyson was thankful that he arrived just at the right time. He hadn't just made a grand entrance, he might have also made an important friend. 

— Rogue Replacement —

The room was alive with teenage energy. Students milled around, chatting about everything from the latest school gossip to their favorite video games. But all that white noise faded into the background as the teacher, Mrs. Morita, a woman of short stature but undeniable authority, clapped her hands sharply. The sound silenced the cacophony as if she'd flipped a switch.

"Alright, everyone, settle down. We're assigning lab partners today. This is Chemistry, not a social hour," Mrs. Morita announced. As she began pairing off students, Tyson took the opportunity to look around, his eyes taking in the lab stations, the safety posters plastered on the walls, and his classmates. "Tyson Smith, you're with Gwen Stacy," Mrs. Morita said, not looking up from her clipboard.

A girl detached herself from a nearby group. Her blonde hair was secured in a neat ponytail, her blue eyes bright with intelligence, "I'm Gwen," she introduced herself, offering a hand with a courteous smile.

"Tyson," he replied while shaking. Wearing leather gloves in class may have been unusual, but Tyson making skin contact would've been far more problematic.

As they settled into their assigned task, Tyson's first impression of Gwen was she was brilliant, handling their chemistry assignment with deftness and understanding. He watched as she skillfully measured and poured, her hands steady, her attention detailed.

"Man, I just got through Physics, and now this," Tyson couldn't help but mutter, half to himself, as he attempted to follow her lead with his brows knitting together in concentration.

Gwen glanced up with a polite smile, "It's a lot, I know. But you'll get the hang of it. Chemistry can be tough, but it's not impossible. Here, you're adding too much of the reagent. Try to level it off a bit, like this," she demonstrated.

Tyson managed a decent attempt at mimicking her. "Thanks, Gwen."

"No problem, Tyson," she replied, that earnest smile still on her face. Then, her tone shifted, "You know, I saw what you did this morning. With Peter." Gwen held an approving expression as she continued, "That was brave. Flash isn't exactly...easy, to stand up to. But you did it anyway. Not a lot of people would've done that."

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, "Couldn't just stand there, you know?"

"Well, I'm glad you did," Gwen said earnestly, her focus returning to their assignment but her words lingering in the air between them.

The conversation ebbed and flowed after that. Gwen wasn't just the smartest girl in the room; she was kind, empathetic, and just. As the bell eventually rang, signaling the end of class; Tyson packed up his things. He shot Gwen a grateful smile, receiving an encouraging one in return.

— Rogue Replacement —

The hallway after his third period was like an ocean, with waves of chatter. Locker doors slammed, punctuated by the laughter and shouts of teenagers. Tyson found himself swept up in the current of students, all hurrying to their next destination. He was surrounded by faces in the crowd, none standing out until he saw… her.

She was like a monochrome siren. Her white hair flowed freely down her back as though it refused to be tamed. Her black clothes were simple yet bold. It wasn't just her appearance that caught Tyson's attention; it was the way she moved. There was a deliberateness in her step, a silent confidence that bordered on predatory. She was a panther among housecats, and she knew it.

Their eyes locked, and the clamor around them seemed to mute. "Felicia," she said when they were close enough. Her voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It had the kind of pitch that demanded to be heard, clear and strong yet inexplicably intimate, as though her words were meant for him and him alone.

"Tyson," he responded, his name feeling somewhat plain as it left his lips. He found himself wishing he had something more interesting to say, caught up in her presence.

A small, cryptic smile played on her lips as if she were privy to a secret that he wasn't aware he'd shared. "I saw what you did this morning," she said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "That was...unexpected. Especially for the new guy."

He shrugged, "Just seemed like the right thing to do."

"Oh," she expressed in mock surprise, her eyes gleaming with amusement while a playful grin formed. "A knight in shining armor type... That's a bold move. You're already the talk of the town. Not here to just blend in, are you, Tyson?"

He chuckled, a short, dry sound, and shook his head. "No more than you are, it seems."

Felicia's smile widened by a fraction, acknowledging his point. "True. I guess it takes one to know one."

The bell chose that moment to ring, its shrill sound signaling the end of their brief interlude and the need to move on to their next classes. The spell broke, and the noise of the hallway crashed back into Tyson's awareness like a tidal wave reclaiming the shore.

"I'll be seeing you around then," Felicia said. It wasn't a question, nor was it a simple statement. It was an assurance. With a final, inscrutable look, Felicia turned and merged back into the student body flowing through the hallway. She weaved through the crowd until she was out of sight. 

Tyson stood there for a few seconds longer, the echo of her words lingering in his mind. With a deep breath, he readjusted his backpack and headed to his next class, her enigmatic smile imprinted in his thoughts.

— Rogue Replacement —

Tyson had been looking for the cafeteria and found himself pushing open a door to the sound of overly impassioned dialogue. Inside, on the stage, was a girl with fiery red hair and an energy that seemed to captivate her classmates.

She was running lines with another student. The moment he stepped inside, the scene paused, and her eyes found Tyson in the doorway. "Hey, you're the new guy, right? " Caught off guard, Tyson could only nod. The redhead beamed. "I'm MJ. You should join the drama club. We could use someone who's not afraid of the spotlight."

Her invitation was impulsive and sincere, and though Tyson didn't see himself on stage, he couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "I'll think about it," he promised.

He made his way back outside the auditorium and continued walking until he stumbled upon Peter. "There's someone I want you to meet," Peter said. He pointed down the hallway at a boy dressed in a casual ensemble that somehow screamed designer, from the effortless drape of his jacket to the pristine quality of his shoes. His hair was a tidy mess, likely styled to appear unintentional, and though he was engrossed in something on his phone, there was an undeniable air of isolation about him.

"That's Harry," Peter explained, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, though it didn't quite mask the worry in his eyes. "Harry Osborn."

As they approached, Harry looked up, his expression transforming from one of distracted interest to a warm, welcoming grin. Harry quickly sized Tyson up before extending a hand in greeting, "Harry Osborn."

"Tyson Smith," he replied, accepting the handshake. "Good to meet you."

"You too, man. Heard you made quite a scene this morning. Flash is all bark and no bite, but I guess you figured that out already," Harry chuckled, though the laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. 

— Rogue Replacement —

Students shuffled into the gymnasium for physical education. The moment Tyson entered the gym, his eyes were inexorably drawn to the figure standing center-court. Her hair was a cascade of auburn curls that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her skin was smooth and flawless, save for a few almost imperceptible lines that creased momentarily when she scanned her surroundings. Her attire clung to her in a way that managed to be both modest and revealing. The form-fitting nature of her white top and black leggings highlighted a physique that was lean, almost dancer-like in its contours, but Tyson could see the latent strength that resided in her limbs. Her eyes were a striking shade of green. They flicked across the students, assessing with the kind of gaze that seemed to penetrate and analyze one's very essence. Even when her lips curled into a professional smile, her eyes retained a watchful light.

When she walked over toward the gathered students, there was an economy to her movements, nothing wasted. Seeing her, Tyson's senses didn't just take in a woman of striking beauty; they acknowledged a human weapon in gym teacher's attire. This was a facade, a guise worn as comfortably as her skin, but as Tyson well knew, appearances could be deceiving.

She introduced herself with a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes, maintaining a cool professional demeanor. "Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Ms. Natalie Rushman, and I'll be guiding your physical education sessions for the foreseeable future."

Tyson's heart didn't so much skip a beat as it did freeze entirely. He knew her, not as Natalie Rushman, but as Natasha Romanoff, also known as the Black Widow. Every alarm bell in his head went off at the realization that one of the most formidable spies and assassins was here, in Midtown High, masquerading as a gym teacher. The question that pounded in his skull was, why?

"We're playing dodgeball today," Natalie announced, and the groans and cheers alike couldn't disguise the students' curiosity about her, their whispers swirling around the gym. "I'll participate to balance the teams."

The game unfolded, and Natalie, Natasha, was nothing short of a spectacle. She displayed an almost surreal agility, dodging and throwing with a precision that hinted at her true, lethal skill set. The gym buzzed with whispers and wide-eyed glances as "Natalie Rushman" showcased moves that made even the most athletic students gawk. Flash Thompson sauntered up to her, a smug grin plastered on his face. 

"Hey, Miss Rushman," Flash drawled, puffing out his chest. "Need a partner for a demonstration? I'm pretty skilled myself."

Natalie turned to him, "That won't be necessary," she replied coolly, her voice carrying enough firmness to hush the murmuring students. 

Flash Thompson seemed to take her denial as a challenge. "Bet you've never had a student as athletic as me," he declared as he puffed out his chest. 

Natalie looked at Flash, unimpressed, then turned her gaze directly to Tyson, who stood a distance away. "Actually," There was an undeniable softening in her eyes as she said, "I see more talent in him." Her voice held a hint of... Respect, or maybe Fondness? It was hard to pinpoint, but it was there when she referred to Tyson.

Murmurs erupted among the students as Flash's smirk faltered, his bravado deflating faster than a punctured balloon. Tyson, suddenly conscious of every pair of eyes on him, found himself analyzing her unexpected response. Red-faced and embarrassed, Flash skulked back to his friends, while the other students struggled to hide their giggles. 

But Tyson couldn't fully focus on the game. His mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle of Black Widow's presence. Peter hadn't become Spider-Man yet. This morning's altercation with Flash made that clear. So, she wasn't here for a friendly neighborhood superhero chat. That left one unsettling option. 

She was here for him. 

But why? Was SHIELD now keeping tabs on him through one of their top operatives?

After the class, as the students filed out of the gym, Natalie approached Tyson. His enhanced sense of smell picked up her subtle, natural fragrance. Rich leather, exotic spices, and a cool wisp of winter air, all intertwined with the faintest trace of gunpowder. Her gaze was inscrutable, and she spoke with casual praise, "You have good moves, Tyson. But your instincts could use a little work."

Struggling to keep his voice even, Tyson replied, "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind. You're pretty impressive yourself."

A flicker of amusement crossed her features. "I've had my share of practice." She held his gaze, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "I look forward to seeing what else you can do," she added. Her tone was light but the undercurrents were deep. It wasn't a mere statement; it was a warning, one that should have gone over Tyson's head, but with his meta-knowledge, it gave away her purpose in the school.

She then moved away to attend her next class, leaving Tyson grappling with his thoughts. The presence of the Black Widow in his school complicated things. As he left the gym, Tyson's mind was abuzz with the most nagging question being, what game was SHIELD playing at Midtown High? How did he end up on their radar? Was it because of his mutant ability, or maybe he screwed up during the heist.

Fuck. 

He definitely screwed up during the heist.

— Rogue Replacement —

The school gradually grew quiet as students dispersed, each to their destination. Peter, with a hesitant but genuine smile, turned to Tyson. "So, um, you want to come over for dinner? My Aunt May's not half bad in the kitchen," he offered. There was a lightness in his tone to mask the underlying sincerity.

Tyson was surprised but touched by the invitation, and accepted. They hailed a cab, and the ride was filled with the kind of easy chatter that newly minted friends share. The cab rolled to a stop in front of a quaint, well-kept house. Peter paid the fare, and they headed toward the entrance. The door opened before they reached it, revealing a woman whose smile was as kind as her eyes.

"Peter. And who's this?" Aunt May greeted, her voice lilting with pleasant surprise.

"This is Tyson, Aunt May. He's new to the school," Peter introduced.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Tyson said, extending a hand politely.

"Oh, none of that 'ma'am' business," Aunt May chided gently, "Come in, come in. Dinner's just about ready. You're in time to save Peter from his cooking duties."

They laughed, and Tyson felt an unexpected pang of... was it longing? But he pushed it aside as they entered the house. The aroma of a home-cooked meal wafted through invitingly.

They settled at the dinner table, where a man with a friendly face and a gentle demeanor joined them. Tyson immediately recognized Uncle Ben. 

"So, Tyson, what brings you to our part of the city?" Uncle Ben inquired, passing the mashed potatoes.

"I had difficulties at my last school up in West Chester. I was lucky enough to get accepted to Midtown, so I made the commute over from Manhattan. It's not too bad, only twenty-five minutes or so." Tyson replied.

"And how are you finding things? Settling in okay at school?" Aunt May asked, concern tinting her words.

Tyson glanced at Peter, sharing a look that held the weight of today's events. "It's been an... interesting first day."

Both Aunt May and Uncle Ben caught the undertone but chose to let it lie, understanding that some stories weren't meant to be told at the dinner table. Instead, they shared stories of their own, filling the meal with a sense of unity that Tyson hadn't realized he'd been missing. 

The night had settled when Tyson eventually left. He'd met Peter Parker and his family, but it wasn't the Peter he'd expected. Add in the presence of Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Felicia Hardy, and the Black Widow, and Tyson wasn't sure what he knew anymore.