The alarm clock. Oh, that plastic spawn of hell. Its incessant beeping dragged me from the pleasant darkness of oblivion straight into the harsh reality of 2008. New York City. Hell's Kitchen. And me—John Smith, orphan, heir to a modest house, and, incidentally, a transmigrator into a world where superheroes weren't just lines in DC comics (which, by the way, were quite popular here), but a very real headache waiting to happen. For now, though, the only headache was this alarm clock.
I slapped the button and groaned, rolling onto my other side. Five minutes. Just five more minutes of sleep—my brilliant plan to conquer the morning. Who even invented getting up this early? Oh, right. School. Midtown School of Science and Technology, a breeding ground for teenage drama, unfulfilled hopes, and hormonal tempests. My personal purgatory.
Alright, Smith, up and at 'em. The world won't save itself, and breakfast won't make itself. I shot up in bed and glanced around my room. Modest, but clean. The parents of this body, God rest their souls (or whatever afterlife they have here), had left me not only a name and a house but also a decent upbringing, judging by the orderliness. Though now, it was on me to maintain it.
The mirror in the bathroom reflected a decent-looking guy of about sixteen or seventeen. Dark hair, disheveled from sleep, and dark eyes that held a hint of cosmic weariness—a side effect of knowing that somewhere out there, Tony Stark was about to build his first suit, and a certain friendly neighborhood spider was slinging his way through the city. Although... wait. 2008. No Spidey yet. Or was there? Damn, the local timeline was a real puzzle. For now, the biggest newsmaker was Stark, but not as a hero. As… missing. Yeah, things were getting interesting.
Washing my face, brushing my teeth, attempting to tame my hair into something presentable—the standard morning ritual. My mind was already cycling through breakfast options. Scrambled eggs? Toast with jam? Leftover pizza from last night? My soul craved coffee, lots of strong coffee.
Down in the kitchen, I flicked on the old TV, letting the morning news drone on as background noise, and got to work. The coffee maker sputtered to life, filling the kitchen with its invigorating aroma. As the eggs sizzled, I glanced at the screen. And there it was. Again. A segment on Tony Stark. Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist… and abducted genius. The anchor, with a somber expression, spoke of no new leads, of search operations in Afghanistan, of the concern from the Stark Industries board of directors. Yep, it was starting. I could almost physically feel the clock ticking down to the moment the first version of the armor would blast out of that cave. It was ironic that I knew more about it than all the world's intelligence agencies combined. But who was I going to tell? "Hi, I'm John, I'm from another dimension, and your missing arms dealer is about to become a jet-powered tin can"? Yeah, that would earn me a one-way ticket to a padded cell.
Breakfast was a mix of news reports and my own thoughts about the future. On one hand, it was cool to be at the epicenter of it all. On the other, it was terrifying. It's one thing to read comics or watch movies, and another thing entirely to live in a world where an army of Chitauri or a psychopathic robot could attack your city at any moment. Well, at least I had friends. Gwen and Peter. My anchors in this crazy reality.
I quickly swallowed my eggs, washed them down with coffee, grabbed my backpack, checked for my keys and phone (an ancient flip phone—the height of 2008 fashion), and bolted out the door.
A Hell's Kitchen morning had a special kind of atmosphere. The smell of coffee from small diners mixed with the exhaust fumes of taxis and the faint aroma of garbage bins. The sun was trying to break through the smog and the tall buildings of Midtown, visible in the distance. The bus stop was a ten-minute walk—perfect for waking up completely and getting into the school mindset.
Gwen Stacy was already at the stop. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue eyes, long legs, dressed in her usual style—jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt with some scientific formula on it, and a light jacket. She smiled when she saw me.
"Oh, Smith, you didn't oversleep! I was about to resign myself to a solo trip listening to Flash drone on about his latest football 'heroics'."
"'Morning, Stacy," I smirked. "Don't you wish. My internal alarm decided to show some mercy today. Besides, who else is going to engage you in an intellectual debate about the fate of Gotham?"
Gwen's eyes lit up. Oh yes, this had been our favorite topic for the past few weeks.
"Speaking of Gotham! Did you see the latest trailer for The Dark Knight? Ledger as the Joker is something else! He's terrifyingly brilliant! I think it's going to be the best Batman movie ever."
"I'll give you that, the trailer is intense," I nodded, moving closer. "Ledger really went for it. But I'm a little wary of the focus on realism. Batman is a comic book character, after all. A little grotesque flair wouldn't hurt. And here everything is so serious, so grim…"
"But that's the whole point!" Gwen argued, gesturing with her hands. "Nolan is showing that Batman could exist in our world. He's not just a guy in a bat suit; he's a symbol, an idea! And the Joker is chaos incarnate, the perfect antagonist for that kind of Batman. It's going to be a philosophical duel, not just a fistfight in tights!"
"A philosophical duel in a cape and cowl? Sounds a bit pretentious, Gwen. I'm not saying Nolan isn't talented, but won't it just turn into a drawn-out drama with a few action scenes sprinkled in? I still think Batman Begins was a bit boring in places."
"'Boring'? Are you kidding me? That was the hero's origin, his motivation, his journey! And The Dark Knight promises to raise the bar even higher! You're just nitpicking, John."
Our debate was cut short by the arrival of the yellow school bus. A classic of American cinema and now, my life. The doors hissed open, and we climbed aboard. The inside was already buzzing like a disturbed hive.
"Hey, look what the cat dragged in! The geek and his girlfriend!" a mocking voice called out. Eugene "Flash" Thompson, in the flesh. The quintessential high school jock—muscular, cocky, with an intellect roughly equivalent to the football he was so proud of. He was sitting with his entourage of similarly dim-witted athletes.
I ignored his jab, shooting him a brief, dismissive glance. Arguing with Flash was like playing chess with a pigeon: he'd knock over the pieces, crap on the board, and fly off to tell everyone he won.
Gwen and I found empty seats about halfway down the bus. The noise didn't let up. To our left, two girls—I think it was the dark-skinned Liz Allan (the Vulture's daughter?) and Sally Avril—were excitedly discussing a sale at Macy's.
"…I saw these shoes, Liz! To die for! They'd be perfect with my new dress!"
"Oh, totally! And the bag? Did you see that bag, 50% off? I almost lost my mind! Mom practically had to drag me out of there!"
To our right, a group of guys were arguing about video games.
"GTA IV is a masterpiece! Niko Bellic is the best protagonist ever!"
"Dude, come on, it lags on anything weaker than a NASA computer! I'm all about Mass Effect—now that's story and space!"
"Space? Lame! Nothing beats good old Call of Duty 4! Modern Warfare is the real deal!"
Gwen turned back to me. "Anyway, about the Joker. I think his philosophy of anarchy is a challenge not just to Batman, but to all of society…"
Just then, the bus doors hissed open again, a split second before we were about to pull away. A panting Peter Parker tumbled inside. A lanky kid in glasses, with perpetually messy brown hair and a backpack that seemed bigger than he was.
"Phew… made it…" he gasped, trying to catch his breath.
"Late, Parker? Shocker! You're always off in la-la land, loser!" Flash chimed in instantly. His cronies snickered.
Peter hunched his shoulders and tried to hurry past, but Flash stuck out his leg, and Peter stumbled, nearly falling flat on his face.
"Oops, sorry Parker, didn't see your invisible legs!" Flash drawled mockingly. The laughter grew louder.
Peter's face flushed red. He picked up his glasses and walked on in silence, looking for a seat. That was it. My patience snapped. I hated bullies. Especially stupid ones.
"Flash," my voice was calm but loud enough to get attention. "Did your single-celled friends not tell you that asserting yourself over someone obviously weaker isn't a sign of strength, but of insecurity? Or does it take more than one brain cell to grasp that basic truth? Afraid you've got a deficit there."
The bus fell silent. Every eye was on me and Flash. Thompson's face turned crimson. He clearly wasn't expecting to be challenged, especially not like that.
"What did you say, Smith? Say it again, if you've got the guts!"
"Why repeat myself?" I tilted my head, looking at him with a faint smirk. "I was hoping it might sink in the second time. Then again… who am I kidding? Hey guys," I addressed his friends, "you guys have a hive mind, or do you all dumb it down on your own? Give your leader a hint that wit isn't about tripping someone smaller than you. It's about being able to string two words together without grunting."
Rage twisted Flash's features. He shot up from his seat. "That's it! You're asking for it, Smith!"
"What's that, a debate on your intellectual capacity? I'm afraid it'd be too short," I shrugged. "Or are you offering your only argument—swinging your fists? How predictable."
A few students chuckled. Even Liz Allan was looking at Flash with a degree of disapproval.
"You're done, Smith! After school! Behind the school! I'm gonna show you who the loser is!" Flash snarled, pointing a finger at me.
"It's a date, Thompson," I smiled my most venomous smile. "Just try not to forget my name by then. Or where the school is."
Flash slammed back into his seat, fuming. The bus started buzzing again, but now the main topic was our impending conflict.
"Damn, Smith just lit him up!" someone whispered from behind.
"Flash is gonna pulverize him!"
"I don't know, Smith might not be a jock, but he's got a sharp tongue. Maybe he can fight, too?"
"Ten bucks on Flash!"
"I'll put five on Smith! The way he owned him with words!"
Gwen was looking at me reproachfully. "John, why did you do that? You know Flash, he's got no self-control! He'll hurt you!"
"Someone had to put him in his place, Gwen," I replied, calmer than I actually felt. A slight tremor of nerves was definitely there. Brawling with the local primate wasn't my ideal afternoon. "We can't let him bully Peter forever. Or anyone, for that matter. Besides, he was asking for it."
"But a fight? That's so stupid! You could get expelled!"
"I won't get expelled. A few days suspension, max. I'll survive. And maybe that amoeba will think twice next time before he gets physical."
Peter, sitting a few rows away, shot me a grateful but terrified look. I gave him a barely perceptible nod, as if to say, It's cool, we got this.
The bus pulled up to the school. The crowd of students spilled out, buzzing about the upcoming "showdown." The day was promising to be… eventful.
Classes dragged on unbearably. Math, with its integrals and derivatives, felt like a joke compared to the simple, brute force I was about to face after school. I solved equations on autopilot, thanks to my past life and a technical college degree.
Physics was more interesting. Newton's laws, thermodynamics, electricity… Here, in this world, they worked a little… differently. Or at least, they allowed for things that once seemed like pure fiction. I listened to the teacher, but my mind was on Stark's repulsors and Parker's webs. How was any of that even possible?
In history, Mr. Harrington was talking about the Cuban Missile Crisis. More irony. I was sitting in a world that would face crises far worse—with aliens, gods, and a Mad Titan. For now, though, it was just a fistfight with a dumb jock behind the school. We were starting small.
During the breaks, I caught snippets of conversation. Everyone was waiting for the fight. Flash strutted around, flexing his muscles and shooting me dirty looks. I tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, chatting with Gwen and Peter about random stuff, but I felt like a gladiator waiting to enter the arena. Peter looked especially distressed.
"John, maybe you shouldn't?" he asked during lunch. "This is because of me… I don't want you to get in trouble."
"Relax, Pete," I clapped him on the shoulder. "The one with the problem is Flash. With his self-esteem. And his conversational skills. I'm just going to conduct a session of unconventional psychotherapy. With my fists."
Gwen just sighed.
The final bell rang like a gong signaling the start of the match. A flood of students poured out of the building, but instead of dispersing, they headed for the back courtyard—the traditional spot for settling scores. Flash was already there, cracking his neck and knuckles, surrounded by his cronies. He looked imposing and angry.
I walked up, dropping my backpack on the ground. The crowd parted, forming a circle. Voices buzzed, some shouting encouragement for Flash, some for me. Surprisingly, I had a few supporters of my own. Apparently, I wasn't the only one Flash had managed to annoy.
"Well, Smith, ready to get that smart mouth of yours rearranged?" Flash growled.
"Always ready for a cultural exchange of ideas, Thompson," I retorted, settling into something resembling a boxer's stance. I didn't have much fighting experience—a couple of street scuffles in my past life and a lot of action movies. Not great odds against a trained athlete. My main advantages were my brain and my reaction speed.
Flash didn't wait. With a roar, he lunged at me, throwing a straight right. I dodged, feeling the punch whistle an inch past my ear. The crowd gasped. Flash stumbled forward from his own momentum, spinning around. He was fast, but predictable.
"Too straightforward, Flash. Just like your thoughts," I taunted, trying to throw him off balance mentally as well as physically.
He attacked again—a flurry of punches. I backed away, dodging, blocking as best I could. A couple of hits landed—one to my ribs that knocked the wind out of me, another that grazed my cheekbone. Unpleasant, but bearable. The main thing was to avoid a knockout blow.
"What's the matter, Smith, all you can do is run and talk?" Flash sneered, breathing heavily. He clearly hadn't expected me to last this long.
"Hm? I'm just giving you a chance to swing your limbs and let off some steam. See? Therapy. Don't forget to pay me later." I dodged another lunge and stepped in sharply, driving a short, straight punch into his solar plexus.
Flash doubled over, hissing in pain and surprise. The crowd roared. I didn't wait, following up with an uppercut. It caught his jaw, but not as solidly as I'd hoped. Flash staggered back but stayed on his feet. His eyes were bloodshot.
"You son of a…" He charged again, abandoning all technique, just flailing his fists wildly.
This was dangerous. One lucky punch and it was over. I tried to keep my distance, moving off his line of attack. At one point, I stumbled and nearly fell. Flash seized the opportunity, unleashing a storm of blows. I covered up, feeling the dull thuds against my forearms and shoulders.
"Get him, Flash! Finish him!" his buddies yelled.
Through the noise, I heard Gwen's worried voice: "John!"
That gave me a surge of strength. Tensing my core, I shoved Flash away and, as he regained his balance, I shot a quick jab straight to his nose.
A crunch and a spray of blood. Flash howled in pain and rage, clamping a hand over his nose. The crowd gasped.
"Blood! You broke my nose, you bastard!" he screamed.
"It's called 'consequences,' Thompson. You should read up on it," I said, breathing hard. My cheekbone throbbed, and my ribs ached.
Blinded by fury, Flash charged me again. I was ready. Ducking under his clumsy swing, I dipped under his arm and slammed another precise punch into his ribs, in the exact same spot. Flash doubled over again, and in that moment, I put all my strength into one final blow—a right hook to the jaw.
There was a dull thud. Flash staggered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground like a sack of bricks.
Silence fell.
The crowd stood frozen, staring from me, standing over my defeated opponent, to Flash's motionless body. I was breathing heavily, adrenaline roaring in my ears.
And then the silence was shattered by a stern voice: "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!"
The circle of spectators broke apart instantly. Two teachers and the principal, Mr. Morita, were hurrying toward us. When he saw Flash on the ground and me standing over him, the principal's face darkened.
"Thompson! Smith! My office! Both of you! Now! The rest of you—go home! The show is over!"
The debriefing was short but unpleasant. Flash mumbled something about me starting it (yeah, right), while I silently listened to the principal's lecture on the unacceptability of violence on (and off) school grounds. The outcome was predictable: Flash and I were suspended for a week. "To cool off and think about your behavior," as the principal put it. Flash was sent to the nurse's office, and I was sent home to lick my wounds and think.
Gwen was waiting for me at the school exit. She looked worried.
"John! You were incredible!" she said, coming closer to inspect my cheekbone, which was already turning into a nasty bruise. "How are you? Does it hurt much?"
"It's tolerable, Gwen. I'll live," I tried to smile but winced instead. "At least now Flash will think twice before picking on Peter."
"Do you think it was worth it? A week's suspension! My dad will be furious if he finds out… I mean… since he's kind of your unofficial guardian, he'll be worried."
"Don't worry, I'll think of something. I'll say I fell down the stairs. Or got in a fight with an ATM. It didn't give me enough cash."
"John!" Gwen tapped me lightly on the shoulder. "This isn't funny! you could have been seriously hurt!"
"But I wasn't. I won. A clean victory for a sharp tongue and a couple of lucky shots over brute force."
"You're incorrigible, Smith. Come on, I'll walk with you. We need to get that war wound cleaned up."
We walked slowly down the street. I recounted the details of the fight to Gwen (slightly embellishing my own agility and downplaying the damage I'd taken), and she just shook her head, but I could see something like admiration mixed with anxiety in her eyes.
We hadn't even reached the bus stop when a police cruiser pulled up smoothly beside us. The window rolled down, and I saw the familiar face of Captain George Stacy, Gwen's father. A stern but fair cop with a tired look in his eyes.
"Gwen? John? What happened?" he asked, his gaze fixed on my face. "Looks like someone had a rough day."
Gwen immediately started rattling off the story—the fight, the suspension, Flash. Captain Stacy listened in silence, his expression growing more serious. When Gwen finished, he looked at me.
"So, you fought Thompson? Over Parker?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded. "He crossed a line."
The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "John, I get it, you wanted to protect your friend. That's commendable. But fighting is not the answer. Especially when it ends like this," he motioned toward my cheekbone. "And with a suspension from school. You don't need this trouble, kid. Your life isn't exactly a cakewalk as it is."
He paused, then added in a softer tone, "But I'll also tell you this: being able to stand up for yourself and for those who are weaker—that's important. The key is not to go looking for trouble, and to know when to stop. You understand me?"
"Yes, Captain Stacy. I understand. Thank you."
"Alright, kid, go on home. Clean up that cut. And try to stay out of trouble for the next week. Gwen, get in the car, let's go."
Gwen said her goodbyes. "Bye, John! See you next week!" She gave me one last worried glance and got into the car. Captain Stacy nodded at me, and the patrol car drove away.
I was left alone in front of my house. My cheekbone throbbed, my ribs ached, and I had a week of forced vacation from school ahead of me. The day had been… memorable. I smirked. A transmigrator in the Marvel universe, you say? Well, the first step to becoming the local troublemaker and champion of justice had been taken. Now I just had to avoid getting my ass handed to me next time and, preferably, acquire some superpowers. A sharp wit and a couple of hooks wouldn't do much against the Hulk or Thanos.