Arc 4 - Ch 4: The Night Shift

Chapter 38: The Night Shift

Date: Tuesday, October 5, 2010.

Location: Oscorp, Manhattan, New York

Tyson's night shift at Oscorp began like clockwork. A stroll through the pristine lobby, followed by exchanging familiar nods with the middle-aged security guard at the front desk who enjoyed lame jokes. The perfunctory flash of his ID badge was more out of habit than necessity. The guard knew Tyson well enough to skip the formalities, but rules were rules.

The security locker room with its rows of lockers flanking wooden benches was reminiscent of the locker room at Midtown High. Except here, a crisp uniform awaited Tyson when he arrived. Oscorp didn't allow the security uniforms off-site. They were laundered and pressed on-premises, returning them fresh for the next shift. Slipping into the stiff uniform, Tyson readied himself. He took the internship seriously, even if nights consisted mostly of empty hallways with the occasional interruption caused by lab techs working late.

Dressed for work, he headed to the security office. This space, filled with monitors and high-tech surveillance equipment, belonged to his supervisor for the night shift, Aleksei Sytsevich. The stocky Russian with a buzzcut had an authoritarian manner bordering on abrasiveness. But Tyson kept his opinions to himself. Most nights the two manned the security office with a handful of other guards. The job required regular patrols, a task Sytsevich seemed to think was beneath him. He lounged in his chair like a king, dispatching Tyson to the quiet halls with a lazy wave.

"Another round, Tyson," Sytsevich would grunt, eyes glued to his magazines, barely glancing at the screens.

Tyson never minded the patrols. The stillness of Oscorp at night contrasted his busy days. It was during these quiet moments, walking the empty halls that Tyson's mind would wander. To his friends, school, and the looming events that cast shadows on his actions.

Despite the monotony, despite Sytsevich's characteristically gruff indifference, Tyson knew Oscorp harbored a secret. The internship was ordinary, perhaps, but he knew Oscorp would see action someday and he'd have insider access.

The security office was as Tyson had left it. Aleksei barely looked up from his magazine to acknowledge Tyson's return. Tyson was about to settle in to study when Aleksei's gravelly voice shattered the tranquility.

"Camera's out," Aleksei grunted, stabbing a thick finger at a black screen. "Sector 17-A. Go check it out."

Tyson nodded, immediately heading for the stairwell. He bypassed the sluggish elevators. The stairs were free of cameras, creating a blind spot that allowed Tyson a moment to cut loose. His feet pounded the concrete steps, leaping entire flights in exhilarating bursts of speed. This freedom to unleash his true abilities was a guilty pleasure. In moments, he reached the 17th-floor door.

Bursting into the stark white hallway, Tyson glimpsed sudden movement and a whisper of sound as a dark figure vanished around a distant corner. No lab tech working late would move like that, nor wear all black. Instincts kicked in as Tyson pursued the fleeing figure. The intruder was quick, but Tyson was far faster. The distance between them rapidly closed, the thrill of the chase firing through his veins.

Ahead, the figure suddenly halted and pivoted to face him. Time seemed to slow, every detail burning into Tyson's memory. The moonlight streaming through a nearby window caressed her form, accentuating the sinuous silhouette. Her skintight, black suit was adorned with fur at the neck and wrists. The outfit highlighted more of her shape than it concealed. A dark mask obscured her identity but failed to diminish the allure in her piercing blue eyes. Platinum blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her lips curved in a knowing, mocking smile.

Tyson met her intense gaze. The night itself seemed to hold its breath as they engaged in a silent duel of wills. Her smile widened in a challenge, "My, my, a charming night guard playing the hero?"

A palpable tension thrummed between them. Despite her relaxed, almost casual stance, Tyson sensed the coiled energy within her. Shaking off his moment of being distracted by her appearance, he challenged, "What's your business here?"

Her low, sultry laugh curled around him. "Perhaps I'm just a Black Cat who's wandered into the wrong alley. Or maybe I'm after the cream..." Her gaze flicked to Tyson's waist suggestively. Almost imperceptibly she looked to the 'Restricted' door. But Tyson detected the fleeting glance with his enhanced eyesight. That door held Oscorp's secrets, secrets he was supposed to protect. He recalled this section housed administrative offices, finance, and acquisitions. Not research or weapons.

The standoff lingered until Tyson relaxed his stance. Even without meta knowledge, he recognized her. Her delicate scent tickled his nostrils; vanilla and jasmine with a hint of leather and cedarwood. Even if he ignored his superhuman senses, her white-blonde hair gave away her identity.

"Interesting we keep meeting in hallways, isn't it?" he asked.

The Black Cat, Felicia Hardy, stiffened. Her eyes widened fractionally, confirming his suspicion. The taut silence stretched for a heartbeat before she recovered, her smile was now tinged with wry amusement. "Took you long enough, night guard," she purred, neither confirming nor denying Tyson's question. "But what happens now?"

Tyson's mind raced. He'd only met Felicia once at school. What secrets did she seek?

Sensing his turmoil, Felicia tilted her head studying him. "Tick tock, hero. Decisions, decisions."

An impish spark lit Tyson's eyes as he leaned in, "You know, I've always had a thing for cats," he quipped in a conspiratorial whisper, "So how can this humble night guard help a lost little Black Cat find her way?"

Felicia's smirk grew. She pivoted to the door and focused wholly on the lock. Bending over, she brandished a lockpick with practiced finesse. Her back arched deliberately, the skintight outfit accentuating her silhouette's curves. Tyson found his eyes drawn and their surroundings fading into irrelevance. The lock clicked softly. Felicia's shoulders rolled in quiet triumph, casting a flirtatious glance over her shoulder.

She slipped inside the room. Papers rustled, fluttering under her quick, searching hands. Then she released a soft, triumphant "aha!" barely louder than a breath, yet resonant with victory. Gloved fingers extracted a folder, and she clutched it to her chest like a prized possession. The top corner of the file brushed her chin as she pivoted towards him. Her expression embodied mock innocence, "Mind if I borrow these?" she asked. Her voice was like honey threatening to envelop him.

Tyson outstretched his hand. "That's not how it works," he countered, trying to project authority against her magnetic pull.

A playful pout formed on her lips. "Not even a tiny peek?" she cooed intimately.

Her tone almost had Tyson capitulating, but somehow he held firm. "Nuh-uh," he denied simply, belying his swirling emotions.

Felicia pouted in disappointment. Approaching with a seductive sway in her hips, she conceded gracefully, placing the folder in his hand. Her gloved fingers grazed his deliberately as she followed Tyson's mandate.

Tyson moved to the photocopier. The light briefly illuminated his face as he duplicated the documents. With the originals secure, he extended her the copies. Her broad smile betrayed her satisfaction, "My hero," she teased, genuine gratitude flickering in her gaze.

His back was turned mere seconds as he replaced the folder. But when he turned back around, she had vanished, like a whisper in the night. He could have tracked her unique scent but allowed her to slip away.

Back in the security office, Aleksei looked up, lazy interest in his heavy-lidded eyes. "What happened?"

"Camera's busted," Tyson shrugged with casual dismissal. "Needs a tech."

Aleksei grunted, his attention already back on his magazine. Tyson slumped into his chair. Felicia, the Black Cat, had vanished, but her presence lingered in Tyson's thoughts.

— Rogue Replacement —

Wonder filled Peter as he stood in the alley gawking at his hands. The sensation was inexplicable. It was as if Millions of tiny hooks sprung from his fingertips, pulling him tight to the wall. He tested tentatively at first, but his confidence bloomed with each successful step up the building's side. Gravity lost meaning as he scaled, exhilaration rushing through him.

Peter's echoing laughter rang between the skyscrapers as he victoriously crested the rooftop. He did a giddy dance, kicking up gravel. "Who needs elevators?" he joked.

Unable to stand still, he mumbled, "Okay, let's try something else." He jutted his hand out, rolling his wrists. Disappointingly, nothing happened. Frowning in concentration, he flicked both wrists. Still nothing. "Come on," he muttered, his excitement edged with frustration.

Different words spilled from his mouth as he tested various hand motions, "Go, Webs.", "Go webs, Go." but no webs fired. Peter's mind returned to the lunchroom. He recalled reaching for milk then...

Peter flexed his fingers, reminiscent of the rock and roll gesture. Suddenly, the web shot out, fast and straight, surprising him. "Yes!" he shouted as triumph replaced his frustration.

He practiced until his aim improved, pegging his far target, on the roof a distance away. He tugged the taut line and briefly wondered if he could swing across the street. Shooting a web was one thing, but swinging on one? That was something else entirely. Peter hesitated as the practical part of his brain protested his crazy thoughts. But his curiosity urged him on, hungry for more. Releasing the line, he carefully aimed and shot again, the web zipping out to anchor across the street. He tugged it taut. The line seemed strong enough.

Taking a deep breath, he retreated several steps and then sprinted forward, leaping off the building's edge. Adrenaline punched his gut as the ground dropped away dizzyingly. Gripping the web line, it held firm. Momentum swung him forward and he whooped with joy, the rushing wind tearing away the sound. This was no mere swing; he was soaring, weightless and free! But as the arc's peak approached, reality kicked in. How would he land?

The next building rapidly neared. Panic flaring, he let go and desperately flung another webline. It caught, and he swung again, landing in a clumsy run. "Need to work on sticking the dismount," he panted, knees weak with relief at not splatting. But it was a start, the first of many swings to come. With each, his confidence grew until the city transformed into a playground pulsing with possibility.

Hours passed in blissful freedom as Peter practiced swinging, improving with each attempt. He felt unstoppable until the setting sun snapped him back to reality.

"Oh no, Uncle Ben!" he gasped, guilt crashing in. He was late to paint the kitchen.

With a heavy heart, Peter fired a webline banking toward home. The city blurred beneath him as he swung, leaving his laughter behind.

Peter's feet hit the ground running, puffing breaths doing little to ease his tight chest. He slowed nearing home, tidying his appearance from the high-flying adventure. Rounding the corner, his heart sank. There was Mary Jane, laughing as she stepped into Flash's shiny new red car. She didn't even glance Peter's way as he stood longing.

"Flash Thompson...," Peter muttered, shoulders hunching as he shoved his hands in his pockets. The impressive car screamed for attention. Peter looked down at his worn sneakers, thinking spitefully, "Would a cool car make me cool too?"

He pictured Tyson, revving his motorcycle, the look in people's eyes, even Mary Jane's. Maybe that's all he lacked. Something loud and fast to prove he was more than a nerd.

But those thoughts came crashing down as he opened the door to Uncle Ben's disappointed, concerned face. Guilt twisted Peter's gut for forgetting his promise while he was too busy swinging above the city.

"Sorry I'm late, Uncle Ben," Peter started, but the older man silenced him with a raised hand.

"Save it, Peter," Uncle Ben's voice held unusual sternness. "We were supposed to paint the kitchen together. Your Aunt May can't help me, we rely on you for work like this."

Peter's guilt turned defensive, a prickly heat creeping up his neck. "I know, I just...lost track of time."

"Doing what?" Uncle Ben pressed, standing stiffly. "We had plans, Peter. You've been different lately. Avoiding us. Coming home late. Getting into fights."

"I'm not different, Uncle Ben," Peter retorted harshly. "I've just got a lot on my mind, okay?" he added hastily, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Try me, son," Uncle Ben gently challenged, but Peter adamantly shook his head.

"It's my life, okay?! You wouldn't get it. You're not my dad!" The words hung in the air between them creating a gap. Peter had crossed a line. He'd spoken words that could not be unsaid.

Uncle Ben recoiled as if struck, hurt flashing across his features. "You're right," he said after a heavy pause, "I'm not your father. But since he couldn't be here, I've tried my best. I promised him I would raise you as my own." He sighed heavily as if the weight of that promise suddenly felt heavy.

Misreading Peter's silence as rebellion, Uncle Ben continued, "You're not a child anymore. You need to be responsible, Peter. Your actions have consequences..."

"I know, I know!" Peter interrupted, temper flaring. "I've heard it before. With great power comes great responsibility."

Uncle Ben looked taken aback, words failing him. "Peter. Please, talk to me," he pleaded, reaching for his nephew.

But Peter didn't linger to hear him out. With one last regretful, defiant look, he turned and stormed off, the slamming door echoing his inner turmoil.

Uncle Ben stood frozen, hand outstretched, silent sadness in his eyes. He'd only wanted to understand, but the chasm between them had widened making it more vast than ever.

Peter ran down the block. His ragged breaths couldn't drown out the chaotic mess of guilt, anger, and deep-cutting sadness. The cool night air did little to calm the storm within. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to outrun this swell of emotions, if only briefly. And so he disappeared into the growing darkness, alone with his turbulent thoughts.

— Rogue Replacement —

As the sun dipped below New York's bustling skyline, casting long shadows down the streets, Tyson found himself reflecting on an oddly lonely day. His usual crew had vanished. No Peter at lunch, MJ and Harry nowhere to be seen, and not even an appearance from Flash to stir things up. Chemistry class with Gwen had been routine, but Cindy Moon's empty seat was now an unsettling new norm. The school felt emptier, classes quieter, and the day decidedly duller.

But the highlight was anything but dull. Martial arts class at Chikara Dojo, and it wasn't just the vigorous workout that got his blood pumping, but his partner. Natasha Romanoff, or 'Natalie Rushman' as she claimed. She'd started attending a week ago, always coincidentally arriving when Tyson did. Her impressive skills meant Colleen often paired her with Tyson, the only student whose physicality allowed him to match her skill.

Today's focus was grappling. Natalie had demonstrated an intricate knowledge of the art to Collen, prompting Colleen to allow her to instruct Tyson while she worked with other students. Natalie's instructions were precise, and her demonstrations were flawless. Tyson found himself caught in her teachings. Each collision made him acutely aware of her. The softness of her skin, the scent of her hair, the play of muscles beneath her tight exercise outfit. She'd guide his hands to her waist, shoulder, arms, teaching holds, and locks. But occasionally, just occasionally, his hand would slip or she'd place it teasingly close to more personal territory.

That sly glint would appear in her eyes, playful, challenging, daring him to speak up. But Tyson, though flushed, kept his focus, respecting the woman and the art she wielded.

Tyson wore full spandex, including gloves and a turtleneck, under his t-shirt and joggers. He did his best to limit his superhuman attributes to human levels. Not just to maintain his facade, but to ensure he properly learned the techniques.

Natalie guided Tyson through each grapple with disciplined proficiency. As they shifted positions, he struggled to focus on the technique and not his hyper-awareness of her.

In a sudden, fluid motion, Natalie twisted his momentum against him. He thudded to the mat, air whooshing from his lungs as he found himself staring at the ceiling. His vision was filled by Natalie's victorious grin.

Lying there, Tyson was acutely aware Natalie's body had followed her throw, leaving her atop him. The faint scent of her shampoo mingled with sweat from her exertion. Her eyes sparkled competitively but now held amusement too.

Her closeness tested Tyson's restraint. He sensed the minute changes in her breathing and felt the warmth of her body. Their position, her straddling atop his hips, brought heat to his cheeks and an involuntary response he couldn't hide. He knew there was no way Natalie had failed to notice his bulge pressing against her.

"You're so close," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. The words carried a challenge but something more too. "Keep at it, and maybe you'll get it." She set his heart racing but he held her gaze, accepting the double meaning.

Matching her wit, Tyson replied, "Don't worry, I'll keep trying. I don't give up easily. I'll get it eventually."

Natalie raised an eyebrow in response. She rose, offering a hand, pulling him up and away from the chaotic thoughts their contact inspired.

Outside the Chikara Dojo, conversation flowed easily between Natalie and Tyson after their intense sparring session. As they lingered outside, Natalie couldn't help but inquire about Tyson's unusual attire. The outfit included matching gloves, a high-necked turtleneck sleeveless top, and leggings that disappeared into his shoes, leaving only his head exposed.

Natalie gestured vaguely at his ensemble. "So, what's the deal with the spandex bodysuit getup?" she asked, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

Tyson avoided her gaze and tugged self-consciously at the spandex encasing his bicep. "It's uh...it's a skin condition," he mumbled unconvincingly.

"A skin condition that requires head-to-toe spandex?" Natalie pressed skeptically.

"Yeah, uh, my doctor recommended I wear breathable fabrics to...help with the irritation," Tyson claimed, still not meeting her eyes.

Natalie's eyes sparkled mischievously. "So no touching then? That's funny, I seem to recall some exceptions during our session," she teased, her husky tone unexpectedly warming him.

Before he could respond, his phone's sharp trill cut through the moment. Grateful for the distraction, Tyson retrieved it. Jubilee's name flashed on the screen.

"Who's calling?" Natalie asked casually, though Tyson detected a note of interest.

"Just a friend," he replied, too quickly.

Her lips curled teasingly. "A girlfriend, perhaps?"

"No, not like that. She's just a friend," Tyson clarified, sounding defensive even to himself.

Natalie just smiled wider, letting it go. With a graceful tilt of her head, she casually bid farewell, leaving Tyson to his call. But as he answered, Tyson's eyes followed Natalie as she sauntered down the block, taking a piece of his composure with her.

Tyson leaned against the wall outside the Chikara Dojo, phone in hand. "Hey Jubes, what's up?" he greeted, his voice casual, still riding the high from being so close to Natalie.

Jubilee's voice crackled with an unmistakable excitement, "Tyson, where are you right now?"

"Uh, Chinatown. Why?" he replied. Her tone pulled his thoughts away from Natasha.

"Is that near the Brooklyn Bridge?" she asked, urgency underpinning her words.

"Yeah, actually it is. Why?" Tyson frowned.

"Because there's a dinosaur on the Brooklyn Bridge!" Jubilee blurted out, and the absurdity of the statement gave Tyson pause.

A dinosaur? Images of the Savage Lands flashed through his mind, but that was so far away, and he hadn't even considered its existence in this world. A beat passed before realization dawned, his mind turning to Peter, Oscorp, Dr. Connors, and that formula. Is that happening already?

His thoughts were shattered by the beeping of his phone indicating another call. "Jubes, I'll call you back," he said quickly.

Switching calls, Tyson started jogging in the direction of the bridge. "Hello?"

The phone line hummed before an older woman's voice filtered through, laced with concern. "Is this Tyson?"

"Speaking," he replied, slowing his pace slightly, an inkling of worry starting to form.

"Oh, Tyson, this is Peter's Aunt May. I found your number on Peter's desk. Is he with you?" she inquired, the tremor in her voice barely masked.

"No, sorry, he isn't," Tyson responded, his worry escalating. Aunt May wouldn't go looking through Peter's stuff and call him unless it was important.

"Oh, that's too bad. Peter and Ben had an argument, and he stormed out. Ben went looking for him," Aunt May explained, her words rushed and tinged with anxiety. "If you see him, can you call me, or bring him home?"

A surge of worry welled within Tyson. "Sure thing, Aunt May. I'll go look for him now," he assured her.

With the call ended, Tyson's worry morphed into action. He knew the argument would lead to Uncle Ben's death. They could be anywhere in the vast city, his only clue was the Lizard's bridge appearance. It couldn't be a coincidence.

He sprinted toward the Brooklyn Bridge, legs pumping, each long stride devouring pavement. The cityscape blurred around his sharply focused mind. Uncle Ben was in trouble, and maybe Peter was too. He had to be there for them.

Racing through crowded streets, Tyson impulsively snatched a mask from a vendor. He quickly stripped his shirt and shorts leaving him in the spandex getup. It was a spontaneous move to conceal his identity. With no time for doubts, he kept running. Despite the urgency, he smiled slightly at the mask style. An Anbu fox mask from a beloved anime. The only difference was this one covered his upper face and had been cut along the mouth-line. This left Tyson's lower face exposed while hiding his other features.

Mask in place, Tyson's determination solidified. A burst of speed carried him toward the bridge. In the distance, unmistakable sounds of destruction met his ears. He prayed he wasn't too late. As the bridge loomed nearer, he steeled himself for what he might find. Uncle Ben was out there, possibly amidst this chaos, needing help. Remembering Aunt May's worry, Tyson pushed himself harder.

— Rogue Replacement —

Natasha rounded the corner of the block housing the Chikara Dojo. Her footsteps were light and casual despite the adrenaline just fading from her veins. Slipping her smartphone from the pocket of her leather jacket, and putting in her earpiece, she hit the speed dial for her partner's number. The line trilled once before being picked up by the familiar gravelly voice.

"Clint, what do you see from that bird's eye view up there?" she asked, her tone low and even, but not devoid of its subtle, playful undertone.

Perched high on a rooftop across the street with a clear vantage point overlooking the dojo, Clint's voice crackled in her earpiece, amusement evident even through the slight static. "Kid's got some serious moves, no question there. But he's not the only one bringing the skills today. Looks like you put the moves on him during that sparring session."

Natasha's lips curled into a sly smirk, the corner of her mouth ticking up ever so slightly. "Just being thorough in my evaluation," she retorted, the easy banter between them as natural as breathing.

"Uh-huh, sure," Clint drawled, not buying her feigned nonchalance for even a split second. "Gotta say though, pretty impressive restraint and control for a teenager. Looked like he was trying to learn from you instead of just tossing you around or feeling you up, which he definitely could've done, and you didn't seem to be discouraging."

A moment stretched silently as Clint continued surveying the scene through his hawk-like gaze. Then suddenly, his voice lost its casual tone, turning serious and urgent. "Heads up Tasha, the kid's on the move, and I mean really on the move. Heading your way fast, like easily breaking the speed limit fast."

Natasha's brows furrowed together, "What, already on his motorcycle?" she inquired, confused how he could have retrieved and mounted his bike so quickly.

"Negative, he's on foot," Clint clarified, disbelief at the feat seeping into his tone. "But moving way faster than the cars right now."

Anticipation flooded Natahsa's veins. They knew Tyson was extraordinary. First was the Federal Reserve heist, which they still hadn't determined how he'd pulled. Then there were his feats at the basketball game. The easy set of 405 lb power cleans later that day had further cemented her suspicions, and this impossible speed was yet another confirmation that he was enhanced. She was now almost certain they were dealing with a new Super Soldier, which raised concerning questions. Who had administered the serum to create him, for what purpose, and was he experiencing the rumored side effects? And yet being a super soldier still didn't explain how he managed to nab the gold from the Federal Reserve Bank.

Having driven to Chikara Dojo herself on a sleek black motorcycle, Natasha now sprinted toward where she had parked her bike just around the next corner. Mere seconds later, a blur of motion zipped through the intersection ahead of her.

"Keep eyes on him, do not lose visual," Natasha ordered Clint sharply as she slipped in her nearly invisible earpiece communicator. Donning her helmet, she kickstarted the motorcycle to life, peeling out after her target. Her spy instincts were screaming that this was big, the kind of unusual activity they were trained to identify and investigate, the kind that could potentially cost innocent lives if left unchecked...

The throaty roar of Natasha's motorcycle engine filled the air as she gunned it, tires squealing against the pavement as she wove expertly through traffic in pursuit of Tyson. Her mind raced through scenarios and possibilities, wondering what unfolding situation could have prompted him to risk exposing himself like this.

But amidst the uncertainty, an undeniable thrill surged within her. This was what she lived for. The chase, the unknown, and the danger.

Keeping a block's distance, Natasha tailed Tyson as he maintained his impossible pace, clocking nearly 50 mph on foot alone. His trajectory remained unwavering, heading straight for the Brooklyn Bridge just ahead. Natasha's eyes narrowed in anticipation, wondering what could be drawing him to the bridge at such speed.

As they approached, Natasha noted the bridge was a snarled mess of honking horns and frustrated commuters caught in near standstill traffic. Without hesitation, she veered her motorcycle up onto the sidewalk, adeptly weaving through the few startled pedestrians who shouted in surprise and indignation. She didn't slow, her focus laser-sharp on the blur that was her target.

Her commlink crackled to life in her ear, Clint's voice cutting through the rush of wind and urban noise. "We've got another player. There's an unknown Enhanced on the bridge."

Natasha's grip tightened on the handlebars, a fresh surge of adrenaline kicking her heart rate up a notch. "Got any details, or just surprises today?" she shot back tersely, her tactical mind already racing through potential threat assessments.

"You're gonna have to see this one to believe it," was his only cryptic warning.

Mere seconds later, she glimpsed firsthand what had given Clint pause. Lumbering onto the bridge was a creature so monstrous, so primal and reptilian, that Natasha's brain took a moment to fully register what she was witnessing.

A giant Lizard.

It moved with terrifying speed and coordination on powerful hind legs, shoving aside vehicles as if they were plastic toys. Screams of panic filled the air as commuters abandoned their cars and fled in all directions.

Fishtailing her bike to a stop, Natasha's pulse pounded in her ears. This was bad. She was trained for a lot, but dinosaurs come to life? That fell distinctly outside her typical mission prep.

Natasha's sharp eyes scanned the chaotic scene before her, searching for any sign of Tyson amidst the pandemonium erupting on the bridge. She deftly dodged panicked civilians scrambling by while keeping a wary eye on the unpredictable, rampaging movements of the gigantic reptilian creature. She didn't know exactly what she was dealing with here, but, at this moment, she was the only thing standing between this monster and potential civilian casualties.

Clint's voice suddenly crackled urgently in her commlink, a tension in his tone she recognized all too well. "Stand down and hold position. Get any closer right now and your cover is blown."

Natasha's finely honed instincts screamed at her to move, to do something, anything to intervene. But she was a professional above all else. Maintaining her cover identity mattered. Especially on such a delicate undercover mission where trust could be destroyed in an instant.

"There are civilians everywhere," she shot back tersely, taking in the terrified faces around her, each one a human being she was duty-bound to protect.

"Mask is about to engage the target. Get to a higher vantage point to observe only," Clint instructed, his tone brooking no argument this time.

"Mask?" Natasha mumbled to herself. With a fluidity born of countless missions, she sprinted toward the nearest bridge support pillar. An exposed maintenance ladder led upwards along the pillar towards the heights of the bridge's understructure. Each rung she climbed gave her a broader view of the anarchy unfolding below until she was perched silently high above it all, an eagle-eyed sentinel observing the madness from her lofty vantage point.

There, amid the screaming crowd and blaring car horns stood Tyson. The muscular teen seemed small and vulnerable compared to the hulking reptilian behemoth lumbering before him. Tyson was still clad in the skintight black spandex from earlier, but now a white mask was strapped over the upper half of his face, concealing his identity. Where had that come from? Natasha filed away that detail for later. The more pressing question was what exactly the teen planned to do against this prehistoric monster.

It was almost surreal, watching the teenager square off solo against the towering creature straight from mankind's primordial nightmares. The Lizard dwarfed Tyson, a leviathan of scales, sinew, and raw animal power that seemed like a laughably unfair matchup at first glance. But as Natasha observed from above, she noted Tyson's stance held no trace of fear or hesitation, only poised confidence. A heightened version of the self-assurance she had witnessed in their earlier spar.

The very air seemed to thicken with tension as the standoff continued, the panicked screams around them fading into background noise. All of Natasha's senses zeroed in on the confrontation unfolding below. Every muscle was taut, ready to drop into the fray the instant the need arose.

But Clint's words still echoed clearly in her mind...observe only.

For now, her role was to watch and wait, trusting that whatever extraordinary abilities Tyson possessed. And hope he had some kind of plan for dealing with a threat seemingly ripped from the pages of science fiction.

The Lizard lunged straight for Tyson, powerful jaws gaping wide, clawed hands outstretched to shred the teen to ribbons. At the last possible second, Tyson moved. One heartbeat, he was directly in the path of certain death, the next he had flowed around the creature's lethal strike, like water, to land a series of blindingly fast blows that made the Lizard reel back with an enraged, confused roar.

Natasha's breath caught in her throat as she observed the battle unfolding far below her perch. Tyson was holding his own for the moment, but it was a dangerous, precarious dance with death that could shift at any second.

For all his uncanny agility and reflexes, Tyson failed to see the Lizard's thick, powerful tail whipping around to slam into his side until it was too late. The impact was thunderous in Natasha's ears even at a distance. The teen was sent flying like a limp ragdoll to crash into a parked car with enough force to leave a Tyson-shaped indentation in the metal chassis.

Natasha's heart stuttered in a rare flash of panic that she ruthlessly suppressed behind her impassive spy's facade. This was it. She had to intervene now to try to save as many lives as possible. She would mourn Tyson's death later, but now she had work to do. Her muscles tensed, ready to propel her from her perch into the fray. Yet even as she prepared to drop, Tyson astonishingly pulled himself from the mangled wreckage, shaking his head to clear it like an action movie hero. He grimaced, but then defiantly cracked his neck and raised his fists, making a clear "bring it on" gesture to the Lizard.

The creature roared in frustration, enraged by Tyson's refusal to stay down. The battle resumed, even more intense than before. The Lizard's claws raked forward, shredding through Tyson's clothes and grazing the skin beneath.

And then before Natasha's eyes, things somehow managed to get even stranger.

Scaly patches erupted across the visible portions of Tyson's skin. His posture changed, back hunching as his body rapidly bulked up. A long tail extended from between his spandex turtleneck and pants, completing his shocking new reptilian form.

Natasha was no stranger to the bizarre and unexplained in her line of work, but this? This was something new even for her extensive experience. "Barton, are you seeing this?" she hissed sharply into her comm piece, unable to fully trust her own eyes.

A brief pause, and then Clint's stunned voice crackled back. "Yeah, I got eyes on it too. I'll be damned. Looks like our boy just got an express ticket to Jurassic Park down there."

As the shocking transformation was completed, Tyson refocused his attention on the rampaging Lizard with renewed ferocity. There was a wildness to his movements that hadn't been present before, animalistic savagery unleashed by whatever traumatic transformation his body had just undergone.

Natasha knew she should move, intervene, and take control of this rapidly escalating situation. Yet she found herself rooted in place, unable to look away from the spectacle unfolding below. This was uncharted territory now, a scenario that no training could have fully prepared her for. What did this radical transformation mean for Tyson's future? For the mission? Things had suddenly grown far more complicated, the situation spiraling rapidly outside of expected parameters. Natasha's hand hovered over her comm, weighing whether to call for backup. This was far beyond any standard assignment now.

But then she noticed a pattern that gave her pause.

Tyson, even in this monstrous semi-reptilian form, was using hand-to-hand techniques and maneuvers she recognized from their training session at the dojo earlier. His movements, though now endowed with a feral savagery, still contained echoes of the martial arts skills he had demonstrated before. It was astonishing to see those trained techniques translated through such a primal, bestial lens.

Tyson's claws glinted with an unnatural metallic sheen as they sliced through the Lizard's thick hide as though it were mere paper instead of tough scales. The creature released a bone-chilling, pain-filled howl that ricocheted around the bridge, making even Natasha momentarily wince in sympathy. Driven by animal instinct, the Lizard lashed back with a surge of raw power, its muscular legs launching Tyson through the air. But the transformed teen twisted his bulky body in midair with preternatural grace, executing an acrobatic maneuver that looked jarringly smooth for such a large, hulking creature.

Natasha's breath caught in her throat as Tyson re-engaged the Lizard in a blur of motion the instant his clawed feet hit the pavement. The Lizard, acting on pure survival instinct now, gave one final desperate leap up onto the bridge railing. Then the creature hurled itself over the edge, falling into the murky river far below.

Tyson remained standing rigidly at the railing's edge, back heaving and claws clenched, staring after the dark waters that had swallowed his foe's retreating form.

As the haze of adrenaline from the battle began to recede, the full chaos and destruction left in its wake crashed over Tyson with the force of a frigid wave. The bridge was now a disaster zone. Car alarms blared, but above all else, the screams and cries for help from terrified civilians caught in the wreckage snapped Tyson from his battle-lust.

With a thought, Tyson reactivated his illusion ability, the power that had always allowed him to blend into a crowd, unseen and unremarkable. It was crucial now, given his tattered, barely-there clothes, semi-reptilian form, and the mask that had concealed his identity was pushed up by his new lizard snout.

Natasha tensed, ready to drop down into the scene, but Clint's urgent command in her earpiece made her pause. "Stand down. Maintain cover. Something's off here. The kid looks normal to the naked eye, but imaging still shows his full transformation."

Natasha's gaze snapped back to Tyson, sharply analyzing his every movement as he surveyed the chaotic scene around him. His focus landed on a nearby crisis. There was a car teetering precariously half off the bridge's edge. A child's panicked wails were audible from within the vehicle.

Tyson sprinted into action. To Natasha's eyes, he appeared as the young man she'd been training at the dojo earlier. But the visual feed from Clint told a very different story. It was the hulking, reptilian beast Tyson had transformed into now lifting the car as if it were a mere toy in his massive clawed hands.

Gripping the car's undercarriage with ease, the creature Natasha saw as Tyson, hoisted the vehicle up and back onto solid ground. Inside, the child's cries shifted to choking sobs of overwhelming relief. Nearby witnesses, frozen in horror just moments before, now rushed to the car to pull the rescued child from the wreckage to safety.

As the illusion of his human self, Tyson stepped back once the child was safe, ceding the scene to the police and paramedics rushing in. Natasha yearned to approach him, to offer some form of reassurance or guidance. But she held back, remaining an observer high above it all.

"He's back to his normal self again on cameras," Clint's confused voice crackled in her earpiece. "How the hell did he do that switch? What's going on here?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Natasha admitted, her penetrating gaze never leaving Tyson down below. Then he tilted his head up as if sniffing the air, before turning, and for a split second that seemed to stretch on far longer, his eyes locked directly onto hers. The chaos around them faded away, leaving just the two of them suspended in a bubble of unspoken connection. His eyes mirrored so many emotions she had experienced all too often in her shadowy past. She longed to convey that he wasn't alone in this, that she understood.

But the fleeting moment broke as Tyson's gaze slid away, moving past her position as if she were just another fixture of the landscape. He spun around and dashed toward the Manhattan side of the wrecked bridge, weaving smoothly through the maze of totaled cars and dazed civilians.

"Did he make you?" Clint demanded sharply in her ear, skepticism clear in his tone.

"No. I don't believe so," Natasha responded on instinct. But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie, one she found herself telling as much for her own sake as for Clint's. Because in that glance, she'd glimpsed definite recognition in the teen's eyes.

He had seen her. And perhaps more importantly, she had seen him. She saw the alone young man hidden beneath the extraordinary exterior.

"He's heading off the bridge. Should I tail him?" Natasha asked, already climbing down toward the motorcycle.

"Negative," Clint replied after a pause. "We'll regroup and debrief with the team first. There's a lot to unpack here." Procedure dictated the next steps, but it did little to ease the worry gnawing at her gut as she watched Tyson disappear alone into the city.

Sirens began wailing in the distance signaling the incoming swarm of emergency responders. Emergency vehicles flooded the scene, their red and blue lights cast flickering shadows across the ground. Natasha remained fixed on the route Tyson had fled down, his retreating image imprinted sharply in her mind. She couldn't seem to shake the sense of kinship she felt with the teenage boy. His situation called to her shadowy past. She recognized the profound isolation of having no one to turn to. She had been there once, lost and adrift in a world that seemed far too vast and cruel, seen only as a weapon to be used or a threat to be neutralized. Natasha had been known solely for the trail of bodies left silently in her wake. It was that bleak darkness that had first drawn SHIELD's attention, leading Clint to find her with an offer of not an end, but a potential new beginning. A chance at redemption, at purpose. She owed Clint nothing less than her life and humanity for that pivotal second chance. And in Tyson, she glimpsed someone potentially in desperate need of the same lifeline she had once gotten. Natasha took one final lingering look down the path where Tyson had disappeared. At that moment, a silent promise took form within her. She would offer guidance as someone who had walked a similar road.

"Nat, you need pickup at the scene?" Clint's voice crackled through her earpiece, a grounding presence as always.

"Negative, I'll take the bike back," she responded. The wind whipped wildly through her hair as she navigated the streets, the city fading into background noise compared to the storm churning within her thoughts.

— Rogue Replacement —

Peter Parker's feet pounded the pavement as he raced through Queens, buildings and people blurring past. Driven by frustration, he wasn't sure where he was going until his sprint slowed, leaving him in a small, quiet park. Collapsing onto an empty bench, his churning mind gradually calmed. The world came back into focus and he noticed a crumpled newspaper beside him. Smoothing it out, a bold ad immediately caught his eye.

WRESTLING EXTRAVAGANZA! Win $3000 for surviving 3 minutes in the ring!

Thoughts of Flash's flashy car and Tyson's motorcycle rolled through Peter's mind. $3000 could put him on the road to getting a decent set of wheels.

Without another thought, Peter sprang up, mind whirring with possibilities. He dashed into a thrift store, eyes scanning until landing on a plain red long-sleeved shirt, gloves, and a balaclava. Next, a craft store provided a can of spray paint, and an idea formed as he went.

In a private alley, Peter's hands worked feverishly. He laid the shirt flat, using the spray paint with surprising skill. It began to transform, taking on a new identity as he hoped to. A makeshift spider symbol emerged on the fabric, the gloves and balaclava following suit.

Donning his crafted persona, Peter felt a thrilling surge. He wasn't just Peter Parker anymore. Stepping into that ring, he would be someone new. Someone capable of amazing feats no one else could achieve.

With a pounding heart, Peter made his way to the raucous wrestling arena. The deafening crowd noise fueled his anticipation. Hollering, jeering spectators created a cacophony of excitement that echoed through the makeshift arena. The announcer's larger-than-life voice boomed through loudspeakers, brimming with enthusiasm.

"Ladies and gents! In this corner, a newcomer, a nobody, a...kid in a red getup! Let's welcome…" The announcer whispered, "What's your name, kid?"

"It's 'The Human Spider,'" Peter said. It sounded sillier aloud than in his head.

"The Human Spider?!" The announcer scoffed. "Too wordy, too boring! You need something catchy, and memorable!" He returned to the mic, "Ladies and gents, I give you...The Spider-Man!"

The crowd reaction was mixed but it didn't matter. Peter was angry that the announcer improvised his name, but had to admit, 'Spider-Man' had a gravitas to it.

"And in the other corner," the announcer's tone darkened, "a man you know, a man you fear… he's stone cold, he instills the fear of death in his opponents, the indomitable, the terrifying...Tombstone!"

The crowd erupted, some cheered, and others gasped in fear as a towering ash-skinned figure with maliciously gleaming eyes stepped forth. White flat-top hair completed the ominous presence.

The cage door clanged shut and Peter's heart lurched. What was he doing?! Peter exclaimed, "There must be a mistake. I didn't sign up for a cage match!" But there was no backing out now.

At the bell, Tombstone advanced. Driven by survival, Peter moved unlike ever before. He dodged powerful swings that could crack concrete, somersaulted under crushing grabs, and leaped with newfound grace. Initially dismissive, the crowd came alive.

"Look at Spider-Man go!" the announcer roared, surprised.

But Tombstone was relentless, backing Peter into a corner. Trapped, Peter saw the punch coming but froze as fear gripped him. At the last second, reflexes born of his new abilities took over and he twisted away with preternatural speed, the grazing fist still feeling like a Mack truck slamming into his side. Pain exploded through him but he ignored it, desperate to survive this cage match.

The crowd gasped, astonished at Spider-Man's uncanny dodge. Emboldened, Peter knew he had to keep moving or he'd be crushed. As Tombstone reared back for another powerful swing, Peter leaped upwards, sticking to the cage wall with his hands and feet like a spider. The crowd roared in shock and excitement at this gravity-defying move. Tombstone's fist smashed into the cage, deforming the metal where Peter's head had been a split second ago.

"What's this, folks?! The Spider-Man is scaling the walls!" bellowed the disbelieving announcer.

Peter didn't have time to revel in the crowd's excitement. He scrambled higher, using his adhesive grip while Tombstone bellowed and grasped for his ankles. But Peter was too quick, climbing out of reach. Tombstone shook the cage violently, desperately trying to dislodge his arachnid opponent but Peter held on, muscles burning from exertion.

At the top of the cage, Peter surveyed the situation. He might be a matched for Tombstone in strength, but why would he when his new abilities made him far faster and more agile? He just had to avoid getting grabbed or cornered.

Taking a breath, Peter leaped, flipping gracefully over the enraged Tombstone to land lightly behind him. The crowd cheered ecstatically at the aerial acrobatics on display. As Tombstone spun around, roaring and throwing a wild haymaker, Peter dropped and rolled away. Quick as a blink, he bounced to his feet, unleashing a flurry of rapid punches to Tombstone's lower back before dancing away.

Howls of shock and then rising excitement came from the spectators. This scrawny kid in a makeshift costume was evading the monstrous Tombstone's grasp and now dishing out damage of his own!

Enraged, Tombstone whirled with startling speed, huge hands grasping for purchase. Peter barely slipped the grip, feeling the wind of it brush his hair. The chase continued around the ring, brute force versus agility. For a time, Peter managed to stay ahead, peppering Tombstone with minor hits while avoiding the sledgehammer blows aimed at him. But the giant seemed impervious to pain. He couldn't keep running forever. He had to take Tombstone down somehow before he got careless.

Peter's mind raced, analyzing Tombstone's lumbering gait, seeking weaknesses. Then he saw it. When Tombstone kicked, he put all his weight on one leg for just a moment. Peter hatched a desperate plan, baiting Tombstone into another kick. As the giant's leg extended, Peter shot out a web, binding that foot to the floor mid-kick! Gasps rang out as Tombstone realized he was stuck. Seizing the split-second opportunity, Peter raced forward, leaping onto the immobilized man's shoulders. Before Tombstone could react, Peter unleashed a furious barrage of rapid-fire punches squarely into his face.

The giant staggered, dazed under the onslaught. Pressing his advantage, Peter spun and delivered a desperate, full-force kick to Tombstone's jaw. A sickening crack echoed through the arena. Tombstone's eyes rolled back in his head and nearly 500 pounds of muscle crashed to the canvas, out cold. The ring shook violently and the crowd went insane.

Panting and shaking with adrenaline, Peter could scarcely believe it. The bell rang as the announcer declared Spider-Man the winner. He had done it. He had beaten Tombstone! As the crowd chanted his impromptu moniker, Peter felt reborn.

The bell rang again, and the announcer roared, "The winner is...Spider-Man! Folks, we have a new champion!"

In the aftermath, with the crowd still buzzing, Peter made his way to the organizer's booth, heart racing from the match. He could practically feel the $3,000 prize in his hands.

Approaching the booth, the sleazy organizer with a crooked smile counted out $200, sliding it over.

"Hey, the ad said $3,000," Peter protested.

The man smirked without even glancing up. "Well, the ad also said three minutes. You pinned him in two. You're lucky to get even a couple hundred."

Peter was stunned, fist clenching in frustration. "I need that money," he said, struggling to steady his voice.

"Not my problem," came the dismissive reply. The organizer's attention was already back on his cash counting.

Feeling utterly defeated and cheated, Peter stuffed the crumpled bills into his pocket and turned away, the elation of his victory souring into anger and resentment. All he could now afford was a bicycle, not the flashy car or motorcycle he'd dreamed of. Once again, despite doing everything right, his hard work and effort had gotten him nowhere. The story of his life.

As Peter made his way through the dingy hallway, a sudden commotion erupted behind him. He turned to see a panicked man sprinting his way, security guards in hot pursuit.

"Stop him!" one of the guards shouted, but the thief was fast, barreling straight toward Peter.

Peter easily could have tripped the robber or grabbed him, stopping him in his tracks. But the bitter sting of the organizer's betrayal was still fresh in his mind. So when the moment came, he did nothing, stepping aside and letting the robber pass without a word.

As the man rushed by, he shot Peter a quick nod. "Thanks, kid," he said breathlessly.

Moments later, the winded guards ran by, frustration etched on their faces. The organizer caught up to Peter, "Why didn't you stop him?" he demanded.

Peter couldn't help the bitter smile that crossed his lips. "It's not my problem," he echoed callously, the organizer's dismissive words still ringing in his ears.

The organizer looked appalled by this. "Not your problem?!"

Peter shrugged, his residual anger from the bait-and-switch prize money clouding his judgment. "I'm just here to wrestle."

The flabbergasted organizer just shook his head before taking off after the thief again, yelling at his guards to call for backup. With the hallway now empty, Peter found his bitterness softening. The brief excitement and satisfaction from his victory had evaporated completely, replaced by frustration and injustice. He started heading home, his hands shoved bitterly into his pockets.

— Rogue Replacement —

Tyson raced through the city's streets, the cold night air stinging his face. His mind was a whirlwind, replaying the bridge events. The Lizard fight, the bystanders' panicked eyes, and Natalie's piercing gaze cut through it all. He'd held her look a fraction too long, and a silent acknowledgment had passed between them.

But where were Peter and Uncle Ben? They were the reason he'd rushed to the bridge yet nowhere to be found. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, worry for his friends eclipsing the fight's adrenaline.

As he neared Queens, wailing sirens painted the night sky in flickering red and blue. Tyson followed the sounds, their urgency heightening his anxiety. The streets became a blur as he wove through traffic, focused solely on finding his friends and ensuring their safety. His motorcycle roared beneath him, echoing his turbulent emotions. He was a rider without a destination, guided only by the emergency beacons and an intrinsic need to help, to make things right.

Tyson's journey was cut short as he stumbled into a scene that chilled him to the bone. A mass of onlookers had gathered around a small grocery store, patrol cars haphazardly stationed outside. The storefront glass lay shattered while Officers held back the crowd.

Without a second thought, Tyson abandoned his bike. The world slowed as Tyson pushed through the line of spectators, breath trapped in his throat. There, in the stark, flashing lights, amidst the turmoil, Peter held a lifeless form.

Uncle Ben.

Both men's shirts were stained with blood. The scene was painted with vivid, horrifying clarity that would surely be burned into Tyson's mind.

Peter's face was a mask of desperation, his eyes were wide and shimmering with unshed tears. The crowd around them faded into a blur, their whispers and murmurs an incoherent buzz. Nothing else mattered but the heartbreaking scene.

"Uncle Ben," Tyson mumbled as he took a knee beside Peter. Peter looked so small, the slowly growing confidence gone, replaced by a lost boy clutching his uncle as if he could anchor the man's soul to this world by will alone.

Peter's gaze found Tyson's, and the raw anguish there struck like a physical blow. "He...he tried to stop a thief...got shot," Peter stammered, voice ragged. "I-I called 911, they were supposed to come, they. They said they'd help him!"

Tyson reached out, resting a gloved hand over Peter's trembling one. "It's not your fault, Pete," Tyson said, the words ringing hollow even to him. What solace could he possibly provide now?

The sirens wailed closer as paramedics pushed through the crowd, but Tyson knew… they all knew, it was too late. The vibrant man who'd offered sage advice disguised as casual comments was gone.

The paramedics arrived, but. Peter clung tighter, refusing to let Uncle Ben go. There was nothing the emergency responders coud do. Tyson had to gently coax Peter to release his hold using a slight application of his enhanced strength.

"You gotta let them help him, Pete," Tyson urged gently. The plea broke through Peter's shock, and he finally let go, standing numbly with Tyson's support. They backed away together yet isolated in grief as the paramedics fulfilled their duty. A duty no longer holding hope.

The officers began questioning. But the words barely registered to the teens.

— Rogue Replacement —

Nick Fury, director of SHIELD, sat at the head of the table, his iconic eyepatch and stern expression commanding attention. Clint, Coulson, and Natasha surrounded him. "Status report," came his succinct order that focused everyone in.

Natasha began. "The target individual, Tyson, appears to be enhanced in some way. My initial judgment categorized him as a potential super soldier given his extraordinary reflexes and strength exhibited during gym class. His talents vastly eclipsed any normal teen, easily bordering Olympians." She paused, "During observation, he never demonstrated any of the abilities to avoid detection, shapeshift, or any other power that would explain his appearance noted by Barton in our previous meetings."

"However, after the incident on the overpass, it's evident he possesses more than just enhanced strength and agility. He transformed during his skirmish with another enhanced we're deeming 'The Lizard'. Whether this change was reactive, his previously demonstrated power, a latent capability, or something else entirely, we're still uncertain." She paused, scanning the faces of her associates sternly. "Despite the mysteries surrounding his talents, his character seems principled. He's shown a strong sense of loyalty to his friends, respect for authority, though reluctantly at times, and a genuine desire to assist when people are endangered."

Clint's lips quirked in a smirk. "It almost sounds like you're fond of him, Nat. Some of those characteristics are due to your involvement or... influence. You've made quite an impression on the kid."

Her eyes narrowed. "All the more reason to consider bringing him into the fold. If he's seeking role models, he could do far worse."

Fury folded his hands, gazing at Natasha pensively. "Do you believe he has the makings of a recruit?"

"Not right now," Natasha admitted. "He's unrefined, but he has promise. And currently, he's alone, which leaves him susceptible to other influences. We have a window to approach. Before he gains someone else's attention."

"Or we may be inviting a ticking time bomb into our midst," Coulson interjected practically, ever the voice of reason.

Fury nodded slowly. "We'll need to monitor him closely. Natasha, stay with him. Get a better understanding of his nature. Clint, I want you to keep tabs. Coulson, uncover anything you can about this kid's history, his family, anything that might provide us insight."

Coulson's voice cut through the strategizing. "About that, sir." His tone was different, laced with a gravity that immediately seized the attention of every person present. He slid a dossier across the table, the bold, capitalized words "MUTANTS" emblazoned on the cover. "I've discovered something disturbing. It seems our memories, possibly the memories of everyone, have been manipulated. We've been blinded to a significant threat."

Clint picked up the file, his brows knitting together skeptically. "Is this some kind of joke? Mutants are a myth, a conspiracy theory. They aren't real."

"They are, and they have been here," Coulson responded with uncommon urgency in his voice. "I don't know how it's possible, but it's as if we've been living with a blind spot. Just read the file."

Details were absorbed, pages reviewed, and the information within the file burned into their minds. Images of beings with supernatural talents, classified accounts of unexplainable events, and scientific analyses indicating genetic deviations. All factual, all verifiable.

Silence hung heavy for a moment before Natasha shattered it, her voice betraying none of the disquiet within. "This changes everything. How could we have missed or forgotten this?"

Fury's single eye bored into them, intense and uncompromising. "That's what we need to uncover. Coulson, you and Hill dig deeper. Determine the scope of this memory manipulation and how it was accomplished."

Fury stated firmly, unhesitating. "We proceed as planned, but with heightened vigilance. If Tyson is a mutant, our prior assessment may not be accurately accounting for his power. And he may not be the only one."

Coulson nodded, already compiling the resources required for such an investigation. "We should also look into known associates, see if there are any connections to mutants or related incidents."

"Agreed," Fury acknowledged with a sharp dip of his chin. He turned his attention to Natasha. "Maintain your cover. Keep observing Tyson. If he is a mutant, he's our best avenue into understanding what we're up against."

"And if he uncovers our motives?" Natasha pressed, aware of her precarious position.

"We'll handle that situation as it develops," Fury stated decisively. His eye traced over each of them in turn. "We aren't in the business of recruiting children, but we are in the business of safeguarding the world. If this kid is what you claim, Natasha, he'll need allies. It's better for everyone if those allies are us."

The meeting adjourned, and the weight of their new mission descended upon them as they set off to their assigned tasks. Drawing an enhanced individual into the fold would be no simple matter. And this was no longer tracking one anomalous, enhanced individual. They were plunging into a mystery capable of redefining their comprehension of the world itself. Mutants were real. A truth they were only beginning to unravel.