Arc 6 - Ch 1: Wrath of Kaine

Chapter 68

Arc 6 - Ch 1: Wrath of Kaine

Date: Friday, June 10, 2011.

Location: Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, New York

The building stood unremarkable among its neighbors, giving no outward indication of the laboratory hidden below. Jessica blinked against the morning sun as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves reaching her shoulders. Though she took in their surroundings, her thoughts were turned inward, contemplating their newfound freedom. Beside her, Kaine radiated coiled tension, his hardened features rough and scarred. Where Jessica exuded a quiet confidence in their release, Kaine's skepticism simmered beneath a guarded exterior.

As they walked, Jessica asked, "Can you believe we're finally free?" her voice gentle yet earnest.

Kaine's only response was a noncommittal grunt, his gravelly tone clipped. His piercing eyes swept the busy streets for any sign of danger. Jessica noticed the barest hint of easing in his taut muscles as if the ordinary sights and sounds of the city were slowly penetrating his distrust.

Turning to him with uncertainty, she pressed on. "What should we do?"

Kaine's bitterness lashed out, his resentment at his situation spilling over. "I don't know, Jessica. What do you think we should do?" His mocking tone twisted cruelly as he added, "Maybe you should go meet up with Mary Jane. Have a real girl's day and get your nails done."

The barbed words struck painfully, dismissing and belittling Jessica's struggle. Anger and hurt flashed across her face at the flippant remark. "Really, Kaine?" she shot back, unconcealed frustration challenging his narrow view.

Kaine rounded on her, his frayed temper erupting. "Why don't you just leave me alone!" he snarled, the venom in his words meant to push her away. "Go to school or something."

Jessica reeled from the verbal blow. Dealing with Kaine was draining, his lingering bitterness a constant reminder that they were both damaged, struggling to move forward. But their struggles were so profoundly different that they could not find common ground.

Kaine's skin was a tapestry of scars and his body wracked with a pain that never fully faded. The discomfort fueled his simmering intensity and anger. In contrast, Jessica's perfect appearance hid her extraordinary inner journey. Though she inhabited the form of a beautiful young woman, her mind retained the memories of a life once lived as a boy. The dissonance between mind and body gave the sensation of being a stranger living inside her skin. Both were misfits, contending with transformations that set them apart. Though Kaine's scars marked his exterior, Jessica's ran deeper.

And as she turned away, the gulf between them felt wider than ever.

Kaine's callous words echoed in her mind.

Go to school or something.

Despite their harsh delivery, they contained a kernel of truth. She couldn't return to her old life at Midtown High, as if nothing had changed. But college was different. It represented a fresh start, a clean slate to reinvent herself, free from the shadows of her past.

Jessica took a deep breath and turned back towards Kaine. "I think I will."

As Jessica walked alone, she felt lighter, filled with a new sense of hope and purpose. The prospect of college offered a world of knowledge and experiences to shape the… woman she would become. Her future was hers to define, one decision at a time.

Kaine stood motionless as Jessica's figure faded into the distance, a storm of emotions raging inside him. Anger boiled within, unrelenting, clouding his every thought. He watched Jessica glide effortlessly into their new reality, adapting flawlessly, while his existence remained tortured. To Kaine, she embodied a perfection he could never attain, unblemished and unmarked by the scars and deformities that branded him a freakish outcast. His biting words, urging her to go to school, reflected his preoccupations more than any real concern for her path. His mind churned, consumed by figures like Tyson and Peter Parker. They were painful symbols of everything he could never be, all he had lost, and what he secretly yearned for despite himself.

"Maybe I'll go to school too," Kaine muttered. The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

He found his feet carrying him toward Midtown High. The school signified far more than just classrooms and hallways; it represented a life forever beyond his reach, a normalcy he could never have. His steps were driven not by a desire to blend in or seek out remnants of Peter's life, but by a masochistic need to confront his otherness.

As Kaine approached Midtown High, the familiar setting did little to calm the storm within. Instead, each step nearer seemed to stoke the fires of his anger, blurring Peter's past and his present in a haze of fury.

The sight of the parking lot triggered a flood of unwanted memories, each a sharp stab to his already frayed nerves. It was on this very asphalt that Flash slammed him to the ground on the first day of senior year in front of a crowd of his classmates. It was an act of humiliation seared into Kaine's mind. That day had marked a turning point, not for the degrading incident itself, but for the false salvation that followed. Tyson's intervention had seemed an act of kindness that went against the merciless social order of high school. But Kaine wasn't naive like Peter. He knew Tyson's heroics were fueled more by a thirst for popularity and making a scene on his first day than any genuine concern for Peter. The memory stung; a bitter reminder of the loneliness that had always gnawed at his... at Peter's life.

When Flash next turned his aggression toward Peter, in the hallway, Tyson did not intervene, his earlier bravado was nowhere to be found. Yet Peter had not needed saving. His new strength was enough to fend off any attack. Tyson only helped smooth things with the principal, but he hadn't embellished the story, which might have kept Peter out of trouble.

They were no longer the vulnerable boys that had been easy targets for bullies. Anyone who challenged Kaine now would regret it. Yet this strength felt hollow because he was alone.

As Kaine neared Midtown High's entrance, the gymnasium caught his eye. The gym stood prominently, attached to the main building. A faint smile crept onto his face as he recalled coming out on top during basketball with Flash in gym class. For once, he had turned the tables on his tormentor. He'd even bested Tyson at basketball that day. However, the smile quickly faded, replaced by a familiar scowl as another memory surfaced. This one involved Tyson and their beautiful student-teacher, Ms. Rushman. From the outset, Ms. Rushman had shown clear favoritism toward Tyson. A fact that didn't sit well with Kaine. 

His thoughts darkened as memories of them resurfaced. He recalled the day in gym class when Tyson had turned his charm and confidence toward Felicia Hardy. Tyson's demonstration of physical prowess garnered the attention and admiration of their classmates, while also earning a date with Felicia.

Recalling the scene irritated Kaine, his hands balling into fists at his sides. It wasn't merely that Tyson was showing off, though the grandstanding had irked him. No, what truly gnawed at Kaine was the stark contrast Tyson's actions highlighted between them. Kaine possessed powers similar to Peter Parker's, including strength and agility far beyond normal human limits. Peter could have easily outperformed Tyson at any physical challenge, like climbing the rope. Yet he had always restrained himself, holding back to avoid revealing his abilities and maintaining his secret identity.

While Kaine hid in the shadows, Tyson basked in the spotlight, driven more by a thirst for popularity than any genuine display of skill. His recklessness and hunger for attention were things Kaine could never reconcile with. Kaine's path had been marked with constant struggle, the opposite of Tyson's bravado. His hands curled into tight fists, the memory stoking a simmering anger.

Kaine paused at the front entrance of Midtown High, his resolve faltering as he acknowledged the stark truth. Though a clone of Peter Parker, their appearances were distinctly different. And the divergence went beyond physical traits. Peter carried an everyman charm, his features blending boyish innocence with quiet strength. His manner conveyed an awkward grace and resilience that made him instantly relatable. He was the quintessential boy next door whose humble presence hid his extraordinary abilities. In contrast, Kaine's sharper, more rugged features bore only a passing resemblance to Peter's. Faint scars added to his edgy appearance, distinguishing him from Peter's friendly demeanor.

Trying to pose as Peter was futile, Kaine couldn't blend in. He opted for stealth instead. Scaling the exterior of the building allowed him to avoid attention. 

Kaine ascended the brickwork, crawling up the science wing, peering into each classroom through the windows. His gaze fell upon a scene that ignited his simmering anger into an inferno. Through the window of the chemistry lab, he spied Tyson and Gwen Stacy, heads bent together, talking while immersed in a project.

He watched through the window as Gwen and Tyson continued their conversation, oblivious to his presence outside. He strained to hear their muted voices, catching snippets of words here and there.

"...scholarship...Oxford..." said Gwen.

Tyson's brow furrowed momentarily. "In England?" he asked.

Gwen laughed lightly. "Well, it's not Oxford, Connecticut."

Tyson chuckled along with her. "In that case, you'll come back drinking tea and talking all posh and proper!" He affected an exaggerated British accent on the last few words, eliciting another laugh from Gwen.

"I enjoy tea just fine already, thanks," Gwen quipped back.

Tyson's expression grew more serious. "Have you told Peter yet?"

Gwen bit her lip. "No, not yet. I don't know how to bring it up."

Tyson nodded sympathetically. "You should tell him soon. I mean, he tells you all his secrets, right?" To illustrate his point, Tyson pantomimed shooting a web out of his wrist.

Gwen gave his arm a light, playful smack. "Shh, stop that!" she scolded, but she was only amused. "I know, but what if I get this scholarship? What would that mean for... well, for everything here?"

Tyson shrugged. "You'll have to tell Peter eventually. We all know you're too smart not to get whatever you apply for."

Gwen looked thoughtful, chewing her lip again. "It's just... I don't want him to feel like I'm abandoning him. And it's not like I've decided yet, it's just an option."

"I'm sure Peter will understand," Tyson replied gently. "He knows how driven you are, how talented. This is an amazing opportunity."

"I hope you're right. I just... I need a little more time to think it all through."

Tyson nodded. "Of course. But you should tell him sooner rather than later." He glanced up at the clock. "We better get back to work."

Gwen sighed, flipping her textbook back open. "You're right. Let's get focused."

The two turned their attention back to their project and their heads bent together again over the pages. Kaine observed them for a moment longer, watching Tyson's arm brush against Gwen's as he pointed something out in the text. The casual intimacy of the gesture made Kaine's jaw clench.

His mind rebelled at Gwen leaving, and going to college out of the country. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew how much Peter cared for Gwen; how much he cared for Gwen. Kaine knew this news would cut him deeply. And Tyson knew too. The fact that Gwen had confided in Tyson instead of Peter stirred resentment within Kaine. What right did Tyson have to know about Gwen's private ambitions before Peter did? Kaine's hands curled into fists at his sides. As far as he was concerned, Tyson had no place meddling in Peter and Gwen's relationship.

Kaine's grip on the concrete ledge tightened, crumbling it beneath his fingertips. Watching Gwen laugh with Tyson through the classroom window ignited a fierce possessiveness within him. It wasn't just Tyson encroaching on something Kaine felt belonged to Peter and himself. It was a stark reminder of Kaine's isolation; such moments of warmth were lost to him.

In that instant, Kaine understood with cutting clarity that some desires remained out of reach, taunting him with false promises. That pain was a bitter pill to swallow.

Kaine's gaze on the pair was intense, a storm brewing in his eyes. He remembered his time with Gwen from when he was Peter. The feel of her in his arms, her lips' sweetness, and each was a sharp stab to his cold reality. Seeing Gwen oblivious to his existence and instead spending time with charming, ambitious Tyson ignited fierce possessiveness. Kaine knew she harbored feelings for him. The thought of Tyson usurping something so precious that Kaine had dared hope was his, was unbearable.

Yet the harsh truth remained. Kaine was not the man Gwen had known. His face and his scars ensured she wouldn't recognize him.

But an idea flickered in Kaine's mind.

Gwen would not recognize him, but she knew Spider-Man.

He could become the hero, stepping into the role Peter carved out.

Masquerading as Spider-Man to reclaim Gwen hadn't occurred to Kaine when he'd been in captivity. But as he retreated from the window, the idea grew. It could rekindle his connection with Gwen.

It was a chance to be seen, and not for his scars.

— Rogue Replacement —

Tyson gunned the engine of his motorcycle, weaving through the congested streets with reckless abandon. The midday traffic was a snarled mess of honking horns and screeching brakes, but with a cloak of illusion concealing him, he was unbound by the rules of the road. His power made him an invisible rider slipping silently through the deadlock. When the chokehold of cars grew too dense, he hopped the curb, tires skimming the sidewalk as oblivious pedestrians continued on their path. The journey from Midtown High to Downtown was frustrating for most, but not Tyson.

Thirty-five minutes later, he strode into his lavish suite at the Four Seasons, but an unexpected sight gave him pause as he entered the opulent living room.

There, lounging on his sofa as if she owned the place, was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Her usual black jumpsuit was replaced by an oversized fluffy robe that engulfed her. Red curls cascaded freely over her shoulders, giving a rare glimpse of the woman behind the spy facade.

"What are you watching?" Tyson asked cautiously, trying to mask his surprise.

"Naruto," Natasha replied nonchalantly her piercing green eyes never leaving the screen where an animated ninja battle raged.

He scrutinized the television just to be sure this wasn't some trick. But there was no mistaking the black hair, black robes with red clouds, and Sharingan of Itachi Uchiha.

He turned back to Natasha, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

Natasha's serious expression finally cracked as she broke into genuine laughter, the sound warm and unrestrained. As her laughter faded, Natasha's eyes glinted with mischief. "Did you know Fury set up alerts to notify me anytime you got caught speeding or running lights?" she began, a hint of amusement lingering in her voice.

Tyson's eyes widened slightly. Of course, Fury would have tracking measures in place after assigning Natasha as his handler.

"Well, he never disabled that feature after promoting you," Natasha continued, "It was pretty obvious where you were headed with all the violations you racked up on the way over here." Tyson felt a flush creep up his neck as Natasha described his reckless ride through the city. "For a minute, I thought it was an emergency," she added, "But nope. Just you trying to avoid traffic. Your awareness of electronic surveillance needs improvement. You can control the human element, but should be wary of recording devices, cameras, and such." Her tone was playful yet chiding, and Tyson found himself grinning sheepishly.

Tyson nodded, silently conceding Natasha's point. They met because he had robbed the Federal Reserve Bank, and SHIELD had used footage of him to piece together his identity. He'd gotten away with the heist only to be discovered later because he'd been caught on camera.

While he hadn't gotten away clean, he was satisfied with the result. Having the infamous Black Widow as an ally but also as his live-in girlfriend was a personal triumph. Natasha Romanoff had become a trusted partner in his plans for the future and daily life.

Though the events of the previous week were grueling, the memory of being viciously stabbed in the eye and having half his body incinerated bore a silver lining. That harrowing ordeal had resulted in Tyson claiming Loki's enchanted Uru dagger. Before last week, he'd experienced relative peace over the last few months, in so far as he hadn't faced any life-threatening challenges. When he had first arrived in this world, Tyson's life had been marked by constant turmoil and a relentless string of threats.

Magneto, Stryker, and Azazel, all had gotten the best of him early on.

But now things were different.

The gold from the Federal Reserve heist had long since been laundered and invested, the bulk of it funneled through Felicia Hardy's art trade business at House of M or stock investments. Additional plans were already in motion to acquire Trask Industries, a critical step in securing his long-term future. After encounters with Thor, Iron Man, and the Hulk, Tyson found his life shifting toward greater stability and control. By subtly manipulating figures like Wilson Fisk, Curt Connors, and Ivan Vanko, he now held sway over these volatile players, keeping their actions tightly bound within limits he deemed acceptable.

Overall, Tyson found himself in a position of strength and influence. With powerful allies and significant threats under his control, the path ahead seemed full of promise.

And having Natasha living with him had proven far more enjoyable than he could have anticipated. Her vibrant presence filled his suite; her quick wit, striking intellect, and fierce spirit never failed to invigorate him.

Shaking off the last remnants of introspection, Tyson asked, "I had to rush home so we wouldn't be late. You didn't forget, did you?"

"Of course not, I just wanted to mess with you," Natasha replied, her voice tinged with warmth and affection that spoke to the depth of their bond.

She stood, causing her bathrobe to fall from her shoulders, revealing the black lingerie she wore underneath as it pooled on the floor.

Delicate lace traced intricate patterns across her skin, the dark fabric a stark contrast against her pale complexion. The garment hugged her curves. It exuded confidence and allure without trying too hard, much like Natasha. Tyson's gaze traveled slowly, appreciating every detail, drinking in every contour.

"You look...breathtaking," he murmured, crossing the room to meet her. His hands found her waist, pulling her close. Natasha gazed up at him through dark lashes.

"I hoped you'd approve," she purred.

"I thought for a second you'd already be dressed under that robe," he commented.

Natasha flashed a knowing smile, the slightest hint of playfulness in her tone. "I could've been, but this is better, isn't it?" she responded rhetorically.

She draped her arms lazily around his neck. Tyson leaned in, his lips hovering above her ear. "Are you sure you aren't still just a SHIELD agent sent to stay close to me?" he whispered.

Natasha tilted her head up, her breath hot against his cheek. "Even if I was, would you push me away?" she challenged.

Tyson needed no words to answer. With aching slowness, he brought his mouth to hers. Natasha's body melted into his, perfectly molded against his muscular frame.

This was no illusion.

With the meeting of their lips came a now familiar sensation, a siphoning of Natasha's essence into Tyson's being. This transferal of life force had become commonplace since their first kiss. For Tyson, it was a glimpse into Natasha's soul, affirming her openness, and allowing him access to her thoughts and memories. For Natasha, it was a sacrifice willingly given, a display of trust where she made herself vulnerable to him by allowing him access to her innermost self, ensuring his trust in her. She actively engaged in these intimate exchanges despite the risks of Tyson's life-draining touch because she understood the importance of offering him unfiltered affection. Her deliberate approach was tangible proof of her care for him and reinforced their bond through much-needed physical contact.

Their lips parted all too quickly. Tyson carefully restrained the kiss before his power could bring Natasha harm. Still, they lingered in an embrace, neither eager to back away.

In fully accepting one another, flaws and all, Tyson and Natasha's relationship was rooted in profound trust. Tyson had welcomed every facet of Natasha's complex past and present self. And she, in turn, had embraced the intricacies of his abilities, even the inherent dangers they posed.

This time when they kissed, Tyson glimpsed an unspoken trouble weighing on her mind.

He knew the matter would need to be addressed. But he recognized this was not the time. He knew she would open up when she was ready and not a moment before.

Setting aside his concerns, he focused instead on enjoying their playful moment.

Tyson used his illusion power to create a mirror image of himself behind Natasha. The illusion's arms encircled her waist. Natasha arched her spine, rising onto her toes. Her movements pressed her ass against the illusory Tyson, separated only by the thin fabric of her underwear.

Natasha rolled her hips in a slow, deliberate tease. Her voice was honey as she warned, "Careful now. Promises made should be promises kept."

The calculated provocation in her eyes and the confidence of her motions spoke volumes.

With a thought, Tyson banished his doppelganger. It dissolved like mist, leaving Natasha's curves pressed against empty air.

"You started this when you stripped."

Natasha turned, sauntering away. "And here I thought you'd appreciate the view."

Amusement washed over Tyson. And he did appreciate the view; watching transfixed as she slipped into the bedroom, moving to get dressed.

— Rogue Replacement —

One advantage of living in a five-star hotel was the access to high-end transportation. While Tyson almost always opted for a motorcycle to get around the city, limos always idled near his residence. And on the rare occasion when one wasn't immediately available, the hotel's attentive concierge swiftly arranged for one.

Tyson and Natasha exited the Four Seasons and slid into the backseat of a limousine. Their destination was Una Pizza Napoletana in the Lower East Side, renowned for its authentic Neapolitan pies. The concierge had not reserved a table but instead phoned in a pickup order.

In a twist, Tyson and Natasha played an unusual role that evening.

Pizza delivery people.

The limo approached its destination, the iconic 200 Park Avenue, a currently under-renovation skyscraper that dominated the Manhattan skyline. They were here for an event that had drawn New York's elite and most influential figures.

Tyson adjusted the fox half-mask that obscured the upper half of his face. Beside him, Natasha Romanoff had donned one of her photostatic veils before leaving the apartment, disguising her features under those of a beautiful, but non-descript brunette woman.

Their arrival would be far from subtle. In recent months, Mirage's exploits had become fixtures on the front pages of every major local newspaper. The beautiful agent's presence at the Green Goblin's arrest and the Harlem rampage had fueled endless media speculation about the true nature of their partnership.

SHIELD had stepped in, ensuring no clear photos of Natasha made it onto the internet or into articles. The tabloid headline that had portrayed them as star-crossed lovers was swiftly killed before printing. While the article's existence had amused Tyson, it had only exasperated Natasha. But since no pictures of her had been made public, using a photostatic veil to shift her appearance at each public appearance, made Mirage seem more like a playboy, and Natasha less like his constant date or handler.

The limo drew closer to their destination; an extravagant fundraiser at the under-renovation Met Life building. Together, they stepped out of the limo and into the lavish lobby, the clicks of photographers' cameras heralding their arrival.

As they entered, Tyson hoisted the stack of pizza boxes. The combination of Mirage's heroic persona and the mundane task of delivering pizzas captivated the onlookers, blending the extraordinary with the ordinary in a way that humanized the hero. As Tyson and Natasha made their way through the parted crowd, they were keenly aware of the eyes tracking their every move, the hushed whispers swirling around them, and the camera flashes. Yet they moved with a calm, unhurried pace.

Natasha managed a polite smile for the cameras, but once they pushed past the glare of the flashbulbs, her smile faded into a scowl. "I'm never going to be able to go out in public with you without a photostatic veil again," she muttered, her complaint both sincere and tinged with wry humor.

Tyson suggested cheekily, "What's wrong with photostatic veils? Or...you could just stay with me. Be my trusty sidekick." he joked.

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "They itch... and don't even think about going there." Her voice held an undercurrent of threat wrapped in humor.

Tyson backpedaled with a nervous chuckle. "Kidding, kidding."

As they continued into the lobby, Natasha muttered "You're going to pay for that one later tonight."

Tyson carefully set the stack of boxes on an empty table. Then the moment everyone had been anticipating finally arrived as the guest of honor emerged from the sea of mingling attendees. His entrance was timed for maximum impact, befitting his reputation for flair and showmanship.

"David Blaine!" Tony Stark called out, his voice tinged with amusement and challenge. "I hope those pizzas are the real deal."

Tyson turned to face the speaker. He volleyed back smoothly. "I know it's not the same as flying to Naples on a private jet or in a supersonic suit, but it'll have to do."

Extending a hand in greeting, Tyson firmly shook with Tony Stark; genius, billionaire, philanthropist, and the man within the high-tech armor of Iron Man. With a slight gesture towards Natasha, Tyson made introductions. "You already know my date for the evening. Ms. Rushman."

Tony noticed the woman was not Natasha. But he knew she was a spy, and assumed she wore a disguise he couldn't decipher.

"Ms. Rushman, it's… sort of good to see you again." Ever the provocateur, Tony couldn't resist stirring the pot. "So, are you two a couple now? Because I'm pretty sure I set this up at my birthday party."

"You did. We knew each other before, but your party helped me score a date. So thanks for that, and the invite. You always throw a good party." he said, wrapping an arm around Natasha's waist.

Tony looked pleased that his actions had brought Mirage and Natasha together that night. Pepper Potts, however, gently interjected, "We're the ones who should be thanking you. I can't explain how much trouble you saved us by covering the house in your illusion."

"Let's not worry about business right now, there will be time for that later," Tony said. Grabbing a slice of pizza, he seamlessly blended into the crowd.

After Tony's arrival, the initial formalities gave way to a more casual mingling. The presence of the heroes sparked excitement among the guests, many eager for a chance to exchange words or share a moment with these larger-than-life figures. As the afternoon progressed, the event wound down, and Tony and Pepper extended an invitation to continue the festivities upstairs at their private bar. Chairs and sofas formed conversation areas throughout the room, while subtle artwork adorned the walls, adding character without overwhelming the senses. Overall it wasn't dissimilar to the VIP lounge at House of M.

The group settled in with drinks and the conversation drifted toward Tony's latest ambitious endeavors.

"I read this whole place cost over two billion to purchase, yet you're planning to dismantle half of it," Tyson said, "Why not just set up shop somewhere cheaper?"

Tony's face lit up, eager to explain his vision. "It's all to house an Arc reactor. This will be a proof of concept before expanding it city-wide."

"This building sits right above Grand Central Station," Tony continued, hands gesturing animatedly. "If the prototype works, I'll scale up the Arc reactor to power all of Manhattan's transit system; subways, trains, stations for electric busses, the whole shebang."

Tyson let out an impressed whistle. "That's an ambitious goal. But isn't all this costing you a fortune in the meantime?"

"The press and goodwill will make up for it," Tony said with a wave. "Once it's running, I can sell the excess energy to the city at a discount. The energy will be far cleaner than what they've got too. Indian Point is on its last legs, it's only a matter of time before the city needs another power source."

He sipped his drink before adding, "Oscorp has a similar bioelectric project underway, but this will blow them out of the water." Confidence radiated from Tony's voice.

"I wanted you to know," Tyson began, "with the fortune I've amassed from House of M, I plan to expand into technology. I'm in negotiations to acquire Trask Industries."

Pepper's eyes flashed with curiosity. "Trask?" she asked in a tone inviting elaboration.

In response, Tony activated a holographic display with a sweep of his hand. Files, data projections, and statistics on Trask Industries floated through the air.

"Trask was successful in the '70s but has floundered since," Tony summarized skeptically as he sifted through the holograms. "No major projects for decades. Why them?" He asked, seeking the strategic rationale behind acquiring a company that seemed a faded shadow of its former glory. "Just because they're underfunded and an easy buyout?"

Sensing the conversation had reached an important point, Tyson made a decision.

He reached for his mask.

Natasha reached placing a hand on his arm, briefly halting him. "Are you sure about this?"

"I am," he stated.

Natasha removed her hand, satisfied he knew what he was doing. And Tyson removed his mask, revealing his true face to Tony and Pepper.

"Tyson Smith, soon to be Midtown High graduate, part-time entertainer, and superhero," he introduced.

Pepper's eyes widened in surprise as the truth dawned on her. "You are just a kid," she murmured, her voice hushed with the weight of her realization. Tyson's massive frame and imposing physique had clouded her perception, but now, seeing him unmasked, his youth was undeniable. Though he stood at an imposing height, his features still held a trace of the softness of adolescence. Pepper took in the sight of his face without the anonymity of his mask.

Tyson acknowledged the truth behind her words. "I know I said so at the hearing, but with how big I am, it's easy to forget I'm still in high school," he admitted with an easy chuckle. Turning to Tony he asked, "What do you know about mutants?"

Tony's eyes sparked with interest as he leaned back, the scientist in him revving for an in-depth discussion. "Mutants, huh? Their DNA contains a genetic variation dubbed the X-Gene. It manifests in countless permutations, each bestowing extraordinary abilities. Wild stuff." He gestured expansively, "These powers run the gamut from shooting lasers from your eyes to pooping ice cream. They tend to emerge during periods of intense emotional turmoil like puberty, but can manifest from birth in some." Tony's tone grew thoughtful, a hint of gravity emerging. "But from a research perspective, mutants represent boundless potential. Just imagine the applications. Medical miracles, energy solutions, you name it. The key lies in decoding how that X-Gene works, and more critically, how we can harness that knowledge."

Connecting the dots, Tony continued, "You mentioned being a mutant at the Senate hearing. The illusions, the mismatched eyes. It adds up."

Tyson leaned forward as he prepared to share. "Let me give you the abridged version of my story," he began, his voice low and solemn. "As far as the public is concerned, my mutant ability is illusions. In truth, my power is far deeper." He paused as if gathering the words to explain his extraordinary gift. "When I touch someone, skin to skin, I gain a copy of them. It's like I absorb a replica of their essence which gets imprinted onto me. Their skills and knowledge, memories, and even their powers. I get it all." His gaze flickered to his hands, flexing his fingers. "But it comes with a cost. My touch drains lifeforce. Prolonged contact could kill. For a normal person, five seconds is all it takes to put them into a coma. If I kill someone with my touch, the imprint becomes permanent." His tone was grave, carrying the weight of this dangerous facet of his power.

"My ability to create illusions came from a mutant whose group took me hostage. I didn't mean to kill him, but he was weak and died before I had a chance to release him."

Tony watched Tyson intently as he spoke, focused on each revelation. When Tyson extended his hand, allowing metallic claws to slide from his fingertips, Tony's eyes widened in surprise.

"Talons," Tyson noted. "These plus superhuman strength, speed, reflexes, enhanced healing, and senses came from a mutant named Sabertooth. He came after me but got more than he bargained for. All my bones are coated with adamantium." His jaw tightened at the memory.

Tony whistled. "Now that is an expensive upgrade," he remarked.

Tyson's expression darkened. "It was an involuntary gift, courtesy of William Stryker and the Weapon X program."

Pepper gasped, "You're so young, but you've been through so much."

"That depends on your perspective. I gain memories from those who I've absorbed. As far as I remember, I've already lived several lifetimes." Tyson continued. "As you said, there are applications for studying mutants' powers. Well, there's a mutant out there who built a machine. It harnesses his power to activate the latent X-gene. In short, it turns humans into mutants."

Tyson's hands curled into fists. "The problem is, using the machine would kill him. So he's hunting me to use instead. With one touch, I gain his power and become his disposable battery."

Tony's brow furrowed as he processed this revelation. "So Trask has some tech that could fix this guy's machine, get him off your back?" he speculated.

Tyson shook his head. "No. The mutant after me is a terrorist who controls magnetism. And he wears a helmet that blocks telepathy. My illusions are useless against him." Tyson's expression was grim. "He's my perfect counter."

Tony met Tyson's gaze. "Then we better figure out a plan." 

Tyson continued explaining the situation. "That's partly why I'm interested in Trask Industries. In the 1970s, they pioneered drone technology designed to hunt and neutralize mutants. The drones were crafted entirely from non-metallic components."

This crucial detail represented a tactical advantage against Tyson's foe, who could manipulate metal effortlessly. Tony nodded, impressed. As an engineer himself, he saw potential in repurposing obsolete technology. "With some upgrades, those old drones could be pretty effective. Not a bad plan."

Tyson's tone grew more ominous as he revealed the second, far more alarming aspect of Trask's anti-mutant efforts. "They developed technology to detain mutants. Collars that disable their abilities. It's the kind of thing that could lead to prison camps straight out of World War II."

Tony's expression darkened as the gravity of Tyson's words sank in, painting a stark picture of the catastrophic misuse such technology could enable if it fell into the wrong hands.

"I aim to keep that tech contained, restricted only to those who truly need it to defend against or detain dangerous mutants," Tyson continued. "Mutants occupy a precarious place in society. As powerful as we can be, there are so few of us, it makes us vulnerable. And the mutants that make the news are the strong ones, most mutants aren't noteworthy. I'm strong, but at baseline, I was less dangerous than anyone with a gun. But Mutants are the 'other,' the minority disliked and feared by the majority." Tyson's jaw set with conviction. "Someone will inevitably develop similar technology down the line. Current projections estimate it will be decades before mutant numbers rise enough for us to be a significant percentage of the population. If we can push off the dystopian future long enough, we might grow to have great enough numbers to defend ourselves, or earn enough favor with the general populace to have our own civil rights movement."

"That's why I'm acting now to pull the plug on Trask. I'm in a position where I can do what no other mutant can; stop them before they get out of hand." Tyson's gaze swept the room, lingering on the floor-to-ceiling windows and modern decor. Despite the casual atmosphere, his tone was serious as he raised a pertinent question. "How secure is this place?"

Tony quipped back without missing a beat, "Didn't know you'd worry about that with the triple imposter here." His comment was an amusing nod to Natasha and her espionage and infiltration skills. She responded with an eye roll, unfazed by Tony's remark. Seeking to assuage any concerns, Tony called out, "Jarvis?"

At his prompt, the familiar voice of his AI emerged from the phone's speaker. "The room is secure, sir," Jarvis confirmed.

Tony gave Tyson a nod of assurance that their privacy was guaranteed.

With a subtle gesture over his shoulder, Tyson conjured up an illusion.

Iron Man appeared next to Tyson in his iconic red and gold suit. The iconic helmet opened to reveal Tony's face within, a perfect replica down to his trademark goatee.

The illusory Tony spoke, "You've seen my illusion before, but this only scratches the surface of my power. It's not just visual."

Iron Man snapped his armored fingers. At the gesture, the opening chords of "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath rang out, filling the room. He sauntered over to the bar. As he walked, he shed the Iron Man armor piece by piece. When he reached the bar and began pouring wine into glasses, the metal suit had shed to reveal an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. With the finesse of a seasoned host, he approached Tony and Pepper, extending a glass of wine to each with a flourish before dissipating into thin air.

"Go ahead." Tyson encouraged.

Tony and Pepper exchanged a glance before tentatively taking a sip. Tyson explained, "Smells and tastes aren't that difficult for me to recreate either."

Pepper's eyes widened, clearly impressed by the authenticity of the illusion. "This is quite convincing," she remarked, swishing the illusory wine in her glass.

"Exactly," Tyson affirmed, folding his arms across his chest. "I can override every sense."

Tyson hesitated as he prepared to disclose a difficult truth.

"I'm just going to come out with it," he began, "I tricked everyone at the Stark Expo. Ivan Vanko is alive."

Tony and Pepper exchanged glances, but remained silent, allowing Tyson to explain himself.

"Vanko's anger toward you was fueled by his conviction that your father was responsible for his own father's downfall and imprisonment. In his eyes, you were carrying on your father's legacy." Tyson said gently. "What Vanko needed wasn't death, but help. Therapy and guidance to move past his rage. He was misguided, yes, but also undoubtedly a genius."

"As far as I know, he's the only other person on this planet who successfully miniaturized arc reactor technology. His mind is brilliant, even if his motivations were twisted."

Tony wouldn't argue that. Vanko had proven himself extraordinarily gifted during their brief encounters.

"So, I've been providing him that help," Tyson revealed. As he spoke, the interior of Stark Tower melted away, replaced by a cozy cottage. Vanko sat at a worktable, focused intently on some delicate mechanical work.

"I've been giving him therapy, helping him work through his anger and grief," Tyson explained, his voice softening with empathy. "And guiding him to use his gifts positively, instead of for revenge."

Ivan Vanko left the worktable to sit beside a bed, where an older, bedridden man lay. This man bore a striking resemblance to Ivan, with similar features, unmistakably his father. 

The elder Vanko, frail yet lucid, addressed his son with a voice tinged with regret, "Ivan. Don't hold hate in your heart." His words were a plea, an acknowledgment of the heavy burden his actions had placed on Ivan's shoulders. "I made my mistakes, trying to sell the secrets of the Arc reactor. I betrayed my friends."

The older man's voice grew weaker, yet imbued with somber clarity, "Don't think poorly of me." Anton Vanko's voice softened as he sought to impart a final piece of wisdom to his son. "Do not blame the Starks for this foolish old man's mistakes," he urged, "Let go of the vendetta that consumed me."

"I'm proud of you for your accomplishments and for trying to represent our family," Anton continued, "But don't waste your life and potential on false revenge," he advised, understanding the futility of such pursuits. "Build something great, help the world." 

As Anton's counsel concluded, Ivan, visibly moved by his father's words, fought back tears.

Tony regarded the fading illusion with a skeptical gaze, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. After a moment, he quipped dryly, "Illusion therapy, huh? I'll admit, that's a new one. Never thought I'd see a therapy session where the therapist could conjure up dead dads from thin air." He shifted in his seat, gears visibly turning in his mind as he considered the implications. "You know, I've had my share of... let's call them 'paternal issues'," Tony continued, his tone deceptively light even as his words acknowledged the complex relationship with his late father. "And I've seen plenty of unconventional solutions. But this?" He gestured at the space where the illusion had been. "This is something else entirely."

Tony's piercing eyes flicked back to Tyson, a glimmer of respect mingling with characteristic irreverence. "Gonna hand it to you. Using your powers to give someone a chance to rewrite their worst day, or at least chat with it? That's pretty out there. But hey, if it works, it works. Just... try not to start a supervillain support group for hugging out childhood trauma, alright?" Despite the flippant jest, his tone conveyed that he recognized the potential value of Tyson's unorthodox approach.

Natasha's lilting laughter filled the room. Tyson rubbed his neck sheepishly, a hint of pink tinging his cheeks.

Pepper picked up on the undercurrents of the conversation. Gently probing, she asked, "Vanko's not the only one, is he?"

Tyson hesitated, shifting his weight. "Not exactly," he admitted after a pause.

"At this rate, House of M is turning into a supervillain rehabilitation center," Natasha joked, though her comment highlighted the morally ambiguous nature of Tyson's interventions.

Tyson sighed heavily. "It's not that bad," he protested weakly, though his tone was unconvincing.

Tony tapped his fingers rhythmically on the low table before them, his razor-sharp mind analyzing the possibilities and implications of Tyson's clandestine interventions.

After a pensive moment, he broke the heavy silence. "So I appreciate your honesty, but I knew you saved Vanko," he admitted.

Tyson's eyes widened in surprise, disbelief coloring his words. "You did?"

Tony nodded curtly, his gaze steady and knowing. "When we first met, after your little demonstration at the Senate hearing, I realized I couldn't counter your powers directly. So I took a small precaution with the suits. Jarvis monitors everything in my vicinity, just in case."

The billionaire's vigilance was understandable, even expected, and Tyson bore no resentment over the covert surveillance. Given the nature of his abilities, such caution was only prudent. And he knew Tony Stark was incredible at identifying weaknesses and fixing them.

"Can't fault a man for covering his bases," Tyson said lightheartedly with an amicable shrug.

Natasha let out a silvery laugh, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Mirage, so easily thwarted by his greatest nemesis... cameras!" She grinned, unable to resist teasing.

Tony quirked an eyebrow at Natasha, his expression wry. "I thought it was some covert SHIELD op, not celebrity rehab with Dr. Drew," he quipped.

Tony nodded in thoughtful agreement. "Alright, I'll admit this plan has merit," he said, "I can recognize a good idea when it's staring me in the face, even if it's not how I would have approached things."

He clasped Tyson firmly on the shoulder, meeting his mismatched eyes with an earnest look. "Consider me onboard." Tony's voice took on a more solemn tone as he continued. "I know what it's like to be handed a second chance, to try and make up for past mistakes. If I can help give that opportunity to others..."

He trailed off, looking thoughtful before turning to his holographic interface. His fingers danced across the display, inputting commands with practiced ease. "I'll forward some notes to Felicia on potential upgrades for Vanko to implement into Trask's drones. He might be able to integrate some of my designs, and get you better prepared to handle any... incidents."

He looked back at Tyson, his expression sobering. "And if you've got unstable employees, it's probably best if I help you with your security. I'll send over an AI to integrate into your building. It's not Jarvis, but I've got a few others. I think one in particular will fit you perfectly."

"I appreciate that, Tony. Truly." Tyson met the billionaire's gaze, sincerity etched on his chiseled features. "It means a lot that you're willing to help like this. I know you're taking a leap of faith."

Tony dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Yeah, well, I've taken bigger leaps on less. If you can help people, I'll give it a shot."

— Rogue Replacement —

Gwen Stacy sat at her desk, focused intently on calculus equations. Pale blue walls and floral bedding, photos of loved ones, stacks of textbooks, and motivational quotes surrounded her. The pages of her notebook were filled with numbers and formulas.

A sudden rap at the window pane made her pulse quicken. She whirled around to see a familiar figure perched on the fire escape, backlit by the setting sun. Though his red and blue costume looked slightly worn, the distinctive mask and web pattern were unmistakable.

Gwen rushed to slide the window open. "Well, hey there, Spider-Guy. What's with the get-up? I thought we weren't meeting until later," she said, her voice bubbly and playful. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she gave him a knowing look.

"What if my dad found Spider-Man sneaking into his daughter's bedroom?" Gwen teased, leaning on the window frame. She took in the defined muscles of his suit, admiring his athletic physique.

Spider-Man tensed, caught off guard by her casual tone. "Is he still hunting me?" he asked sharply.

Gwen's laughter rang out, assuming his concern was merely joking about her father's efforts against Spider-Man. "Don't worry, I won't let him arrest you," she promised affectionately.

The moment was shattered with the ring of the doorbell.

Gwen's reaction was immediate, her eyes widening in alarm. She whispered in a low urgent voice. "My dad's home. He can't see you like this. Hide, change your costume, do something. I can't open the door with Spider-Man standing in my room." She spoke rapidly, knowing the dire consequences if her father discovered them. "Whoever's at the door, if I don't answer, then my dad will come checking."

Spider-Man gave a quick thumbs up in silent acknowledgment of her words. An agile leap across the room, had him landing soundlessly behind Gwen's bed. Crouching low, he concealed himself, hidden from view by the bed frame.

Gwen crossed the room and glanced back at Spider-Man's hidden form before she stepped into the empty hallway. With her father nowhere in sight tension ebbed from her body with each step. As she neared the front door, her father's muffled voice reached her ears. His usual warmth was conspicuously absent, replaced with a formal, restrained tone. He reserved that voice only for work, and people he didn't like, particularly her boyfriend, Peter Parker.

As Gwen came into full view of the living room, what she saw rooted her in place. There, framed in the open doorway, stood Peter Parker. Gwen's mind reeled, unable to comprehend the impossibility of it all. Peter was here, exchanging stilted pleasantries with her father.

But if Peter was here, who was the stranger in her room wearing Spider-Man's unmistakable costume?

Her sense of unease grew as the gravity of the situation washed over her. Whoever now hid in her room behind that familiar mask was completely unknown to her.

An imposter.

Peter spoke to her father stilted, but politely. However, they noticed the abrupt shift in Gwen's demeanor as she entered. Her body tensed, as she came to a sudden halt. The confusion and unease playing across her features set both men on edge.

Captain Stacy's instincts kicked in immediately. Both protective father and vigilant police captain, he edged closer to Gwen. "What's wrong, sweetie?" he asked gently.

Before either could glean an answer, an unexpected figure emerged from the hallway. Gwen turned slowly. Her pulse raced as she faced the figure looming behind her.

There stood Spider-Man.

The sight jarred Peter Parker standing mere feet away. Surprise and defensiveness crept into his voice. "Who are you?" Peter demanded, his eyes locked on the brazen impersonator.

Unfazed, the costumed figure exuded confidence. He mimicked Spider-Man's trademark swagger, and declared, "You know who I am." A stunned silence descended, all eyes fixed on the unwelcome intruder.

"I'm your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" he proclaimed, into the tense quiet with a hint of theatricality added to his voice.

Gwen's unease morphed into dread. The iconic line was familiar yet jarringly incongruous coming from this stranger.

Captain Stacy's voice edged with paternal protectiveness. "How did you get in here? Get away from my daughter!"

The costumed figure was undeterred. He placed a hand firmly on Gwen's shoulder, his grip displaying his possessiveness. "I don't think so," he declared.

Peter tensed, muscles coiling in anticipation. The stakes were deeply personal, but Gwen's safety was paramount. As Captain Stacy dashed to confront the imposter, the situation careened rapidly. Consumed by fury, the imposter reacted with shocking force. He shoved Gwen aside, indifferent to her well-being, his sole focus meeting the captain's advance.

Diving towards Gwen, Peter wrapped her in his arms as he sought to shield her from harm. Their momentum carried them crashing through a glass coffee table. Jagged shards exploded outward, cascading across the floor. Peter absorbed the brunt of the impact, his body a barricade protecting Gwen from a majority of the sharp shrapnel. 

The imposter Spider-Man's attention was momentarily diverted back toward Gwen by the harm he had caused. Captain Stacy seized this window of opportunity, he reached up to the top of a nearby china cabinet, retrieving a concealed firearm. He'd prepared contingencies for precisely this type of situation. With practiced motions, he loaded the gun and aimed at the intruder, his sole focus neutralizing the immediate threat to his daughter's safety.

Gunshots rang out, deafening in the confined space.

The Spider-Man, however, displayed uncanny agility. He evaded the barrage of bullets, weaving and dodging with his heightened reflexes. The room transformed into a battlefield where Spider-Man flowed around the projectiles, his movements unpredictable and hyper-reactive. Though disciplined and accurate, each of Captain Stacy's shots missed by mere inches as Spider-Man continued to elude his rounds; ricocheting off walls and furniture in a whirlwind of acrobatics.

Amidst the wreckage of the coffee table, Gwen clutched Peter's sleeve, pain and panic swirling in her eyes. "Help him," she pleaded, her voice strained with urgency. But Peter was more worried for Gwen, so he began to assess her injuries. Her grip tightened, desperation bleeding into her words. "Peter, please."

The gravity of her request was evident. Peter's attention snapped to the confrontation. Captain Stacy's gun clicked as the chamber emptied. The imposter closed the distance. His leg lashed out in a powerful kick that hammered into the captain's chest.

The impact was devastating. Captain Stacy was sent flying backward, crashing into a china cabinet, reducing it to ruins in an explosion of shattering glass and splintering wood. His body lay unmoving amidst the debris. Spider-Man lingered, surveying the destruction with satisfaction.

The imposter's moment of grim triumph was abruptly shattered, much like the cabinet itself, when a sudden force struck him with staggering intensity. Propelled by righteous anger, Peter delivered a powerful punch that sent Spider-Man hurtling out of the living room and into the hallway.

As Peter dashed after the imposter who had brought such chaos into their lives, Gwen was consumed with deep concern for her father. She began a slow, painstaking journey across the living room floor littered with shards of glass from the shattered coffee table and china cabinet. The sharp edges dug mercilessly into her hands, arms, and legs as she crawled, heedless of the danger. Her singular focus was reaching her father. Gwen persisted doggedly through the hazardous terrain, shards slicing her palms, her eyes fixed on the crumpled form of her beloved father.

Finally reaching her father's side, she was confronted with the dire gravity of his condition. The man who had always been her pillar of strength and her protector now lay injured and vulnerable before her. As the harsh reality sank in, tears welled in Gwen's eyes. Never before had she seen her father so helpless, so fragile.

Her protector now needed protecting.

Gwen cradled her father's broken body, her anguished sobs echoing through the wreckage. Captain Stacy fought through excruciating pain to offer his daughter gentle reassurance. With great effort, he raised his trembling hand to her lips, a wordless plea for her to calm.

"It's going to be okay," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. Though weakened by his injuries, his words carried the firm conviction of a father comforting his child, even in his darkest hour.

"You're strong, Gwen. And smart," Captain Stacy said, each phrase punctuated by ragged breaths. A violent cough interrupted, speckling his lips with blood. Undeterred, he continued, "Smarter than me. Make sure you go to school, and get a good job. Take care of yourself."

Gwen listened intently, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her father's steadfast resolve, despite his condition, inspired a sense of duty within her. "I will," she pledged, her voice barely a whisper against the swell of grief.

The captain's eyes seemed to drift. He uttered a weighty request.

"Promise me."

Gwen leaned in close, her response immediate and unwavering. "I promise," she swore.

"Promise me you'll get far away, somewhere safe. Away from Spider-Man."

It was her father's desperate, dying wish; to see his only child safe from the dangers that had invaded their lives. His words struck her like a blow. To distance herself from Peter. But gazing down at her father's earnest face, she knew there was only one possible reply.

"I promise," Gwen vowed solemnly.

The silence that descended upon the room was deafening, broken only by the muffled sounds of the ongoing battle raging deeper in the apartment. Captain Stacy mustered the last remnants of his fading strength, his eyes brimming with paternal love as they found his daughter's tear-streaked face.

"I'm so proud of you, Gwen," he whispered strained yet affectionate. Though muted, his words resonated sincerely, conveying a father's pride and admiration for the remarkable young woman he raised. He managed a tender smile.

"I love you," he breathed.

The simple phrase encapsulated a lifetime of cherished memories. Gwen's tears flowed freely down her cheeks, overcome by anguish and disbelief. She clutched her father's hand, willing him to keep speaking, to offer any small measure of comfort to ease her sorrow. Each fleeting second felt like an eternity as she silently begged him to stay, praying he could withstand the pain and push back against the creeping darkness trying to steal him away.

But only silence answered her pleas, punctuated by her muffled sobs and the sounds of fighting. Captain Stacy's eyes had grown vacant, enveloping Gwen in the deafening quiet of his absence. An aching chasm opened within her, the profound and sudden loss leaving her bereft. She bowed her head, overcome with grief.

The image of her father's tender smile etched into her mind even as the light faded from his eyes.