41 Arc 4 - Ch 7: Thanksgiving

Date: Thursday, November 25, 2010.

Location: Four Season Hotel Downtown, Manhattan, New York

Tyson had just finished ordering food for later when his phone began to ring. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was his friend Jubilee and answered.

"Hey Jubes, what's up?" he said into the phone.

Jubilee's voice came through the speakers, crackling with excitement. "Dude, please tell me you saw it!" she exclaimed. "The interview! Iron Man! It's all over the news."

Tyson paused, genuinely confused. He had been so focused on making meal plans that he had no idea what she was talking about. "Saw what?" he asked.

He could practically hear Jubilee rolling her eyes in exasperation through the phone. "The interview, Tyson!" she repeated, her tone a mixture of frustration and disbelief at his ignorance. "Iron Man! It's everywhere."

"Hang on, let me check," Tyson replied, quickly scrolling through the news on his phone. There it was, the shocking headline glaring from every media outlet: "Tony Stark Reveals He Is Iron Man."

Intrigued, he clicked on a video of the interview. Tony Stark stood confidently before a crowd of clamoring reporters, his charismatic presence dominating the room. The air was tense with anticipation as he prepared to speak.

"As many of you know, I've got a great relationship with the press. We've had some good times, and we've had some tough times," Tony began, his voice oozing the familiar nonchalance and bravado that the world had come to associate with the billionaire.

"When I came back from Afghanistan, I said we were going to do things differently, run this company differently," Tony continued, a hint of seriousness piercing through his casual demeanor. "I'm sure you've seen the papers. Am I right?"

The press murmured, cameras flashing. They all knew the controversy he was referring to.

"There's been speculation that I was involved in the events that occurred on the freeway and the rooftop..." Tony Stark added, pausing as if considering his words carefully.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark, but do you honestly expect us to believe that you're... Iron Man?" one of the reporters challenged, skepticism heavy in his voice.

Tony's gaze swept across the sea of faces, a smirk tugging at his lips. There was a beat of silence, a moment of pure theatrical suspense. And then, with the effortless confidence that only Tony Stark possessed, he delivered the line that would forever change the course of superhero history.

"The truth is... I am Iron Man."

The press erupted, a cacophony of shock, disbelief, and the rapid-fire clicking of cameras documenting the historic confession.

Tyson paused the video, letting out a low whistle as he took in the image of Tony Stark on the screen. That was the Tony Stark he remembered. Utterly cool.

"Okay, yeah, I just saw it. Crazy!" Tyson exclaimed, turning to Jubilee who sat beside him on the couch.

"I know, right?!" Jubilee responded, her voice bubbly with excitement. "Who just does that? Admits to being a superhero on live TV?"

"Tony Stark, apparently," Tyson laughed, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Guy's got more guts than a fish market."

Jubilee was practically buzzing, her eyes alight. "So, if Iron Man asked you to team up, would you? What if he asked you to be his sidekick?"

Tyson leaned back against the couch cushions, considering her questions thoughtfully. "I don't know about being anyone's sidekick, Jubes. But team up? Sure. Worked pretty well with Spidey and Black Cat."

"Black Cat?" Jubilee's tone spiked with curiosity at the mention of the name. "Who's that?"

"That independent I mentioned working with," Tyson explained, "She's amazing, smart, skilled. But she doesn't have powers like us."

Jubilee's voice carried a sly edge. "So, are you two an item yet?"

"Nah," Tyson responded, feeling a shy smile creep onto his face, one Jubilee couldn't see with his back to her. "Not yet. Maybe soon, though."

"And what about the hot teacher you keep going on about?" Jubilee continued to tease. "Have you asked her out yet?"

"Like I said, all in time, Jubes," Tyson chuckled, shaking his head in amusement at her persistence.

Tyson listened as a sly edge crept into Jubilee's tone as she shifted the conversation. "Got any big plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, hosting a little get-together," Tyson started to explain, "Invited a few people and their families over, got some food catered. Should be fun."

Jubilee huffed in annoyance, her frustrated breath hissing over the phone. "And where's my invite?"

"Look, Jubes, I'd have you over in a heartbeat, you know that," Tyson said earnestly, his tone apologetic as he pictured her in his mind's eye, full lips pursed in frustration, dark hair wisping around her face. "But after fighting with the Lizard and Green Goblin, I don't want to drag you into anything dangerous."

Jubilee sighed, the sound tinny and resigned through the phone. "Fine. But you're making it up to me, Tyson. After graduation, it's you and me. No more excuses, no more supervillains. Just us hanging out."

"Deal," Tyson agreed readily, his tone firm and resolute. "No more excuses. It's a promise." He meant it with every fiber of his being. No matter what craziness the future held, he would carve out time for his friend.

Satisfied, Jubilee let him go, ending the call after a final demand for a future get-together. Tyson tucked the phone back in his pocket, already anticipating making good on his word. He fully intended to keep his promise, no matter what trials might lie ahead.

— Rogue Replacement —

The wail of sirens guided Spider-Man as he swung between the towering skyscrapers of the city. Below him, a fierce blaze consumed an apartment building, orange tongues of flame licking up the brick sides as thick black smoke billowed into the morning sky. Firefighters battled the raging inferno with powerful hoses while panicked people on the sidewalk cried out in alarm. Amidst the shouting and turmoil, one anguished mother's screams rose above the rest, begging for someone to save her child still trapped inside the burning building.

Without hesitation, Spider-Man sprinted towards the entrance of the blazing apartment structure. He fought through the wall of heat and flames that tried to force him back, pressing forward into the building. Then, over the roar and crackle of the fire, he heard a soft, frightened sob coming from somewhere above him. Quickly scaling the crumbling walls and stairwells, Spider-Man followed the cries to a smoke-filled hallway on the fourth floor. There, crouched beneath a window, he found a young girl no more than six years old, her eyes wide with terror.

Scooping the child into his arms, Spider-Man said in a calm, steady voice, "I've got you." Holding her close to his chest, he bounded through the building, dodging falling debris and leaping through flame-filled rooms.

The flames roared like a beast alive as Spider-Man emerged from the burning building, the child safe in his arms. The crowd erupted into cheers, their joy a stark contrast to the searing heat and chaos. However, amidst the celebration, a stern voice cut through the commotion.

A police officer demanded, "Hold it right there!" He stepped forward, hand closing on the grip of his service weapon. He drew it from its holster with practiced ease. "You're wanted in connection with..."

Spider-Man gently transferred the child into the waiting arms of the paramedics before turning to face the officer. Though his body language conveyed a mixture of readiness and reluctance, his masked face was unreadable.

A scream pierced through the roar of the flames, echoing from within the burning building. Spider-Man tilted his head slightly at the sound. "There's someone else still inside," he said, his voice edged with steely determination. "I have to go back."

The officer's gaze hardened, though his gun remained aimed at the ground. He was well aware of protocols and regulations. But before he could respond, another desperate scream rang out, a life hanging precariously in the balance. Spider-Man tensed, coiled tight as a spring, ready to leap back into the inferno.

The officer wrestled with himself, torn between upholding the letter of the law and acknowledging the hero who stood before him. "Go," he said finally, holstering his weapon and stepping aside. "I'll be here waiting when you get back."

Spider-Man edged toward the building, the flames reflecting off his glossy lenses. "I won't be coming back, Chief," he said simply, and then he was gone, launching himself back into the searing heat without hesitation.

The officer watched him disappear into the smoke and fire. He hoped that Spider-Man was wrong, but feared that he was right. Gripping his radio, he called for backup and ambulances. Now it was a waiting game, the clock ticking down on the hope of any more survivors.

Floor by floor, the costumed hero ascended through the flames and smoke, following the desperate cries of a woman in need. When Spider-Man reached her, the woman turned around, dropping the thick purple shawl she had wrapped herself in. But it was not another victim that stood before the hero. Instead, Spider-Man found himself face-to-face with the menacing figure of the Green Goblin, a cruel smirk played on the villain's lips. An ominous, sinister chuckle rang out over the crackling roar of the fire surrounding them. Spider-Man barely managed to dodge the first razor bat that the Goblin hurled his way.

"You're pathetically predictable! Like a moth to the flame," the Green Goblin sneered, his voice a guttural, inhuman growl from behind his mask. The villain's glider swooped around the confined, fiery space, poised for another attack. "What about my generous proposal, Spider-Man? Are you in or are you out?"

"You already know my answer," Spider-Man shouted back. "I don't do deals with psychos."

The Green Goblin's laughter was like shards of ice, cold and sharp. "Wrong answer!" he retorted, unleashing more of his deadly razor bats at the hero. The sound of his continued cackles was grating and chilling. "Pity. We could have accomplished such great things together."

The fight was intense, a flurry of motion amidst flickering shadows and flames. Spider-Man leaped and somersaulted, webs shooting from his wrists to deflect projectiles. But the Goblin was relentless, and his arsenal vast. One of his razor bats grazed Spider-Man's arm, the sharp pain almost immediate, his suit torn and blood beginning to seep out. The young hero clenched his teeth, stifling any sound of pain. He couldn't afford distraction, not when so much was at stake. He turned back to engage the Green Goblin, but the villain was gone. Vanished into the smoke and flames.

Spider-Man peered into the haze, senses straining. Where did he go? A creaking noise overhead was his only warning before a heavy beam came crashing down. Spider-Man dove and rolled out of the way just in time. The building was coming down around him. He had to get out, now. Sprinting for the window, the hero crashed through in a shower of glass. Outside, he fired a webline and swung away, gliding over the street below.

— Rogue Replacement —

The afternoon sun was past its highest point in the sky, angling its rays through the expansive windows of the Empire Suite, casting long shadows across the elegant interior. Inside, the warm and inviting smells of a Thanksgiving feast wafted through the rooms. May Parker checked on the plump turkey roasting in the oven, its savory aroma a promise of the homey comfort food to come.

Soon after, Gwen Stacy arrived with her family members, each carrying foil-covered dishes in hand. "The Stacys come bearing gifts!" Gwen announced cheerfully, her sea-green eyes alight with the excitement that family gatherings often kindled within her.

"Ah, this must be the Branzino you wouldn't stop talking about," said Tyson smoothly, helping them store their coats and grabbing the food they brought to relieve them of their burdens.

"You know it!" Gwen confirmed, exchanging a look of easy camaraderie with her friend Tyson. Their friendship had grown in the months since they were first paired together in chemistry class.

Earlier, Felicia Hardy had been the first to arrive, clad in a sleek black dress that subtly hinted at her secret alter ego. Mary Jane Watson and Harry Osborn arrived together next, walking hand in hand, wearing smiles and with interlaced fingers. "Happy Thanksgiving, big guy," Mary Jane greeted Tyson warmly.

Tyson ushered Mary Jane and Harry Osborn into the warmly lit apartment, the savory smells of Thanksgiving dinner already perfuming the air. "Welcome, guys!" he said. "MJ, everyone's inside. You know Aunt May, right?"

Mary Jane's face lit up with recognition as she caught sight of Peter Parker's kindly aunt. "Of course, who could forget the best cooking in New York?" she said, moving to give Aunt May an affectionate hug. Aunt May flushed with pleasure at the compliment, her weathered face creasing into a smile.

Tyson had extended an invitation to Peter and Aunt May for Thanksgiving dinner though only a mere three weeks had passed since the tragic death of Uncle Ben. The wounds were still fresh, but he had hoped the warmth of the holiday gathering would lift their spirits. Peter had asked if Tyson could also invite Gwen Stacy. In the weeks since Ben's death, Gwen's companionship had become a lifeline for Peter. Her passion for science resonated with his brilliant mind in a way that Tyson simply could not replicate, and that connection had helped Peter through his grieving. Then, of course, Peter also wished for his best friend Harry Osborn to attend as well. Harry was eager to bring his new girlfriend, Mary Jane Watson, to introduce her to the group, especially his father so they could meet for the first time. As the guest list ballooned far past Tyson's initial vision, he fretted over the complicated dynamics that would converge under his roof. Unbeknownst to the others, both the Spider-Man and the Green Goblin would be in attendance, their secret identities still hidden from one another.

Tyson busied himself in the kitchen. May had prepared the plump turkey and the Stacy's had brought fish. Tyson finished plating all the other side dishes he'd ordered from the Four Seasons kitchen. The savory aromas of sage and roasted garlic spread through the apartment. A knock at the door drew him from his culinary focus.

Then, with impeccable timing, Norman Osborn made his entrance, as if summoned by Tyson's thoughts. There was always an air of tightly coiled intensity around Osborn, his charisma was almost a palpable force. His sharp, assessing eyes took in the room and its occupants, calculating even in this relaxed social setting.

"Mr. Osborn, welcome!" Tyson moved to greet him, hand extended in welcome, a practiced smile on his face.

"Thank you for the invitation, Tyson," Osborn replied smoothly, yet with an edge in his voice that compelled attention. "Sorry I'm late… Work was murder… I picked up a fruitcake." His gaze flickered around the room. "I see you've gathered quite the crowd."

Tyson raised his voice to carry over the murmur of conversation. "Everyone, this is Norman Osborn. Norman, that's Gwen, she's an intern under Dr. Connors and that's her family." He indicated Felicia Hardy with a tilt of his head. "That's Felicia Hardy, and here is Peter Parker's Aunt May."

Aunt May offered a kind, crinkly smile. "A pleasure, ma'am," Norman greeted her, taking her hand with a courtly charm that wasn't reflected in his intent eyes.

"And that's MJ," Tyson finished, motioning to where Mary Jane stood arm-in-arm with Harry.

Norman's gaze sharpened just a fraction as he regarded his son and the girl he'd brought. "So, you're the young lady my son's been—"

"Mad about? Yeah, guilty," MJ interjected with a playful grin, extending her hand. "Mary Jane Watson, Mr. Osborn, but you can call me MJ."

Outside, Peter Parker arrived late to Tyson's Thanksgiving dinner, having climbed up the exterior of the high-rise building to reach the penthouse balcony. His brown hair was windswept and his cheeks flushed from the exertion as he knocked softly on the glass to get Gwen Stacy's attention. Gwen, who'd been closest to the tall windows, slid open the balcony door, her smile widening at the sight of him.

"Hi. How did you get out there?" Gwen asked in a light, teasing tone.

"Fire escape," Peter admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "The opulence of the lobby was a bit too intimidating for me."

Gwen raised a slim, blonde eyebrow. "It's twenty stories, Peter." Her expression was a mix of amusement and concern for his safety.

"Yeah, it's alright," he shrugged, trying to play it cool despite what would be a dizzying climb up the side of the building for anyone else.

Peter's expression then shifted to enthusiasm as he remembered the flowers tucked away in his bag. "Oh, I got your mom these..." He trailed off as he pulled out the bouquet of pink roses, now broken and disheveled. "They were nice," he mumbled, disappointment written on his boyish face.

"They're lovely," Gwen insisted warmly, her green eyes radiating reassurance. "Really, they held together remarkably well all things considered."

Heartened by her response, Peter smiled, his brown eyes regaining their spark. "You know what, I'm going to keep these," he decided, carefully tucking the roses back into his bag.

"Do you have your suit in there?" When Gwen asked about his suit, Peter's eyes went wide with the panic of someone caught in an obvious lie.

Before he could stammer out an explanation, Tyson entered the room and greeted Peter warmly despite his awkward arrival. Noticing Peter hastily shoving the broken bouquet back into his bag, Tyson disappeared briefly and returned with a fresh bouquet of roses that he handed to the younger man. Wanting to inconspicuously shift focus away from Peter's unusual arrival, Tyson had also grabbed half a dozen white roses from the bedroom for Felicia. In the main area, he presented them to the platinum-haired beauty. She accepted them and a pleased surprise lit up her delicate features.

Seeing the flowers, Mary Jane playfully looked to Harry, who flushed under her gaze but was saved when Tyson slyly pressed a bouquet of red roses into his hand. Harry presented them to Mary Jane with an awkward flourish that only made the gesture more endearing. Light laughter filled the room, lifting the mood. It was then that Peter made his entrance.

"Hey everyone, sorry I'm late," Peter announced as he entered the room. "It's a jungle out there. I had to beat an old lady with a stick to get these cranberries." He held up a can of cranberry sauce with exaggerated drama.

More laughter greeted his humor. Aunt May accepted the cranberries with a gentle smile and planted a kiss on Peter's cheek in wordless gratitude. "Now then, everyone sit down and we can say grace," she said, her voice warm and maternal.

The guests settled into the cushioned dining chairs around the long mahogany table, the soft clinks of fine china and rustles of clothing underscoring the movements. Tyson assisted Aunt May in bringing out the remaining dishes of the lavish Thanksgiving spread.

Norman Osborn's hand snaked out to grab a pinch of the toasted marshmallow topping the sweet potatoes, but Aunt May's age-spotted hand intercepted his with a swift slap. "Norman, would you do us the honors?" she asked, a grandmotherly twinkle in her pale blue eyes.

Norman's icy gaze sharpened for a split second, his eyes went as frigid before he schooled his features into a semblance of cordiality. He slowly licked the sticky marshmallow from his fingers, his tongue languid, while maintaining piercing eye contact with Aunt May. Reaching for the carving knife, Norman tested its blade with deliberate strokes, the razor-sharp edge gleaming ominously beneath the golden light of the chandelier.

Tyson had anticipated the coming interaction with Norman. He positioned himself within arm's reach of Aunt May, prepared to intervene if the murderous glint that had flashed in Norman's eyes became more than a threat. Tyson's meta-knowledge warned him that Norman shouldn't attack, but he remained wary. Things had already changed from what he'd remembered. Plus someone as unhinged as Norman was, with a knife, would always be a cause for concern.

The cheerful din that had filled Tyson's apartment moments before vanished at Aunt May's alarmed exclamation. "Peter... You're bleeding!"

All eyes snapped to Peter, zeroing in on the expanding crimson stain on his sleeve. Tyson muttered a quiet curse under his breath. "Fuck." It was too late for Tyson to even believably cover the bleeding with his illusions. How had he overlooked the blood on Peter's arm?

"Ah, it's nothing," Peter said, trying to sound casual. "Just got clipped by a bike messenger when I stepped off the curb earlier."

Aunt May was having none of it. "Let me see that," she insisted, her tone gentle but firm. Peter knew better than to argue when she used that voice. With a reluctant sigh, Peter extended his arm to show her the ragged tear in his sleeve, the fabric dark and wet with blood. Aunt May's brows drew together in worry as she examined the nasty-looking gash beneath. "It looks terrible," she fretted. "We need to get this cleaned and bandaged right away."

Across the table, Norman's motions of sharpening the carving knife had slowed, then stopped altogether as his focus shifted to Peter and the injury that had captured everyone's attention. His pale eyes were intent, calculating, as he stared at the torn flesh.

"You said a bicycle messenger did this?" Norman asked, his tone deceptively mild even as his gaze remained razor sharp, missing nothing.

"Yeah, came out of nowhere and knocked me down," Peter said with a casual shrug that didn't quite reach his eyes. He held Norman's scrutinizing stare evenly.

Abruptly, Norman stood, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "My apologies, but I'm afraid I must be going," he announced curtly.

Harry looked up at his father in confusion. "What? Why?"

"Something urgent has come to my attention," Norman replied vaguely. He grabbed his suit jacket and strode purposefully to the door without another word.

Tyson considered intervening but held himself back. The Green Goblin stood right in front of him, devoid of his armor and tech. Tyson was confident that with his illusions, he could enthrall everyone present and take Norman out on the spot. It would be so easy. But there were too many risks. Revealing himself now could expose his abilities and identity. His friends and their families could become targets for retaliation. And even without any of his goblin equipment, Norman was still basically a super soldier, still dangerous.

So Tyson remained still, giving no indication of his churning thoughts. There would be another time to deal with the Green Goblin. For now, discretion was the better part of valor. Patience was needed. He let out a slow, steady breath as Norman departed without incident.

"Dad?" Harry half-stood, worry creeping into his voice as he stared after his father's rapidly departing figure. But Norman was already out the door, his abrupt exit leaving an uneasy silence hanging over the interrupted dinner party. The abrupt departure of Norman Osborn cast a pall over the previously festive dinner party. Uneasy glances were exchanged around the table as the guests sat in stunned silence. The cozy warmth of celebration had been cooled by the tension now filling the room. Harry Osborn's face was etched with frustration as he hurried after his father. Catching up to him in the entryway, Harry demanded, "What are you doing? The whole point of coming to this dinner was so you could meet MJ, and now you have to leave?" Disappointment was clear in his voice.

"I've got to go," Norman replied curtly, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"But this girl is really important to me," Harry tried again, but his father's response was sharp and dismissive.

"Harry, please," Norman scoffed, his voice carrying despite the hushed tone. "You think a woman like that is sniffing around because she actually likes your personality?"

Inside, Mary Jane Watson's face fell, her heart sinking. Norman's words were a dagger, and the fact that they were spoken so plainly, so publicly, only twisted the blade. Stunned, Harry could only stutter in reply, "What are you saying?"

Norman's voice was cold, almost venomous. "Your mother was beautiful too. They're all beautiful until they're snarling after your trust fund like a pack of ravening wolves."

"You're wrong about her, Dad," Harry defended, but his words seemed to bounce off Norman.

Raising his voice, Norman declared, "A word to the not-so-wise about your little girlfriend. Do what you need to with her, then broom her fast."

The slam of the door punctuated his harsh words, leaving behind a heavy silence.

The living room which was warm and welcoming just minutes earlier was now steeped in an uncomfortable silence. Mary Jane Watson stood abruptly from the table, her face flushed with emotion and her voice dripping with wounded sarcasm as she addressed Harry when he re-entered. "Thanks for sticking up for me, Harry."

Harry winced, realizing the full extent of the damage his father's harsh words had caused. "You heard?" he asked weakly, knowing there was no way she could have missed the cruel remarks Norman had hurled towards her.

"Everyone heard that creep," Mary Jane retorted angrily as she grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair, her jerky movements revealing her intention to leave.

"That creep is my father," Harry defended, though his words seemed to bounce off her, failing to land. His own pain spilled out unchecked as he continued, "If I'm lucky, I'll be half of what he is. So just keep your mouth shut about things you don't understand!"

Aunt May, who had been sitting quietly near the fireplace attempting to avoid the confrontation, was scandalized by Harry's disrespectful tone. She interjected sharply, "Harry Osborn!" Her usually gentle face was pinched with distress over the ugly tension that now saturated the cozy room.

Mary Jane was deeply hurt but maintained her dignity. She turned back to face the room, her eyes bright. "I'm sorry, Aunt May. Everyone," she apologized, her voice quivering slightly before she walked briskly out the front door, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.

Felicia sensed the need for someone to diffuse the volatile situation and comfort MJ. She stood gracefully, brushing imaginary lint from her stylish black pants. "I'll go talk to her," she announced softly. As she passed Tyson, she briefly touched his shoulder and whispered reassuringly, "I'll be back." With an icy glare at Harry, she slipped out the door after Mary Jane.

Felicia returned shortly thereafter, her expression somber. "I'm afraid Mary Jane wasn't up for coming back," she relayed as she reclaimed her seat next to Tyson. "She wanted me to tell you all that it was a pleasure meeting you."

Harry excused himself, quickly slipping out the door, likely going after either his father or girlfriend who had both just left the tense situation. Felicia let out a quiet sigh, brushing a strand of platinum hair behind her ear before turning her attention back to the others and reclaiming her seat next to Tyson.

Tyson's broad shoulders were slumped forward, his muscular arms crossed over his barrel chest. Felicia reached out and gave his forearm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. The tension in the room remained palpable. Aunt May moved to say grace, and soon everyone began filling their plates, trying to rekindle the spirit from earlier in the evening.

The conversation was tentative at first until one of Gwen's younger brothers, curiosity lighting up his face, piped up. "Hey Dad, did you catch that Spider-Guy yet?"

Mr. Stacy's tone hardened. "No, we haven't caught him yet, but we will. He's an amateur who's assaulting civilians. He's clumsy and leaves clues behind, but he's still dangerous." Gwen's face tightened in a silent plea for her brother to change the subject.

Unable to stop himself, Peter chimed in. "He's assaulting people? I don't know, I saw that video of him with the car thief. I think most people would say he was providing a public service."

"Most people would be wrong," Mr. Stacy retorted, his steely gaze fixed on Peter. "If I wanted that car thief off the street, he'd already be off the street."

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. "So why wasn't he then?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Gwen released a humorless laugh, tension radiating off of her in waves. Mr. Stacy leaned in, undeterred. "Let me enlighten you," he said condescendingly. "That car thief was leading us to the people running the entire operation. It's been a six-month-long sting operation. It's this thing called strategy. I'm sure they've taught you about it in school."

The air grew thick with tension as Peter's face clouded, the perceived injustice of Mr. Stacy's statement striking a chord. His brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, offense rising in his chest. Just as the conversation teetered on the brink of a more heated turn,

Mr. Stacy grumbled under his breath, his disdain for the costumed vigilante evident. "On the internet, he's made out to look like some kind of masked hero or something."

Peter shook his head earnestly, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "No, I'm not saying he's a hero," he countered. "I don't think he's a hero at all."

The tension in the Stacy's dining room was palpable as George Stacy fixed Peter with an intense stare. "What are you trying to say?" he pressed, his voice tight.

Peter met the police captain's gaze unflinchingly. "I'm saying it looks like Spider-Man is trying to help, and do something the police can't," he replied evenly.

Stacy's face flushed with anger and he slammed his hand on the table, rattling the dishes. "Something the police can't? What do you think we do all day? Sit around eating doughnuts while twiddling our thumbs?" he thundered.

"Daddy!" Gwen admonished, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment at her father's outburst.

"George," his wife chastised sharply, her disapproval evident.

Leaning back in his chair, all eyes in the room turned to focus on Tyson as he cleared his throat, "The young lady who left earlier, Mary Jane," he began, "she was at the Unity Day parade, the one where the madman with the glider started throwing bombs all over the place. The police were there, yes, but they were unable to stop him." Tyson paused, letting the significance of his words sink in. "It was Spider-Man who saved MJ as she fell from the balcony of Oscorp Tower." Tyson's eyes swept the room meaningfully as he continued. "I was there, interning with Oscorp security, and saw it myself. If not for Spider-Man, MJ and a bunch of other people would've died that day." A weighty silence fell over the room as the undeniable truth of his words hung in the air. Even Mr. Stacy seemed to consider this, his expression thoughtful as he processed the first-hand account of Spider-Man's heroism.

After a long moment, Peter broke the silence, his offense still evident. "He obviously didn't know you had a plan in place," he pointed out, unable to let Mr. Stacy's criticism of Spider-Man stand unchallenged. Tyson shook his head, wishing Peter had just let the matter rest.

Mr. Stacy's eyes narrowed, his face clouding with suspicion. "You seem to know an awful lot about this case," he accused, pointing his fork at Peter. "You know something we don't. Whose side are you on here?"

Peter raised his hands slightly, palms out in a placating gesture. "I'm not on anyone's side," he reasoned, keeping his voice even. "It looks like Spider-Man is trying to help, that's all."

Peter held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. "I think Spider-Man stands for what you stand for, sir. Protecting innocent people from criminals," he explained earnestly.

Stacy's scowl only deepened. "I stand for law and order, son. That's what I stand for. I wear a badge. This Spider guy wears a mask like some kind of outlaw. He's hunting people down like he's got some personal vendetta. He's no protector of the innocent, Mr. Parker," he retorted bitterly.

The clash hung over the table like a thundercloud. Sensing the need for a respite, Gwen pushed back her chair and stood up. "Let's get some air, Peter," she suggested, her voice strained.

As Peter rose to join Gwen, Aunt May's soft but insistent voice reached his ears. "Peter, apologize."

He turned back, his expression regretful. "I'm sorry if I insulted you sir, that wasn't my intention," he offered sincerely, before following Gwen out onto the balcony.

Peter and Gwen had stepped out, leaving the charged atmosphere of the dining room behind, but the mood at the table remained. The residue of the earlier confrontation between Peter and Mr. Stacy still hung heavy over the remaining diners. Tyson sensed an opportunity to provide some clarity on Peter's perspective he decided to address the still visibly upset police captain. He began respectfully, nodding towards Aunt May as he spoke. "Forgive me for bringing this up, Aunt May," Tyson's voice was calm and steady, seeking no conflict but only greater understanding between them. He then turned his full attention to the stern officer, meeting the man's gaze with his own steady and sincere one. "You're likely not aware of this, sir, but Peter lost his parents when he was very young. And just this month, his uncle Ben was killed in a brutal car-jacking." Tyson paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Being a police officer, this is likely a common story you hear. It's a big city. People die all the time. But to someone where the wounds are still so fresh..." He trailed off, holding Mr. Stacy's gaze. "Seeing a masked hero out there, saving lives and stopping criminals like the one who killed Peter's uncle… Understandably, such a person could become a powerful symbol of hope for him."

A heavy silence fell over the table as Mr. Stacy processed this new perspective, his stern facade faltering. The clinking of cutlery on plates seemed loud in the ensuing quiet. Aunt May's eyes glistened, but she held a graceful, composed expression.

Gwen's mother, Helen, reached over and placed a comforting hand over Aunt May's weathered one. "I'm so sorry, May. We had no idea," she said, genuine sympathy filling her voice.

Mr. Stacy cleared his throat gruffly, the earlier defensiveness seeping out of his posture, replaced now by a glint of regret in his eyes. "I didn't have a complete picture of the boy's circumstances," he admitted. His voice was gruff, but his tone had lost its hard edge. "It's easy to forget that everyone has their own story, their reasons for their passions."

Aunt May nodded gently, her voice steady though it carried a tremor of restrained emotion. "Thank you, Tyson, for shedding light on it. Peter is a good boy. He's been through more than most his age."

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere they had just left. Outside, the city lights twinkled like stars, the noise from the streets below served as a gentle reminder of life moving on, unpaused by their personal dramas. Gwen leaned against the railing, her eyes on the cityscape as she exhaled a heavy breath, the earlier tension still visible in the set of her shoulders.

Gwen turned to face Peter, the city lights casting a soft glow on her features. "Well, that was something," she said.

"I'm sorry. You know, I thought he was going to arrest me at one point," Peter remarked. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood.

"Yeah, I wouldn't have let him arrest you," Gwen responded, her tone playful yet with an underlying seriousness that said she meant every word. There was a pause, the air between them charged with more than just the remnants of the awkward dinner. Gwen's eyes narrowed slightly, concern etching her features. "What happened to your face?" she asked, indicating the light bruising around his eyes.

But Peter spoke at the same time, his words tumbling out in a rush, "I'm gonna tell you something."

"Oh? Okay," Gwen replied. His sudden declaration piqued her curiosity.

"I've been bitten," Peter said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Me too," Gwen responded, leaning in closer, her breath warm against his cheek.

They moved as if magnetized, on the brink of a kiss, but then Peter froze, uncertainty etched on his face. "Okay okay. I've gotta tell you this one thing. I've gotta say this one thing and it's...it's about the vigilante and the car thief. All right?" Gwen stepped back, disappointment clouding her expression. Peter hurried to correct himself. "No, no, not that." He gestured helplessly, grasping for the right words. "I'm not gonna talk about that. I'm gonna talk about me, okay?"

Gwen searched his eyes. "What about you?"

"I wish I could just..." Peter trailed off with a frustrated shake of his head. "I can't. It's hard to say."

Gwen's voice was a whisper in the night. "Just say it."

Peter released a heavy breath and leaned on the balcony railing, chest heaving. He shook his head again, every line of his body taut with frustration. With a frustration mirroring his, Gwen turned on her heel to walk away. She had barely taken three steps when Peter's web shot out and snagged her gently around the waist. Gwen had spun gracefully as Peter pulled her back toward him with a web line. She landed in his arms with a gasp.

"You..." she breathed, the word half-lost as their lips met in a sudden, passionate kiss.

Peter's frustrations seemed to melt away as he held Gwen close, one hand tangling in her blonde hair while the other pressed against the small of her back. The cool night air brushed over them as they stood embraced on the balcony, but neither noticed, too caught up in the warmth of each other.

Gwen's hands curled into fists, bunching the fabric of Peter's shirt as she returned the kiss eagerly. The awkwardness of their earlier interaction dissipated, replaced by dizzy exhilaration. For that fleeting moment, nothing else mattered but the two of them under the watchful eye of the crescent moon.

When they finally parted for air, both were reluctant to fully let go. Peter kept his arms around Gwen's waist while her hands slid down to rest against his chest. Their accelerated breathing mingled between them as they gazed into each other's eyes. The frustrations that had seemed so insoluble just minutes before now seemed insignificant compared to this blossoming love between them.

Peter's head jerked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat. He and Gwen sprang apart as if an electric current had passed between them. His gaze darted guiltily toward the cityscape, unable to meet the eyes of the intruder. Gwen's head snapped toward the balcony doorway, cheeks flushing pink.

Tyson stood in the entrance, an apologetic half-smile tugging at his lips. "Sorry for interrupting," he said. "Gwen, your father wanted to speak with you. He was hoping you'd come back inside."

Peter shifted his weight uncomfortably as Gwen turned to face Tyson fully. Her blush had spread to the tips of her ears.

"Oh, uh, thanks Tyson," Gwen stammered. She smoothed her hands over her dress nervously. "I'll head in right away."

Tyson nodded, his smile turning wry. "No rush. I'll let him know you'll be there in a few minutes." His gaze flickered between the two of them knowingly before he slipped back inside.

An awkward silence descended. Peter scuffed his shoe against the balcony floor, keenly aware of Gwen's presence next to him. The cold night air raised goosebumps on his arms now that the warmth of her touch was gone. He finally worked up the nerve to glance at her.

Gwen was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She let out a shaky exhale and offered him a tentative smile. "So...that was something, huh?"

Peter let out a soft huff of laughter, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Yeah. Something." He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We'll talk later?"

Her smile widened and she squeezed his hand in return. "Definitely." With obvious reluctance, she pulled away and headed for the balcony door. At the entrance she paused and looked back, eyes bright.

Gwen's name echoed from the interior of the apartment, pulling her attention away from Peter. "Yeah, I'm coming," she called over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on the man before her as she backed toward the balcony door. Soft laughter bubbled up from her chest and spilled past her lips, still tingling from the passionate kiss they had shared only moments before. She left the door open behind her as she disappeared inside.

Peter let out a slow breath, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he turned back to take in the sprawling cityscape. The click of the balcony door announced the arrival of Tyson. Peter's friend ambled over casually to lean against the railing, assuming a spot next to Peter.

"Some party, huh?" Tyson remarked, his eyes scanning the glittering towers that surrounded them.

Peter huffed out a quiet laugh. "You could say that again." His mind replayed the heated encounter with Gwen, still fresh and vivid. He could almost feel the soft caress of her lips against his, the warmth of her body pressed close. It seemed tonight had brought far more than he had anticipated. "How much of that did you see?" Peter asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Enough," Tyson replied, a knowing smile spreading across his face. The single word hung heavily in the air between them, ripe with unspoken implications. His grin stretched wide as he remarked, "I would have preferred you told me yourself, but this is fine."

Peter's heart stuttered in his chest, his palms growing clammy where they gripped the railing. "You don't understand," he began, the familiar weight of his secret pressing down upon his chest.

Tyson's understanding reply caught Peter off guard. "You're wrong, Pete. I might be the person in the world closest to understanding." Peter's eyes locked onto Tyson's, a silent question in his stare.

The night air on the rooftop terrace seemed to shimmer for the briefest of moments as if reality itself wavered. Peter watched in awe as the image of the costumed figure in a black spandex suit and white fox mask, known to the city as Mirage, transposed itself over Tyson.

Then the illusion fractured and fell away as quickly as it had come, leaving only Tyson once more, casually leaning against the terrace railing.

"It's you," Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers tightened on the cool metal of the railing, knuckles whitening.

Tyson offered a slight nod, his eyes never leaving Peter's. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out."

Peter's mind reeled, thoughts spinning as he struggled to process this revelation. Tyson, one of his closest friends, was secretly the costumed hero. How had he never realized it before? Peter found his voice again, though it cracked with emotion. "All this time, you were right there in front of me. Every news story, every sighting, it was you." He shook his head in disbelief. Realization crashed over Peter in waves as the pieces of a puzzle he hadn't even realized he'd been solving clicked into place. The familiar voice, the size, the hair… How could he have missed it? "I knew your voice sounded familiar," Peter said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin to match the excitement and relief flooding through him.

Tyson chuckled, the sound rich with unspoken acknowledgment of shared burdens and secrets unveiled. "Yeah, I was wondering if you'd figure it out," he quipped lightly.

The distant wail of police sirens sliced through the night air, shattering the moment between Peter and Tyson. The city's cry for help was impossible for Peter to ignore, his body tensing as the call to action ignited every fiber of his being. Tyson caught the subtle shift in Peter's stance, his eyes filled with understanding. "Guess that's your cue to leave?" he asked lightly, though it was less a question and more an acknowledgment of the inevitable pull of responsibility… and maybe revenge.

Peter nodded, the mantle of Spider-Man settling around his shoulders once more. "Yeah," he replied simply.

"Before you go, there's something I want you to see," Tyson said with seriousness edging his words. The dingy rooftop and the sounds of the restless city around them melted away as Tyson cast his illusion.

In their place appeared a scene so familiar it tore at Peter's heart. He was back in the warmly lit dining room of his home, the aroma of one of Aunt May's home-cooked meals hanging temptingly in the air. Seated around the table were Tyson, Aunt May, and, impossibly, his late Uncle Ben.

Peter's heart clenched, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of his lost uncle.

They appeared to be casually discussing Tyson's new internship, his voice light as he carefully skirted around the more extraordinary aspects. Aunt May, ever the caring guardian, admonished them both with love sparkling in her eyes. "You boys, always trying to do so much," she chided gently, her tone colored by affection.

Then Uncle Ben, ever the source of grounded wisdom, turned his kind eyes on Tyson. "We appreciate you taking care of Peter," he said, his voice as warm and comforting as a summer breeze. "Keep taking care of those around you. We lift each other up - that's how we all succeed. And remember, success isn't just about what you accomplish in your life, Tyson; it's about what you inspire others to do."

As the edges began to blur and the illusion faded, Peter drank in every last detail, imprinting the scene on his heart.

"That was the last thing your uncle said to me before he died," Tyson confessed. Though his words were steady, they carried a heavy undertone of emotion. His dark eyes locked onto Peter's. "Spider-Man isn't just some vigilante. He's a beacon. A symbol of hope. It's not all about your power. And it's not even about any responsibility you have to use it selflessly. What's important is that you're uplifting people through your actions. You inspire hope in this city, hope that it sorely needs. Don't forget that, especially when you inevitably face the one who took your uncle."

Tyson's words resonated within Peter, striking a chord deep in his chest. In the distance, sirens wailed, an insistent clarion call. Tyson smiled slightly. "Now go do your thing, Spider-Man. I'll cover for you inside."

Peter nodded. Gratitude fueled his limbs, and without another word, he vaulted over the balcony railing, welcoming the tug of gravity as he plunged toward the lights below. With a flick of his wrist, a strand of webbing shot out, anchoring itself to a nearby building. Peter swung upward, reveling in the familiar embrace of the night air. The city spread before him, its lights beckoning him onward. Somewhere out there, a siren called.

Spider-Man had work to do.

— Rogue Replacement —

The Empire suite fell silent as the last of the guests took their leave, leaving Tyson and Felicia in the privacy of each other's company. Felicia sashayed toward Tyson, a smoldering question burning in her eyes. "So, now that we're alone," she purred, allowing the words to linger temptingly in the air between them, "what did you want to do?"

Tyson exhaled, the sound heavy with unspoken meaning. Gently taking her hand, he led Felicia to the plush velvet couch. He answered, "We need to talk."

One eyebrow quirked upward, a playful lilt coloring her voice, she said, "You know, when I say things like that, most guys don't suggest a heart-to-heart. But hey, I'm all ears if that's what you had in mind."

A quiet laugh escaped Tyson, warm but tinged with a hint of nervousness. "I need to be honest with you," he started, his eyes earnest, "before things go any further between us."

Felicia's demeanor shifted to one of genuine attention as she nodded. "Alright, I'm listening. You're so serious... you're not about to confess you're a serial killer or something, are you?" she teased lightly, trying to dispel the somber mood that had settled over them.

Tyson's face scrunched as if he had just bitten into a lemon, and he released a weary sigh, steeling himself for the confession to come. "I guess I'll start at the beginning," he conceded.

Felicia patiently listened for his explanation, though she noted with a hint of concern that he hadn't outwardly refuted what she asked.

Meanwhile, across the street in a nondescript office building, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton were hunched over a console, headphones clamped over their ears. The space had been commandeered by SHIELD and transformed into a temporary surveillance hub. A sophisticated audio device captured every word spoken in Tyson's suite with crystal clarity.

Initially, they had been caught off guard when a teen unexpectedly climbed up to the side of the Four Seasons to the same floor as the suite they observed. Their shock deepened as they inadvertently discovered his secret identity as Peter Parker. Witnessing the reveal of his secret identity to Gwen and Tyson during their meal was yet another surprise. As the evening wore on, their interest had waned. The mundane conversation seemed irrelevant to their mission. But now, Tyson's somber tone grabbed their attention once more.

Natasha and Clint exchanged a silent look, communicating their shared intrigue. Around them lay the remnants of their hastily-ordered Boston Market turkey dinners, forgotten in the gravity of the moment. Tyson's voice, laden with solemn portent, filled their ears.

"Here we go," Clint murmured, his customary quips absent.

Natasha merely nodded, her expression unreadable. They settled in to listen intently. Whatever Tyson was about to disclose carried potentially profound implications. Not just for him and Felicia, but for everyone ensnared in the intricate web they were all unknowingly part of.

The atmosphere in the room thickened palpably as Tyson began his revelation, his voice steady despite the gravitas of his words. "There are people in this world, like myself, who are born different. We possess natural abilities, abilities some might call superpowers. You've witnessed what I can do with illusions, so that part may not shock you over much. But you don't know about my true superpower, which is far more dangerous than my illusions."

In their makeshift headquarters, Natasha's and Clint's expressions tightened. Every word from Tyson's lips was a vital piece of a puzzle.

Felicia leaned forward, curiosity and concern mingled in her voice. "Is Spider-Man like you? What is your real power, then?"

"Let's leave Spider-Man out of this for now. He's not like me. Not exactly. He wasn't born with his powers, he got his from a radioactive… err, I mean… genetically engineered spider's bite." Tyson inhaled deeply as if the next words weighed heavy upon his tongue. "Whenever my skin comes into contact with another, I begin leeching away their life force. Mere seconds of touch with an ordinary person could leave them comatose," he confessed, the burden of his reality almost palpable amidst the room's thickened atmosphere. "That's why I wear gloves and long sleeves at all times."

From her seat, Natasha could not restrain a soft gasp as the pieces fell into place regarding Tyson's consistent attire and supposed 'skin condition' during their training sessions.

Felicia's confusion was plain on her face as she tried to reconcile his words with her memories of their interactions. "But you're not wearing gloves. We held hands when we sat down," she protested.

"That wasn't my real hand," Tyson said sadly, his eyes downcast. "It was an illusion." His shoulders slumped under the burden of this admission. The room grew still, the atmosphere thick with shared tension. "There's more to it. With those who have any kind of special powers, I temporarily gain their abilities, sometimes even taking on physical changes," he went on.

Felicia's green eyes went wide. "So when you fought the Lizard on the bridge, that wasn't an illusion?"

Tyson shook his head gravely. "Nope. That was caught on camera. It was my first public appearance, but everyone dismissed the change, seemingly forgetting that my illusions couldn't be recorded. During the fight, when the Lizard slashed me, we made contact. I absorbed its traits and strength." His expression was somber. "None of that was an illusion."

The temporary SHIELD base was quiet as Clint and Natasha reviewed the bridge footage, exchanging knowing looks. Tyson's story shed light on the discrepancies in his appearance. With each new revelation about his strange gift, more questions arose in their minds. For now, their meal sat untouched as they analyzed this rare glimpse into the complexities of Tyson's abilities.

Across the street, Tyson continued his explanation to Felicia. "As I said, my power is unique," he went on, his eyes darkening with memories. "There's another powerful man obsessed with harnessing what I have. At the beginning of the summer, he sent someone after me, someone with powers of their own. Deadly claws and an almost instantaneous healing ability." From their vantage point across the street, Clint and Natasha leaned in, intrigued. "But he couldn't heal from my life absorption," Tyson said, his voice faltering as it was tinged with sorrow. "We fought, and I...I absorbed him completely. I got his strength, his healing, his instincts, his enhanced senses. But I also got his memories. The entirety of his long life, spanning nearly two centuries. Permanently."

Felicia's eyes went wide at this admission, and she drew in a sharp breath, holding it. "You...you killed him? And now you have his healing...and claws?" she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper in the face of the staggering implications.

Without a word, Tyson slowly removed his glove. Metal claws slid out from his fingertips with a sharp snikt sound that seemed to echo in the ensuing silence. "Not an illusion," he said solemnly. "This is all me."

"Why are they metal?" Felicia asked after a moment, her curiosity beginning to battle with the shock.

Tyson sighed heavily. The sound was laden with memories he clearly wished he could forget. "My last school was for kids like me, kids with...abilities," he confessed quietly. "I had hoped to learn to control my power there, but it never happened." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and Felicia sensed the roiling emotions within him. His next words were likely to reveal even more of his inner turmoil.

"The school was attacked by a military force," he recounted, pain evident in his voice. "You have to realize, there were kids there, some just little ones...barely school-aged." He paused, old anguish etched on his face. "A few of the stronger students let me 'borrow' their powers. They ran, and I...I stayed. I fought." In their listening post across the street, Natasha's and Clint's expressions were grave as the tragic story unfolded before them, more complex than they could have anticipated. Tyson wasn't just an individual with abilities; he was a survivor, a warrior forced to make choices no one his age should face. Natasha understood such impossible decisions all too well. Tyson's voice held both pain and pride as he recounted the battle. "I held them back. Imagine. An army came to invade my school, and I fought them by myself. I don't even know how many I killed during the fight. I just knew I had to stave them off as long as I could. To give everyone time to escape. And I did...until the powers I borrowed faded." His grin didn't reach his haunted eyes, shadows of memories best left unsaid lurking within. "I could handle the soldiers, but when they brought in their own supers...it was too much."

Across the street, Clint and Natasha exchanged glances speaking volumes. They both knew where the story was likely going.

Tyson's voice grew darker as he recounted his tale. "I was captured and experimented on by my enemies. They laced my bones with a rare metal called adamantium that is only moldable when kept at extremely high temperatures. It was boiling when they started the procedure that melded it with my skeleton. It was the most excruciating pain I've ever felt." His hand clenched into a fist, "Once it hardens, adamantium becomes the strongest known material, making me nearly indestructible. But they didn't stop there with their cruel experiments on me," he continued through gritted teeth. "They used a serum to control my mind, turning me into a tool, a weapon to serve their purposes."

Across the street, Clint and Natasha exchanged somber glances, their faces etched with concern. Though he left the details unsaid, the shadows haunting his eyes made it clear he had suffered unimaginable trauma and abuse when captured and transformed into an indestructible living weapon.

"But my friends, the ones I'd bought time for, they came back for me. Led by my...ex-girlfriend," Tyson's voice softened for just a moment, the barest hint of vulnerability peeking through.

When Tyson mentioned an ex-girlfriend, Felicia and Natasha's reactions mirrored each other. "Ex-girlfriend?" Felicia remarked in disbelief, mouth agape, while Natasha silently mouthed the same words, curiosity spiking at this new personal detail. Disbelief and playful teasing colored Felicia's voice as she now asked for clarification, "So, your superhero ex led the cavalry to break you out of a military lab? That's...a lot to take in." She exhaled sharply, half-joking, "Those are some big shoes to fill."

Tyson's smirk was rueful, "You could say that," he replied simply. His expression was somber as he continued. "During the escape, there was this psychic...they were using his powers for the brainwashing and harvesting the mind control serum from his body. I didn't mean to, but when I touched him, he...he was too weak. I absorbed him. That's where the illusions come from."

Natasha pursed her lips thoughtfully. Tyson's tale stirred memories of her own past, things best left unsaid. She studied him with new eyes, seeing the shared pain lurking beneath the surface. Clint shifted his weight, expression neutral but his jaw tight. Some wounds went deeper than words could reach. Tyson's confession of his harrowing past had left Clint and Natasha silent as they processed the full extent of what he had endured.

Tyson's gaze drifted across the interior of the Empire suite, a space he'd 'acquired' through less-than-conventional means. "After the breakout, I came back here to New York. This suite, Midtown High... it's all part of starting over," he confessed, the city lights casting long shadows over his thoughtful face.

Felicia's curiosity was evident as she tilted her head, eyes glinting. "And your ex? What happened with her?" she inquired, seeking more details about the woman who had apparently led the effort to free Tyson from his captors.

"She's in Asia now, studying," Tyson replied simply, old pain briefly shadowing his features at the mention of his former love.

Felicia's lips curved into an empathetic half-smile, her expression a mix of understanding and compassion. Given all that he had endured, she could grasp why he was driven to stand against a crime lord like Fisk. "I get it now. After what you've faced, going up against a crime lord, it's...it's nothing," she said softly.

The weight of his past was visible in the slump of Tyson's broad shoulders as he shrugged. "I needed you to know, Felicia. Before we... if we... continue this relationship." He struggled to find the right words, then finally blurted out, "To answer your question, I'm no serial killer, but sometimes it feels like I'm not far off." His muscular hands clenched into fists, the ghost of countless lives he had taken during the battle at the institute haunting his eyes.

Realization dawned on Felicia's delicate features. She whispered, "You absorbed some of their memories and can remember parts of their lives."

"Yeah," Tyson admitted heavily, his deep voice laden with regret. "And it's messed up. They weren't all bad people, just following orders... caught up in the situation, same as me."

Felicia's slender hand found Tyson's. "You were just trying to survive. You did what you had to do."

Tyson looked down at their intertwined fingers, an ironic smile touching his full lips. "This isn't really my hand, you know."

"It feels real to me," Felicia murmured softly, her bright eyes locked onto their hands resting on the polished mahogany table.

"It does to me too," Tyson admitted, meeting her earnest gaze. "But I'm actually over there." He nodded toward where he was seated in an armchair.

From their surveillance post, Natasha and Clint exchanged looks as the camera feed confirmed Tyson's true location across the room. "That's...trippy," Clint decided, shaking his head in disbelief and making his sandy hair flutter.

Natasha was already focused on the implications, "Fury needs to hear about this. All of it," she stated decisively, her voice low and husky.

As the two experienced agents prepared their detailed report, in the penthouse suite not too far away, the two young people sat together in companionable silence, finding solace in shared truths. But the peaceful moment was shattered when Felicia suddenly screamed in alarm.

"What!"

After Tyson casually mentioned as an afterthought, "Oh yeah, and I stole a bunch of gold from the Federal Reserve."

— Rogue Replacement —

Tony Stark's seaside mansion clung to the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean like a futuristic acropolis, all smooth lines and expansive windows that gave the impression the structure had been carved itself. The interior matched the sleek exterior, full of high ceilings, minimalist decor, and advanced technology. Dim track lighting flickered on as Tony Stark entered, throwing irregular pools of light across the polished surfaces.

"Jarvis?" Tony called out, pocketing his sunglasses. The familiar artificial intelligence responded. Its crisp accent emanated from unseen speakers.

"Welcome home, sir..."

But the sentence trailed off uncharacteristically. The sudden silence raised the hairs on the back of Tony's neck.

A lone figure stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the endless expanse of the Pacific spreading out behind him. He held himself with a relaxed yet commanding posture, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The last fiery rays of the setting sun cast him in dramatic silhouette, throwing his features into shadowed relief. Whoever he was, he clearly wasn't supposed to be here.

The moment was interrupted by the intruder's deep, resonant voice. "I. Am. Iron Man." the figure said, punctuating every word, echoing Tony's iconic declaration to the world. Tony felt a sense of apprehension stir within him. The man continued without turning around, "You think you're the only superhero in the world?" His tone was matter-of-fact yet carried an underlying weight that gave Tony pause. "Mr. Stark, you've become part of a bigger universe. You just don't know it yet."

Slowly, the figure turned to face Tony, the movement somehow ominous. As the shadows receded from the man's face, Tony took in the eye patch, the stern demeanor, and the dark dramatic coat that added to his formidable presence. His steady gaze was fixed on Tony, sizing him up. "As if Gamma accidents, radioactive bug bites, and assorted mutants weren't enough," the man continued, his voice sharp, "I have to deal with a spoiled brat who doesn't play well with others and wants to keep all his toys to himself." The words were a clear challenge to Tony's independent style of operating.

Tony's initial surprise shifted to his characteristic bravado in the face of confrontation. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, taking a step forward, eyes narrowing as he analyzed this unexpected intruder in his personal space.

"Nick Fury," the man replied, unfazed by Tony's posturing. "Director of SHIELD." His voice held the unmistakable authority of someone expecting to be listened to and obeyed. This Nick Fury had clearly come with a purpose. His next words would reveal the reason for this clandestine visit.

"I'm here to talk to you about the Avenger Initiative."