Chapter 6
As I walked to the school bus stop, yesterday's thoughts swirled in my head. Rhino and Shocker's performance was too clumsy. They didn't try to escape with the money or accomplish any clear objective; their goal was destruction. I didn't even have to intervene, because Spider-Man showed up, and his performance was... competent. Too competent. He calculated the force of his blow precisely to neutralize Rhino, and that was frightening. How many other powerful monsters were hiding around New York?
Initially, I had written off the spectacle at the bank as a primitive diversion, but after Fisk's speech, everything became more complicated. The speech itself was perfect. He voiced what I had been thinking and proposed a solution that looked good. He could have been considered a positive character, the city's savior, if not for one detail. The man standing behind him: Benjamin. The same boy raised by Sarah.
Nothing added up. Every new fact didn't clarify the situation, but only cast doubt on everything else. Who was Wilson Fisk, really?
Part of me wanted to dive headfirst into this abyss of secrets immediately, but I couldn't afford to. A quiet war to eliminate competitors and redistribute power was about to begin in the shadows. If I got involved now, without knowing all the players and the balance of power, I would just die a pointless death.
I couldn't blindly rely on my abilities. Yes, the protective shell worked like an autonomous immune system, but I didn't fully trust it. I could see the world beyond it—did that mean photons of light passed through the barrier unhindered? Or did my power simply not consider them a threat? What about a laser beam? Would it deem that a threat and block it? Unfortunately, I didn't have the technology to test a dozen such hypotheses.
In any case, it was too early for me to participate in such games. I needed to focus on school.
I got on the bus and took the last seat at the very back. The chatter didn't die down, but almost everyone looked at me. There was no fear or contempt in their gazes; rather, a hint of approval. I had done what many didn't have the guts to do—put the school bully in his place. But even so, no one dared to sit next to me.
At school, I went straight to the principal's office and knocked. "Come in," came Davis's calm voice. The principal was sitting at his desk and looked up at me over his glasses. "Hello."
"I hope these two weeks of suspension were beneficial for you," he said, setting his documents aside. "You've had time to think about the future. Have you decided where you want to apply?" "Yes," I replied evenly. "I want to apply to Rorschach University."
Principal Davis froze for a moment, then took off his glasses, looking at me with genuine interest. "Well, that's ambitious. It's a difficult path, Diego. The selection process is brutal. And which department?" "The Faculty of Investigative Journalism."
He leaned back in his chair and studied me in silence for a few seconds. "I see. You're not one to hide from problems. You're one to walk right up to them to get a closer look. A good choice." "Diego," Principal Davis continued, his tone hardening, "I want you to understand something. I got you out of trouble once because I saw the injustice of the situation. But there won't be a third chance. From this moment on, you are fully responsible for your actions. I won't cover for you again. Understood?" I nodded silently. "Good," he put his glasses back on. "Now, get to class."
After leaving his office, I headed to math class. As I walked to my desk, I caught Flash Thompson's gaze. He was staring at me, clearly still seething over his broken finger. Without changing my expression, I raised my hand and slowly rubbed my right eye with my middle finger. His face flushed with color, but he said nothing, just turned away, clenching his fist.
What really bothered me was the general atmosphere. There was a tense silence in the classroom, as if everyone was waiting for the end of the world. The door opened, and Mrs. Warren entered. She placed a stack of papers on her desk as if they were death sentences. "Alright, class, today we have a scheduled quiz," she announced, and a collective groan of disappointment swept through the rows. "Mary Jane, be a dear and pass out the papers."
Now it all made sense. It was amusing. A schism was tearing the city apart, but teenagers were more worried about their grades. The red-haired girl came to my desk and paused for a second as she handed me the paper. She gave me an encouraging smile and a quick wink. Either she liked me for some reason, or she was just a friendly person.
I scanned the problems. Double integrals, derivatives, logarithmic equations... Cursing silently, I wrote my name on the form and got to work. While I was slaving over the third problem, trying not to get mixed up in the signs, the silence was broken by the scraping of a chair. I looked up and saw Peter Parker calmly walk up to the teacher's desk and place his paper in front of Mrs. Warren. She glanced over his work. "As always, Peter. Flawless," she said quietly. Parker just gave a short nod, gathered his things, and left the classroom.
Five minutes? For this? I looked back at my own paper, where I was just beginning to untangle another equation. Either Peter Parker was a genius on a completely different level, beyond the comprehension of ordinary people, or... The thought came on its own. A mutant with the ability of accelerated information processing? "Okay, focus," I mentally ordered myself and returned to the test.
Next up was Sociology. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, walked in. In faded jeans and with disheveled hair, he looked more like a grad student than a teacher and could have easily passed for one of the students. He tossed his messenger bag onto the desk and scanned the room. "Alright, today we're going to deviate a bit from the lesson plan," he began, and the classroom chatter immediately died down. "We're going to talk about what's happening right now, outside the walls of this school. Today's topic: Do mutants deserve to live in our society?"
A pause hung in the air. "Raise your hand if you believe they should live alongside ordinary people," Harrison continued. Slowly, one by one, hands began to go up. Sixty percent of the class, including me, voted "yes."
"Interesting. A majority," the teacher noted. "To start, Thompson, your hand stayed down. Why?" Flash sat up straighter, clearly feeling like the representative of the "silent majority." "I don't want to be afraid to go to the store. I don't want to live in fear that some psycho with powers is going to kill me." A quiet, but distinct, chuckle escaped my lips.
Mr. Harrison reacted instantly. "Diego? Your suspension is over, I see. What's the reason for that reaction? Are you not concerned about safety?" I had to shake my head. "It's not about safety, it's about who's worried about it. If a law-abiding citizen finds out the government is tracking their location, they probably won't care. But if a criminal finds out, they'll start to complain. Fisk said it in his speech: who creates evil mutants? We do. A teenager who's bullied for years finally snaps, and the stress awakens an ability." My gaze flicked over to Flash. "So, I don't think Thompson is afraid for his life. He's afraid that he won't be able to get away with building himself up at others' expense anymore. Because now, the random kid he decides to pick on might turn out to be the lord of insects. And late at night, when Flash is sleeping, a cockroach will crawl into his ear and lay its eggs."
Half the class turned visibly pale. Mr. Harrison coughed, hiding a smile. "Yes, I admit, that's not a pleasant prospect. Alright, now a question for those who raised their hands. Why, in your opinion, should mutants live with us?" Silence fell in the classroom. It's one thing to silently raise your hand, and another to publicly defend your position. "Mary Jane?" the teacher called on her personally. She jumped, startled. "Well... because it's... the right thing to do?" Her answer sounded more like a question. "That's what we're trying to find out," Harrison nodded. "Okay. Peter, what does a person with your intellect think about this?"
Parker thought for a second, gathering his thoughts. "It's a question of numbers," he began calmly. "If you could take all existing mutants and move them to some hypothetical island, the problem would be solved. But they keep appearing. Every year, there are more cases of the X-gene activating. If we don't find a way to live with them now, in ten or twenty years it will be impossible." Sounded overly optimistic to me. The current government would sooner invent a way to genetically excise the X-gene from infants than learn to live together.
"Segregation isn't a solution, it's a postponement of the inevitable," Parker continued, unaware of my mental objection. "And it will create a new problem: how will a mutant state feel about 'their' citizens continuing to be born in foreign territory? Will they demand their extradition? And what if our government refuses? That's a direct cause for escalation. And then, ordinary people will be facing an army with superpowers."
"Wow," said Mr. Harrison. "A solid analysis. But it seems, with all your studying, you haven't seen this morning's news." He picked up a folded newspaper from his desk and unfolded it. "'IN THE INDIAN OCEAN, A GROUP OF CLASS-FOUR MUTANTS HAS FOUNDED THEIR OWN NATION. ONE OF THEM, POSSESSING COLOSSAL GEOKINETIC ABILITIES, LITERALLY RAISED AN ISLAND FROM THE SEABED, WHICH HE HAS NAMED GENOSHA. THE U.S. GOVERNMENT HAS ALREADY LABELED THIS ENTITY THE NUMBER-ONE THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY.'" Everyone stared at the teacher, stunned by the news. "Oh no!" someone shouted from the back. "There's going to be a war, just like Parker said!"
"Calm down," Harrison's voice was calm but insistent. "That scenario will only become a reality in one case: if we don't learn to live with the mutants in our own city." He looked at the clock. "Class is dismissed for today. You're free to go." The last class was P.E.
My silent observation of Parker had continued all day. The conclusions were ambiguous. On the surface, he was a normal teenager, just much smarter than the rest. He wore baggy clothes, even though he had an athletic build—not ripped, but toned. He was either ashamed of his body, which was unlikely, or he was hiding something. What was really strange was the feeling that he knew I was watching him. Sometimes his gaze would pause in my direction for a split second before returning to his book or the equation on the board. But as soon as the thought formed in my head that I realized he knew I was watching, the glances stopped. It felt like two predators, having spotted each other, had stopped signaling and moved on to silent observation. Or was it just paranoia after everything with Sarah? Entirely possible.
The coach's sharp whistle broke my train of thought. "Alright, people, line up! We're splitting into teams, playing basketball!" Flash Thompson was sitting on the bench, his finger in a splint. A look of anticipation crossed his face as he exchanged a glance with his buddies. He was excused from P.E. for obvious reasons, but that didn't stop him from conducting.
The teams were divided. By "pure coincidence," all of Flash's minions were on the opposing team. Peter and three other loner guys, whose names no one really remembered, ended up on my team. The ref tossed the ball, and the game began. Everyone tried to play, but the other team clearly had a different goal. And then, when the ball was in my hands, a hulk named William, who played on the football team, charged at me. He wasn't running for the ball; he was running for me, clearly intending to make a tackle.
A few options, one worse than the next, flashed through my mind. If I left the barrier up, William would slam into an invisible wall and break his bones. That would expose my ability and lead to a ton of problems. Damn it. I had to drop the barrier and tense every muscle, bracing for the impact. He slammed into me with all his strength. We both crashed to the parquet floor. The whistle shrieked again. The coach ran over. Flash was smiling on the bench. "William, are you an idiot?!" she yelled. "This is basketball, not rugby! You're not wearing pads! Diego, are you okay?!"
I listened to my body. Other than a dull ache, there seemed to be no serious injuries. But this farce had to end. "My rib hurts," I wheezed in response. The coach clicked her tongue and shot everyone an angry look. The game was clearly over for the guys. The girls, on their half of the court, had also stopped playing and were now watching us. "Parker," she ordered, "you're the most responsible one here. Take him to the nurse's office."
Peter helped me up and, throwing my arm over his shoulder, led me to the exit. When we were in the empty hallway, he asked quietly: "You're okay, right?" I knew it. He had been watching, too. And he saw more than the others. "Yeah. It just became obvious they wanted to hurt me. Why keep playing?" He nodded silently.
We reached a fork: left was the nurse's office, right was the locker room. Without a word, we changed course and went right, to get changed. On the way, questions I could ask him raced through my head. How to ask without giving myself away? How to get information without giving him extra reasons to be suspicious? But, unable to come up with anything good, we changed in silence and went our separate ways home.
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The city was divided into two colors. On the way home, I noticed people with armbands: green for those who supported Fisk, and red for those who were against him. The tension was palpable in the air—in the sidelong glances exchanged between groups at intersections, in conversations that grew quieter when someone with the "wrong" color approached.
When I got to my room, the first thing I did was turn on my laptop. I needed to check the news about the mutant island. On the main page of the superheros.net forum, there was a pinned post with thousands of comments. The headline was simple and loud: "A NEW NATION." "Attention, all mutants of the world! We, under the leadership of Magneto, announce the creation of the sovereign nation of Genosha. Here, every gifted individual, regardless of their country of origin, can receive citizenship and protection. Here, there will be no oppression, discrimination, or fear. We are the next stage of evolution, and this is our birthright. We will pay for your relocation and, if necessary, protect you from the authorities of your former states." Contact information followed.
Of course, there was a chance it was an elaborate trap set by the government to identify and capture mutants. But honestly, the scale of the operation—creating an entire island—made that version highly unlikely. In any case, if the situation in the U.S. went to the worst-case scenario, there was now a backup plan.
As I continued to monitor the forum, targeted ads started appearing. "Extras needed for a street rally. Red symbols. Payment - $100 for the evening." And right next to it, as if in opposition, the same ad, but for green symbols. Everyone was trying to manipulate the masses. Two invisible hands were buying up armies for street performances. It was becoming unclear what was genuine belief and what was a paid appearance. But one thing was certain: tonight, the city would descend into chaos. And it was chaos worth joining.
It would be a perfect opportunity to map out the real power structure of the city—the zones of influence of the gangs, who would surely take advantage of the unrest for their own business. It would make an excellent topic for a first journalistic article.