Chapter 9

"It was Perfect. Perfect. Everything down to the last minute detail" as a certain character from a fictional universe once said. I thought that to myself, standing here in this supposedly "fictional" universe. Yeah, right. Everything went according to plan—the spider-bite mission was a success. Now it's time to head home and brace myself for what's coming. Finally, something happened the way I planned it. I am so done improvising on the fly. At least nobody knows about my constant mental acrobatics, flip-flopping between the North and South Poles of ambition. Success is mine! Break out the canned goods, pickles, jam, and champagne. Tomorrow's the big day! But today? Today I'll nurse this fever so I can climb walls by morning. Hehehe.

When I first realized where I was and who I'd become, I thought pulling off the "live well and avoid trouble" strategy would be easy. I mean, come on, I've read enough fanfiction to know the drill. Even kids turn into evil overlords or tech billionaires in a month. But me? A full-grown adúlt mon? My plans would be ten times more epic.

Yeah, right. I had dreams that were more believable.

Living in society—especially one where you're always in the spotlight—is nothing like sneaking a fur coat into your underwear drawer. Back in my old world, my existence was mildly interesting to nosy grannies and a handful of relatives. Here? My every move is scrutinized. Classmates, neighbors, even random bank clerks. Like, do you know how hard it is just to open an account so I can get paid for side gigs? "Anonymous," you say? Yeah, no. Didn't even try. I already knew how it would go: "Hello, I'd like to open an account. I have $100, and I'm ready to take over the world." And they'd be like, "Sure, kid, come back with your mom. We're professionals here."

Even a simple electronic wallet for my expenses required Mom Judy to co-sign. No ID? No transactions. Can't pay, can't withdraw, can't do jack. Bureaucratic jerks.

And the stipends? Locked away until I turn 18, unless there's a crisis. My side hustles—squeezed between school, training, and life—earn peanuts. Not nearly enough to invest in Hammer, Oscorp, or Stark Industries and make those insane profits off future events I kinda-sorta remember. Besides, who even knows if those events will happen here? For example, Anita Stark, the Queen of America's Bottomless… Ambition, has supposedly gone missing in the East.

Anyway, as I strolled through a park on my way home—greenery to the right, beautiful scenery—the street was oddly empty. A gentle breeze ruffled my hair, and somewhere nearby, classical music drifted from the bushes. Piano, I realized. Then, just a few steps ahead, the bushes rustled, and it emerged.

A piano. Sort of? Remember the Iron Throne from Game of Thrones? The one made of melted swords? Well, this piano looked like that. Its frame was a chaotic fusion of swords, axes, knives, and futuristic weapons. Oh, hey, is that a Kalashnikov? And an M16! Not completely clueless—I played a lot of CS 1.6 back in the day. Anyway, behind the keys sat none other than… Madara Uchiha. The piano stool glided perfectly in sync with the monstrous instrument.

Madara finished playing the last note, smiled at me, and stood up with dramatic flair.

"Hello, Toby!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "I've come bearing gifts! You've been a good boy for so many years, but this world's... Santa Clausette has been shamelessly ignoring you! Damn feminist. I'll Amaterasu her later. Ahem! So, I've taken it upon myself to right this injustice and bring you the one thing you've always wanted!" He beamed like a kid on Christmas morning. "Guess what I've got for you!"

"A tactical slingshot with a nuclear warhead?" I blurted, overcome with a mix of excitement and disbelief.

"No, my dear Tobias! I've brought youuuu…" He threw open the piano's lid and rummaged through its bizarre innards. "Hold on… one second…" Out flew knives, pitchforks, lightsaber emitters, Samehada—wait, is that Ichigo's Zanpakuto? "Ah, here it is!" he declared, pulling out a massive bazooka connected by cables to an equally enormous backpack. "A beam cannon!"

"A beam cannon?"

"Yes, a beam cannon! A marvel of futuristic weaponry! Sure, the energy consumption is absurd, so the battery pack's a bit hefty…" He shook the backpack for emphasis. "Check this out." Strapping the battery on, he aimed at a nearby parked car and fired.

What hit the car wasn't a laser or plasma beam. No, it was… a bunch of greens. Literal greens. Dill and parsley, to be precise. The "ammunition" flopped to the asphalt.

"Well? What do you think, Toby? Amazing, right? It has the range of an 18th-century pistol, but in space, the projectile keeps going until it hits something! It's all yours, kiddo!" Madara handed me the absurd weapon with the pride of a father at Christmas.

I almost buckled under its weight.

"Good luck, Tobias! You're a good boy!" he shouted as he and his piano disappeared back into the bushes. (1)

I stared at the ridiculous contraption, debating whether to leave it behind. Then someone tapped my shoulder.

Turning, I saw an Imperial Guardsman holding out a lasgun.

"Wanna trade?" he asked.

Silently, I handed him the cannon and took the lasgun. As I walked home, the Guardsman strapped on the backpack, cocked the weapon, and struck a heroic pose.

"With this weapon…" he declared, voice swelling with emotion, "…CADIA WILL STAND FOREVER!!! AHAHAHAHA!!!"

'Well, that was something,' I thought, waking up. I could do without the beam cannon, thanks, but here's hoping the spider bite actually works out. Fingers crossed.

Morning flew by in a rush of breakfast, washing up, packing, and running to school alongside my pint-sized redheaded menace of a sister. At school, the top-performing students—including me—were loaded onto a bus bound for Oscorp's research facility. From my class, it was just me and Petra. Naturally, under the watchful eyes of girls from other classes, I sat next to her.

Harry, who also qualified for the trip, just shrugged and said, "What's there to see?" before shooting a glance at Thompson and backing out. Interesting. Looks like someone's making progress. Flash has been acting more reserved lately, focusing on academics rather than sports. Even her attitude toward Parker has mellowed. I told you—she's a good girl. Just young and full of vinegar.

Thompson herself and my dear Penny didn't make the cut for this trip. So here I am, sitting next to Petra, keeping silent, slightly on edge. When I'm nervous, my fingers just go rogue—I start messing with my nails: rubbing, picking, clicking. Teachers, friends—they're always nagging me to stop, but breaking habits is hard.

Petra notices, glances at my hands, and I offer her a sheepish smile, raising my palms as if to say, "Alright, alright, I'll stop."

She smiles back, faintly.

"You're not bothering me. I just didn't expect it," she says.

"Yeah, well, it's a bad habit. Need to quit it. Thanks, Petra," I reply, trying to sound casual. Honestly, she's alright—bit of a pushover, way too uptight, but still okay. Except for that massive flaw: she's got a thing for MJ, and that guy? Major walking red flag.

"I get nervous too," she confesses softly. "This trip… there's so much cool stuff to see. I dream of working at a place like this after college."

"So what's stopping you? Talk to Harry. You two get along, right? The Osborns practically bankroll half the colleges in the state. They're always scouting talent. I bet Nora would help you out—both as Harry's mom and as a businesswoman. You're smart, Petra. A good person. This is all in your hands. I mean, you're even doing those extra lectures at Wisdom Houses, right?" I smirk. "You're already ahead of the game. Start hanging around their circles. Let them notice you sooner."

"You think so?" she asks, uncertain. "I don't want to bother Harry… And Mrs. Osborn's so busy…"

"Petra, come on. That's literally what friends are for—not just chatting about shared hobbies. You're not asking him to buy you a Ferrari or anything. It's a win-win. They spend a few minutes setting things up for you, their staff handles the rest. They get paid for it, by the way. And the Osborns? They'd be gaining a loyal, grateful employee by the time you graduate. Harry would probably enjoy helping a friend out, too. That's the whole point of this tour, isn't it? A bit of PR for Oscorp and a peek behind the curtain for the school's best and brightest. Want me to ask Harry for you? Discreetly?"

"No, no, Toby! Thanks, but I'll talk to him myself," she waves her hands frantically.

"Alright, your call," I shrug. Then I add in Russian, "You're the boss."

And so, we arrive at Oscorp. I stick close to Petra, shadowing her steps like a human-sized lost puppy. 'Come on, spider. Come on, spider. Papa needs a bite!'

The first part of the tour is all admin fluff. HR, accounting, logistics—blah blah blah. I'm trailing Petra the whole time, practically sniffing the air around her like some weirdo bloodhound. No spider yet. Petra glances at me occasionally, confused.

Then, finally, we're taken to the labs. Security scanners, ID checks—oh yeah, this is it. This is where the magic happens.

Meanwhile, the security guard at the scanner watches the group pass through. One boy catches her eye—blond, blue-eyed, athletic build, wide shoulders. He's young, but damn, he's got that look. He's staring intently at the frumpy girl with bushy brown hair and greenish-blue eyes. A shame about her appearance—if she put in a little effort, she might be passable. But that boy? Wow. Give him five years, and she'd have no chance.

The guard lingers on his profile a moment longer, almost forgetting her job. Something odd flashes on the monitor, but she's distracted. By the time the group has passed, her colleague pulls her into a conversation, and any curiosity about the scan fades.

The tour ends, and we're herded back to the bus. Some students head to a nearby store for snacks before departure. I'm drained, mentally and emotionally. I shuffle after Petra on autopilot. Maybe… just maybe… a spider will descend from the ceiling, Tarzan-swinging in with a heroic "UWAAAH!" and sink its venomous fangs into her arm. Please?

She keeps glancing at me, suspicion growing. Our eyes meet, and I realize with horror: I've spent the entire tour trailing her like a deranged stalker. And for what?! NOTHING. My cheeks go red-hot as I start staring intently at the asphalt.

After a moment, she gently grabs my elbow. "Toby, can we… talk?"

Oh, crap. I nod, following her around the corner of a nearby building, brain racing to come up with an excuse that doesn't make me sound like a lunatic. We stop, standing face-to-face. I'm staring at her shoes, feeling like an idiot.

"Tobi…" she starts, sighing. "I'm sorry, but… I like MJ."

It takes a second to click. When it does, my eyes shoot up, wide as saucers. I must look like I just unlocked the world's first Square-Eyed Sharingan. Petra… She thinks…

"I get it. I really do," she continues, looking so sincere it hurts. "You've always been there for me—dealing with Flash, standing up for me… And now, I understand why you and MJ don't get along. But, Tobi, I'm so sorry… You're amazing—smart, kind, funny, handsome. Your future wives are going to be the luckiest women alive. But I just… I like guys my age. MJ, he's… artistic. A musician. He's not from our world."

'MJ's a pretentious jerk,' I think, fighting back a hysterical laugh. My eyes water from the effort, which Petra misinterprets entirely.

"Oh, Toby!" she exclaims, hugging me tightly. "Don't be sad! Everything will be okay!"

She's stroking my hair like I'm a heartbroken puppy, whispering reassurances, while I'm behind her shoulder, silently losing my mind in laughter. A guy in a nearby car, mid-cigarette, drops it out the window, staring at the scene like he's just witnessed a live soap opera.

So there we stand. Me trembling with suppressed giggles, Petra murmuring sweet nothings, and some random dude utterly baffled.

Widowmaker gazed in bewilderment at the pair standing a little ways away from his parked car. The boy, whom he had never seen in person, was someone Fury had been pushing as a potential son-in-law. Curious to see him for himself, he'd paused near the school bus parked outside Oscorp and waited for the group to emerge from their tour.

He had called his "sweetheart" earlier to say he'd arrived early and was waiting. She'd promised she'd be there in 15-20 minutes. Now, he was watching this kid—a candidate for Fury's master plan—being bear-hugged by some girl. For a brief moment, Widowmaker wondered if the girl was attempting to snap the boy's spine. A closer look clarified it: she was comforting him. What had happened to make the boy look like he'd just stared into the abyss and the abyss screamed back? Judging by his contorted facial expressions, it had to be something traumatic.

'I'll need to go through today's report thoroughly,' Widowmaker thought as he watched the group board the bus, the boy now visibly calmer.

His phone rang. It was his "sweetheart," apologizing profusely because "something had come up." She couldn't make it to see her "Schmootsie-Poo" tonight. Snarling, he hung up mid-apology, dramatically spat out the window, started the car, and sped off, mentally adding "revenge on Barton" to his to-do list. For the Schmootsie-Poo.

I rode the bus in a sour mood, dodging a range of stares. Parker's gaze was equal parts guilty and pensive. The rest of the group? Pure curiosity, as though our little scene hadn't gone unnoticed. The whispering confirmed it.

Another failure. Again. If my life were a movie, it'd be called The Incredible Misadventures of the World's Unluckiest Marvel Wannabe. Why does nothing ever go as planned?

I mean, I decided to go superhero-hunting after realizing that, in this world, random cataclysms like Thanos snapping half of existence or Galactus deciding Earth looked like a tasty snack weren't just theoretical. Sure, I wasn't planning on taking on those guys. But against mid-tier villains? A dash of Spidey powers would've been handy for a rooftop escape or two. Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Back to square one.

And then there's my love life. I wasn't even aiming for a relationship, but, well, here we are. You grow up with someone, learn with them, and before you know it—bam, feelings. It's not like I looked at little Penny back in the day and thought, "Oh yeah, one day!" Back then, I was more concerned with action figures than girls. But somewhere along the line, the feelings snuck in, unnoticed. Then, after that chat with Magneto, it hit me: I didn't want to lose her.

There's this saying I once heard: "If you want to know if you love someone, imagine they're gone. Forever." Well, I imagined it. Not great, folks. Not great at all.

I had a plan, though. A noble one: wait until she turned eighteen. But temptation is a beast. A whole month of self-control, and I folded like wet paper. Saints and celibacy? Not my calling. If I save the world someday, I'll think about it. Hell, after saving the world, anything goes, right? Even… in the… Anyway.

Back to the present. Home, tea, and a workout. Apple tea sounds good.

The workout helped. The girls at training? As usual, they pulled their punches, smacking me around just enough to keep things interesting but not painful. Their "innocent" expressions whenever I gave them side-eye were masterpieces of faux confusion.

Today, I partnered with Adele—a cheerful, diligent blonde with striking green eyes and a solid grasp of German. She wanted to join the military someday, and we'd agreed to practice speaking German together for fun. Out of our group of nineteen, at least nine had varying degrees of fluency in the language, from "eh" to "wunderbar".

After training, we got some compliments from the instructors and headed home. Spirits? Lifted.

Then things got weird.

During dinner, I poured myself some freshly brewed apple tea. Piping hot. I accidentally knocked the whole teapot over onto myself—boiling liquid and all. For a moment, steam rose from my clothes. My moms froze mid-bite, horrified.

I stood there, waiting for the agony to hit. One second. Two seconds. Three. Nothing. Just warmth. Comfortable warmth.

My moms leaped into action, yanking my pants off in a frenzy of maternal concern while muttering, "Quick, to the shower! Cold water! Oh, my poor baby!" Meanwhile, I stared at the steam rising from my clothes, mind racing.

The signs were there, weren't they? Light punches during training barely registering. Hot food always somehow "just right." Plates that my mom swore were too hot to touch? No problem. Even the summer heat, which had everyone else sweltering, barely bothered me.

As my moms dragged me toward the bathroom, I realized: Either I just unlocked a quirk and should head straight to UA, or my mutant gene woke up. At least I didn't turn into a four-butted monkey or something.

The shower confirmed it. I stood there, water cranked up to boiling—steam filling the air like a sauna—and I felt nothing but cozy. Even the realization didn't sting; it was just warm and fuzzy.

So. Temperature immunity? Check. Minor invulnerability? Maybe. Powers were kicking in, no doubt about it. At this rate, all I needed was a costume, a name, and some bad guys to punch.

But first, tea. Apple-flavored, obviously.

So, it seems I've got some kind of protection against extreme temperatures and kinetic energy. Wait—energy! Could it be general energy resistance? Kinetic energy is a form of energy, right? Damn, why isn't Parker here? She'd figure this out in no time with that genius brain of hers. Actually, no, scratch that—I don't want her involved. No one can know about this. Last thing I need is Mr. or Mrs. Stryker—or both—showing up at my doorstep.

I'll just BS my moms into believing it was a fluke. People want to believe good things, after all. Look at me: I spent years, dumb as a brick, thinking this world was MCU canon, despite all the glaringly obvious differences, like the extra women everywhere. God, I really am a loaf of bread sometimes.

Right, so how could someone expose me? A flamethrower, maybe? Ha! I could pull a Daenerys stunt now and become the Father of Dragons. Just as long as I don't go full "Donkey from Shrek." Although… if Dr. Connors is a woman here, technically, I could—no, no, bad thought. Moving on.

Okay, what about lasers or plasma guns? Those might work. But there's a difference between the heat from a flamethrower and hot water. I didn't get burned from the latter, but the former might still turn me into a barbecue. I'll test it out with the gas stove later—when I'm home alone. Also, I should try heating my skin with a magnifying glass. It's not a laser, but it's something. Hmm… should I zap myself with electricity? Is a car battery enough voltage to test this? I'll have to Google it. Dancing around with my fingers in a socket isn't exactly Plan A.

Back to vulnerabilities. How could someone figure me out?

Honestly? They probably couldn't. This is a super low-key power. And if I stay under the radar until I'm 25, I'm golden. Why 25? Because at that age they can be 100% certain you're not passing on anything weird—like genetic defects or crazy brain stuff. Before that they just keep the life making juice on hold. The last batch would also be the only one they would run full analyses on. After that, it's just regular STI screenings before "installation" unless the customer pays extra. Makes sense; monthly genetic testing for every wanker in the U.S. would be expensive.

Okay, okay, I'm coming out, no need to bang on the door! I turned the water to cold for effect, dried off, and waited for the bathroom to return to normal.

Ah, crap. Underwear.

Wrapped in a towel, I bolted out of the bathroom with a shout: "Grabbing my boxers! Be right back!" I made a dash to my room. Might as well throw on some pajamas while I'm at it.

Of course, the moms demanded proof I wasn't burned. I showed them my stomach and legs down to my underwear line, but I refused to flash the goods. With their relieved clucking and my dignity mostly intact, I was finally let go.

Victory.

In Russian, there's an idiom — "Piano in the bushes" (Рояль в кустах) — used to describe a plot twist that's clearly planned and not a coincidence, even though the author tries to make it seem like one. For example, if a protagonist finds an ancient manuscript in a rare language that, by chance, they know because their mom used to sing lullabies in it when they were a toddler — that's a classic "piano in the bushes." MC found an ancient sword in the attic? Found a medallion that scares ghosts the week before Halloween? Piano in the bushes.