As Hawk walked away from the Goring Apartment building, the tension of the dinner slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a cool, analytical satisfaction. He replayed the final, critical exchange with Captain Stacy in his mind. Under the table, Gwen's hand had tightened on his thigh, a silent, urgent warning. He had understood immediately.
George's question about Spider-Man wasn't casual conversation; it was a carefully laid trap. As the Captain of the 19th Precinct, a man deeply committed to the rule of law, Stacy viewed the masked vigilante as a dangerous, unaccountable menace. To praise Spider-Man would be, in his eyes, endorsing criminal activity. A fatal misstep for a prospective son-in-law.
Gwen's warning was clear: condemn Spider-Man, align himself with the Captain's worldview.
But Hawk saw the second layer of the trap. To simply parrot George's opinion, to condemn the vigilante just to gain his approval, would paint him as a sycophant, a spineless opportunist lacking his own convictions. It would be just as damning.
It was a classic no-win scenario. So, Hawk had chosen Option C. He had sidestepped the binary choice entirely, deflecting with the mundane, verifiable truth of his own life. I'm just a student. Scholarships and student loans are my only concerns. The heroes and villains can sort themselves out.
It was a gamble, but it had worked. He saw the flicker of surprise in the Captain's eyes, followed by a grudging acknowledgment. George Stacy, Hawk knew, must have run a thorough background check on him the moment Gwen mentioned his name. He would have found the record of a quiet, fiercely independent, and obsessively focused young man with no criminal history and a documented commitment to his education. Hawk's answer hadn't been an evasion; it had been a perfect reflection of the dossier George already possessed. Actions speak louder than words.
The only anomaly in that file would be his recent, unexplained trip out of state. But even that was easily dismissed. A young man taking a brief trip? Hardly suspicious. And the jurisdictional boundaries of American law enforcement were a beautiful thing. Whatever happened in D.C. stayed in D.C., at least for now.
"You reacted very quickly," Gwen said, walking him towards the subway station under the watchful gaze of her father, who stood silhouetted in the apartment window. "I didn't even realize Dad's question was a trap until you started answering."
Hawk chuckled softly. "Because it was exactly what I was thinking. My priorities are clear."
She nodded, then sighed. "Alright, get back safe. Unfortunately, I can't drive you." She rolled her eyes. "Mom's orders. Grounded." Her impromptu trip to Maryland had earned her a newly reinstated nine o'clock curfew.
"It's okay," Hawk said. "The subway's quick enough."
"Alright. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
He watched her disappear back into the building before turning and descending into the bowels of the city.
If the New York City subway during the day was a chaotic mess, the subway at night was a descent into Dante's Inferno. The usual unpleasant odors were amplified, mingled with the stench of cheap alcohol and desperation. The usual bizarre characters were replaced by creatures of the night: hollow-eyed junkies mumbling to themselves, aggressive panhandlers, and shadowy figures lurking near the exits.
Hawk moved through it all like a ghost, his senses on high alert, his expression a mask of cold indifference. He dealt with the inevitable encounters swiftly and silently. A twitching junkie who got too close was neutralized with a single, precise nerve strike that left him unconscious but breathing. Two aggressive performers, their faces obscured by grime and cheap face paint, who tried to corner him with a loud, off-key song and dance routine, were met with a gaze so cold and predatory that they scattered like rats. He registered a third performer, a confusing mix of masculine and feminine features, but dismissed them as irrelevant.
He arrived back at his apartment unscathed, the city's nocturnal predators instinctively recognizing him as something far more dangerous than themselves. He checked his phone, saw a simple "Goodnight" text from Gwen, replied with the same, and then prepared for bed.
School started tomorrow. He needed to be up early for the first bus. Gwen had offered to pick him up, but he had refused. It felt wrong, somehow. Like he was using her, taking advantage of their new relationship for convenience. He knew he wasn't, but he couldn't control how others might perceive it. And more importantly, he wouldn't allow his presence to tarnish her reputation. It was a strange, new, protective instinct, one he was still learning to navigate. He drifted off to sleep, the complexities of human relationships momentarily overwhelming the cold, hard logic of survival and power.
The next morning, the familiar rumble of the school bus arrived just as Hawk reached the stop. He climbed aboard, greeting the driver with a nod.
"Good morning, Hall."
"Morning, Hawk," the gruff but kindly driver replied. "Ready for your last first day?"
"Graduation's not till next year, Hall."
"Maybe," Hall grinned. "But I bet NYU sends you that acceptance letter this semester. Got faith in you, kid."
"Alright. Thanks, Hall."
Hawk walked to his usual seat in the back row, settling in as the bus continued its route, picking up a student or two at each stop. When it reached the affluent neighborhood of Forest Hills, a familiar figure boarded, followed by someone new.
Peter Parker. The moment he stepped onto the bus, his head snapped up, his enhanced senses instantly locking onto Hawk's presence at the back. Hawk met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. But his attention was immediately drawn to the young man standing beside Peter. He was handsome, dressed in expensive casual clothes, with an air of easy confidence that bordered on arrogance, and a shadow of melancholy in his eyes.
Harry Osborn. The first generation version. The best friend. The future Green Goblin.
Peter, oblivious to the undercurrents Hawk perceived, led Harry down the aisle.
"Hawk," Peter greeted him.
"Peter."
"Hawk, this is my friend, Harry Osborn," Peter said, gesturing to the newcomer. "He was studying in Britain, but he just transferred back. He's in our grade now." He then turned to Harry. "Harry, this is Hawk."
Harry Osborn offered a polite, practiced smile and extended his hand. "Hello, Hawk. Pleasure to meet you."
"Hello, Harry," Hawk replied, taking his hand. The grip was firm, the smile friendly, but Hawk felt a coldness beneath the surface, a hint of the darkness that lay dormant within the Osborn heir. The players were assembling. The game was about to begin.