Chapter 2
Three days passed, and the ringing in my ears gradually faded. I watched the news on the small TV mounted near the ceiling. Subtitles crawled across the bottom of the screen, and I could finally match the images to their meaning. Reporters in hard hats broadcasted from the ruins. The shopping mall, my high school—where I was supposed to start my senior year—entire residential blocks, including our apartment building, had all been turned into rubble. The camera snatched at the faces of people who had lost most of their lives. The government promised everyone social, medical, and financial aid. The door to the ward opened. A woman in a prim business suit, slightly overweight, walked in. She had a tired but professionally kind face.
"Hello, Diego. I'm from child services."
I nodded, not taking my eyes off the screen. "Hello."
She came closer and sat on the chair by the bed. Her face wore the same expression I had seen on the nurse's—rehearsed sympathy.
"Diego, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. Your parents... they've been identified among the deceased."
She paused, giving me time to react, but I remained silent. I had been waiting for those words all these days. I had run them through my head hundreds of times. Who was to blame? The monster? The government? The mutants? Or all of them? There were no tears left inside, only a confusing mix of grief and aimless anger.
The woman, apparently deciding the silence had dragged on, continued, her tone shifting to be more businesslike. "We need to figure out what to do next. Do you have any relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?"
The woman, not getting an answer, reached out to touch my hand. The movement was slow, calming, but I flinched away. In that same instant, the air between her palm and my hand shimmered almost imperceptibly, as if a faint purple glint had appeared for a fraction of a second and then vanished.
She didn't seem to notice. She just pulled her hand back, assuming I was startled by her touch. "It's alright, Diego. I didn't mean to scare you. Can you answer the question?"
I slowly turned my gaze to her. "None here. On my mom's side... there was some grandfather. We never visited him. They had some falling out a long time ago. The last name was Martinez. I think he lives in Brooklyn."
She quickly jotted it down in her notepad. "Good. That's something. We'll find him," she promised, getting up. Before leaving, she placed a stack of paperbacks on the nightstand. "This is so you won't be bored."
I looked at the books, then at her, but said nothing. I just took them after she left.
Three days before the start of school, I was discharged. At the hospital exit, the same woman from child services was waiting for me in her government-issued car. She silently handed me a thick cardboard folder.
"Here's everything that proves your identity from now on," she said as I got into the passenger seat. "A new birth certificate, social security card, and this."
She pressed a plastic card into my hand. "A bank account. In your name. The state will deposit a stipend into it every month until you're twenty-one. For housing, food, clothes. And... thanks to a victim relief fund organized by Wilson Fisk, there's already an initial sum in the account. Five thousand dollars."
I'd heard Fisk's name. A major businessman, a philanthropist, who was on every channel right now. "So where to now?" I asked, twirling the card in my fingers. "A foster family? An orphanage?"
She started the car. "No. Your uncle, Mateo Martinez, has agreed to take custody of you."
I gave a skeptical snort. "Agreed? He's never seen me before. Mom hadn't spoken to him in twenty years. I somehow doubt he was suddenly overcome with family feeling."
The woman's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment; she was clearly uncomfortable. "Let's just say the state encourages citizens who take responsibility for minors affected by the tragedy. He'll receive certain tax benefits."
"I see," I drew out the word. "So he just decided to make some money off me."
She didn't argue, because she remembered how the old man had initially told her to get lost, then abruptly changed his mind when he heard about the money. "Perhaps," she answered evasively. "But you don't need to worry about anything. Social services have already checked the living conditions. You'll have your own room, with everything you need for school and a comfortable life."
The car pulled away. "What about school?" I asked, watching the streets slide by. My old school was in ruins. "That's been handled too. Due to your relocation and, um, special circumstances, you're being transferred to Midtown High School of Science and Technology under the support program."
Midtown High School of Science and Technology. An elite school, where rich kids and natural-born geniuses got in after a brutal selection process. You couldn't just walk in off the street. "Wow," was all I could say.
The social worker's car stopped in front of a nondescript brick building, one of dozens just like it in Brooklyn. We walked up to the third floor, and the woman from child services pressed the doorbell. Shuffling footsteps approached, and a lock clicked. A man in his sixties appeared on the threshold. Short, with graying stubble on hollow cheeks and tired eyes. He wore a faded t-shirt with an illegible logo and sweatpants. He gave me a quick, appraising glance.
"So, you've arrived," he stated, not asked. "You must be Diego. I'm Mateo."
He held out a dry, calloused hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm. The woman from child services cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Well, Mateo, you have all the documents, and my contact information. If you have any questions..." "I won't," he cut her off. "Alright. Then I'll be going. Good luck, Diego."
The apartment was just like its owner. An old sofa, a TV on a stand, a kitchen table with two chairs. No photos, no plants—nothing that spoke of a life, merely an existence. Mateo went to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright, kid. Let's get clear on how we're going to live. I have three rules."
He paused, making sure I was listening. "Rule one, and it's the main one: your life is your life. Problems, fights, whatever—you solve them yourself. Don't drag me into it. Got it?" "Got it," I nodded. "Second, school. I don't care what grades you get, but if they call and ask me to come in... I'm not coming. Handle your business so it doesn't get to that point." "Understood." "And third. Clean up after yourself."
He finished and stared at me, waiting for a reaction. To my surprise, I felt something like relief. This cold directness was better than the rehearsed sympathy I'd been fed for the last week. This was an honest transaction. He got his tax breaks, I got a roof over my head. No fake smiles, no pretend caring.
"I'm fine with all of that," I said.
He seemed satisfied with my answer. "Good. Come on, I'll show you your room."
The room was small, with a single window that faced the blank brick wall of the next building. A simple bed, a desk, a chair, and a rickety-looking wardrobe. Nothing extra. "Get settled," Mateo tossed over his shoulder and left me alone. I dropped my single bag on the floor and sat on the bed. I needed to check.
I sat up straight and held out my right hand. I focused on the desire to protect myself. Something in the air before my palm shimmered. Space distorted, and then an almost invisible sphere wove itself into existence. It flickered faintly, and if you looked closely, you could catch faint purple veins in its transparent structure. It was completely tangible. I cautiously touched it with the fingers of my left hand and felt a smooth, hard surface.
The barrier lasted a few seconds and silently melted away. I fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. "What is this?" I whispered into the emptiness of my new room.
---
The day had been long and hard. The hot water from the shower was the only thing that felt truly real. Steam filled the small cubicle, and, more out of boredom than any real purpose, I held out my hand again. The purple glint appeared in the air, forming a hemisphere, and then a full sphere. Water droplets didn't shatter against it but flowed down the invisible surface as if it were glass. I trapped the steam; it swirled inside, caught, unable to escape. I clenched and unclenched my fist, the barrier vanished, and the steam hit my face. Controlling it was surprisingly easy, almost instinctive. But a nagging question circled in my head: is this it? Just a shield?
As if in answer to that thought, a strange sensation passed through my body. When I looked down at my hands, I saw the white tiles of the shower stall right through them. I stepped out of the stall, leaving wet footprints on the mat. I looked in the fogged-up mirror over the sink and wiped it with my palm. There was no one in the reflection. Just an empty bathroom and my damp footprints on the floor. I grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around my waist. The white rectangle of terry cloth seemed to just hang in the air at my waistline, held up by nothing.
So that's it. To be completely invisible, I have to be naked? A great ability for a nudist spy. I concentrated, willing myself to become visible again. It took an effort, like tensing a muscle after a long period of disuse. My body reappeared instantly, starting with a light tingle all over my skin. I was standing in the bathroom again, visible and quite material, with the towel wrapped around my hips. The mirror showed me my reflection: a tan guy with wet, dark hair. Nothing remarkable—not repulsive, not model-material. Just another face that would easily get lost in a Brooklyn crowd.
After getting dressed in my room, I went out to the kitchen. Mateo was sitting on the sofa, watching some evening news broadcast on the old TV. "So... what's for dinner?" I asked, trying not to sound too demanding.
Mateo reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen and looked at me. "Rule four," he said without preamble. "Everyone cooks for themselves. You can take anything from the fridge, as long as it's not beer. And don't forget rule number three. I had cockroaches in here once, I'm not making that mistake again." He stared back at the TV, making it clear the conversation was over.
The refrigerator was almost empty: a dozen eggs, a package of bacon, an open pack of cheese, and a lone jar of mustard. Well, the options were limited. A few minutes later, the smell of fried bacon filled the kitchen. I ate my scrambled eggs straight from the pan, standing by the stove and listening to the mumble of the news from the living room. I was in a stranger's house, with a stranger, and now I had one more secret. A secret I couldn't tell anyone.
I spent the last three days before school like a hermit, methodically exploring what I had become. I learned to create the barrier not just at a distance, but also skin-tight. It enveloped me like a second skin, completely invisible and intangible. But if I poured a little more concentration into it, a purple ripple would run over the surface, and it would become visible, turning into a kind of spectral armor. I mentally divided this into two modes: "hidden" and "combat."
Today's experiment ended unexpectedly. I activated the hidden mode and, just to test the feeling, leaned against the wall in the hallway. I expected to feel resistance, but instead, my finger pushed into the wall by a couple of millimeters, and I quickly stopped. The strength didn't come from my muscles, but from the invisible shell around them. It acted like a battering ram.
It was time to make a full list of what I could do now. First, ranged barriers: shields, spheres. Second, invisibility, which was extremely impractical for now because of the clothes. Third, a protective shell. Fourth, a force shell, as a consequence of the third. I wasn't stronger, but I could hit and push using the field.
It was a serious toolkit. In a world where some mutants' abilities were limited to changing their nail color, my case looked like winning the genetic lottery. In the evening, with nothing better to do, I went to the forum, superheros.net. A pinned topic, which had already gathered thousands of comments, was on the main page. User: MozgoTraher Topic: Hulk and Abomination - NOT MUTANTS. General Ross Exposed.
Inside was a detailed article with links to leaked documents, reports, and even short video files. On one of them, a man in a military uniform—Emil Blonsky—was receiving some kind of injection. And then his body began to deform monstrously, turning into the very Abomination that had destroyed my life. The monster that killed my parents was the result of a failed military experiment, not the product of a random mutation.
A cold fury rose in me. The government creates a monster with its own hands, it destroys half a district, kills hundreds of people, and then a senator steps up to a podium and declares that the main threat is kids with the X-Gene. They started the fire themselves, and now they're screaming that everyone else's matches should be taken away. What is the government thinking? Their actions are breeding even more hatred between mutants and humans; a rebellion could start soon. Maybe that's what they're aiming for? I fell asleep with these thoughts, a new school waiting for me tomorrow.
---
The morning bus was buzzing with chatter about future plans, girls, games. I took a free seat by the window. A few pairs of eyes darted my way, a hushed "who's that?" was heard, but no one sat next to me. An invisible buffer zone formed around me.
Midtown High School of Science and Technology was strikingly different from my old school. No scuffed walls. Bright corridors, glass doors, a manicured lawn outside—everything here spoke of status and funding. I felt like I had wandered into an expensive hotel in street clothes by mistake.
The principal's office was easy to find. I knocked. "Come in," a calm male voice called out. The principal turned out to be a fit man in his fifties, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. He gave me a quick glance and pointed to a chair. "Diego Parr, I presume. I'm Principal Davis." He opened a folder with my documents. "Senior year, grades are above average. Normally, I'd ask new students a series of standard questions, but given your circumstances, that would be... inappropriate."
He paused, choosing his words. "Nevertheless, our school is focused on preparing students for top universities. Have you thought about what you'd like to do next?" The question was polite, with no hidden meaning, or so it seemed to me. "No," I answered. "And as for a major? A college?" "No to that, either." Principal Davis put on an understanding smile. "No problem. There's still plenty of time. Here's your preliminary schedule; you have one week to choose your electives. And this is the key to your locker." The number 69 was stamped on the metal.
The hallways were already full of students. I found my locker, tossed my bag inside, keeping only a notebook and a textbook, and headed to my first class: Math. In the classroom, I instinctively chose the last desk by the window. It was a good spot for observing. The scene was painfully familiar, just in more expensive scenery: a few jocks, a group of girls whose voices were a little louder than everyone else's, a few kids huddled over textbooks, and a few like me—loners, dissolved into the background.
The teacher entered, a middle-aged woman with a stern bun. "Good morning, please be seated. Let's start with roll call." She picked up the register. The names flowed one after another. "Eugene Thompson?" "Here," a broad-shouldered guy from the jock group answered in a low voice. "Mary Jane Watson?" "Here!" a girl with a mane of bright red hair chirped. "Elizabeth Allan?" "Here." "Peter Parker?" "Huh? Oh, I'm here," a guy in the second row, kinda buff and a little flustered, looked up from his notebook. "Diego Parr?" "Here." Several heads turned in my direction. "Excellent," the teacher, Mrs. Warren, snapped the register shut. "Let's warm up a bit. We'll review previous material." She turned to the board and quickly wrote in chalk: y = 2x² - 4x + 1 "We have a parabola," she said. "Mr. Thompson, how do we find the coordinates of its vertex?" Eugene sat up straight. "Well... there's a formula... something..." he dragged out, clearly trying to buy time. Mrs. Warren sighed. "A 'something' formula won't help us. Thank you, sit down. Mr. Parr, you're new here. Show us what you've got." All eyes turned back to me. "The x-coordinate is calculated with the formula x = -b / 2a," I answered calmly. "In this case, 'a' is two, and 'b' is negative four." "Continue," the teacher nodded. I did the math in my head. "X equals one. Plug that into the equation, y = 2(1)² − 4(1) + 1 = 2 – 4 + 1 = −1. So y equals negative one. The vertex is at (1, -1)."
Mrs. Warren gave a barely perceptible smile. "Absolutely correct. Mr. Thompson, I hope you wrote that down." I caught his heavy stare. He probably thought I was trying to humiliate him. Strange, I was just answering the question. Biology and Physics passed in a haze. I mechanically wrote things in my notebook, but my thoughts were far away. The last class was English.
Most of the students were still chatting about their own things. A shadow fell over me. Eugene "Flash" Thompson, flanked by two of his buddies, crossed his arms over his chest. From the conversations, I'd gathered he was the star of the school football team, and it showed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles that looked adult on his seventeen-year-old body. His light hair was styled in a deliberately messy way, and a self-satisfied smirk played on his handsome features. He was the living embodiment of school popularity and clearly reveled in his status.
"This seat's taken," he snapped. There were plenty of empty desks around. This was a pure provocation. But I wasn't looking for trouble. I silently stood up and moved to the next desk. Flash followed me. "This one's taken too." The class grew quieter. Now they were watching us. "Then that's a problem for whoever sits here," I replied evenly, without looking up.
A murmur went through the class. Flash smirked, clearly pleased with the effect. "Then I guess it's my problem," he stepped closer and poked me in the shoulder with his index finger. The push wasn't hard, just humiliating. "What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?"
All sound in the classroom vanished. There was only this finger, poking me, and the word "mommy," spoken with a sneer. In that moment, I realized one thing with absolute clarity: I was a victim, a charity case, an orphan from Harlem. They wouldn't expel me. My hand shot out faster than he could react. I grabbed the finger he was still poking me with and snapped it sideways. There was a sickening crunch.
Flash's scream was filled less with rage than with agony. He staggered back, staring at his finger, bent at an unnatural angle. Then his face contorted, and he swung at me with his healthy left hand. It was a wide, amateurish punch—a desperate attempt to inflict pain in return. I dodged it easily, just leaning my torso back.
"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" The English teacher, Mr. Harrington, was standing in the doorway. The whole class started talking at once, but Elizabeth Allan, sitting nearby, quickly and clearly laid out the entire sequence of events. "Thompson—to the nurse's office!" the teacher ordered. "Parr—to the principal's office, immediately!"
And so I was sitting in Principal Davis's office again. This time he wasn't smiling. He just looked at me in silence, a deep weariness in his eyes. "Explain," he finally said. I recounted everything that had happened, without emotion. How I had moved, how he had followed me. How he started poking me and what, exactly, he had said. Davis pinched the bridge of his nose. "He shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, more to himself. "No, he shouldn't have," I confirmed. "Diego," the principal sighed, "violence is not permitted within this school. Under any circumstances. But the provocation was obvious, and its cause... was exceptionally low. What am I supposed to do with you?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Officially, I am suspending you from classes for two weeks. Unofficially, I want you to use this time to get your head straight. So that this doesn't happen again. And so you don't fall behind, I'm going to hire you a tutor. And I insist you start seeing a psychologist."
He spoke calmly and deliberately. "Why are you doing this?" I asked directly. "A tutor and a psychologist, on your dime? Now that you're spending your personal money on me, I'll feel too awkward not to go." Davis looked at me, unsurprised. "Diego, why do you think people become teachers?" I shrugged. "Couldn't make it in the real world, so they came back to the place they spent most of their lives. They want to raise students properly. They want power over those younger than them. They like feeling like the smartest person in the room. I don't know, lots of reasons."
"You might be right in some cases," Davis didn't argue. "But my job is to give students a chance to find their path, to give you a chance to realize your potential. And besides, Thompson has had this coming for a long time. His football victories don't give him the right to bully others. You just happened to be the one to do it." He took a notepad and wrote down two addresses and phone numbers. "Here. A tutor for the sciences and a psychotherapist. Call them today." I took the paper. "I understand." "Good," Davis nodded. "Now, go. I'll deal with Thompson's parents myself." And so ended my first day at my new school. With a suspension and two new contacts in my pocket.
Principal Davis's office. Mrs. Thompson sat on the very edge of her chair. Her perfectly styled blonde hair and expensive business suit clashed with the red blotches appearing on her neck. "I demand his immediate expulsion," her voice, accustomed to giving orders, was shrill with poorly restrained fury. "Do you understand what he did to my son? The doctor is talking about possible tendon damage! This could mean the end of Eugene's entire sports career!"
Her husband, a large man with a tired face, sat silently beside her, his hands resting on his knees. He was looking not at the principal, but at a corner of the room. "Mrs. Thompson," Principal Davis spoke evenly, his tone perfectly measured. "Believe me, I am treating this situation with the utmost seriousness. Violence is unacceptable in our school. Which is precisely why Diego Parr has already been disciplined. He is suspended from classes for two weeks."
"Two weeks?" She laughed nervously. "That's ridiculous. That's not discipline, it's a vacation! He should be expelled, and his case referred to the police!" Davis let her vent, calmly steepling his fingers. "You certainly have the right to file a formal complaint with the school board and contact law enforcement. I won't stop you. But as principal, I must warn you what an official investigation will look like." He paused just slightly. "Any investigation will consider not just the injury itself, but the context of the incident. And that context, I assure you, will not paint Eugene in the best light. Witnesses, and there was a full classroom of them, confirm that Diego tried to avoid conflict twice by moving to a different desk. Eugene pursued him and was the one who initiated physical contact."
Mrs. Thompson started to object, but Davis continued, lowering his voice. "And then there is the matter of Diego Parr himself. You watch the news, I'm sure. Harlem... Diego lost both of his parents in that catastrophe. He lost his home. He was transferred to us under a special program for victims. Now, imagine how this story will look to a review board. On one side, a jock from the football team, from a wealthy family, who provoked a conflict. On the other, an orphan who survived a national tragedy, who was pushed to his breaking point."
He leaned forward, his gaze hardening. "And he was pushed by a very specific phrase. I have the exact quote from several students: 'What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?'"
Silence hung in the office. For the first time, Mr. Thompson looked up and met his wife's eyes. His gaze was more eloquent than any words. "That's enough, Helen," he said hoarsely. "We're going home." She spun to face him, her face twisting with incomprehension and anger. "But, Robert..." "I said, that's enough," he cut her off, standing up. "We're leaving." She stood, straightened her blazer, and shot Davis a look full of venom. She hissed, so quietly it was scarier than a shout: "This isn't over."
The door closed behind them. Principal Davis leaned back in his chair and wearily rubbed his temples.