The hallways of Midtown High School had devolved into a superhero spectacle. Peter squinted as he navigated the front gates, assaulted by a neon array of spandex. A backpack shaped like Captain America's shield clipped his shoulder. A few feet away, a student in cheap Joker makeup dragged a squeaking marker across the glass double doors, sketching a jagged smiley face.
Up ahead, the overhead monitor cycled the same student council announcement on an endless loop: Following a campus-wide vote, all Homecoming Week activities will feature a unified superhero theme.
Peter wasn't particularly shocked. Student councils wielded an absurd amount of power in the public school system. If the student body president wanted to make pre-calc an elective, they could probably pull it off. Happy education at its finest.
Shifting his messenger bag, Peter scanned the crowd. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled—the lowest-level hum of his spider-sense. He paused, eyes darting across the sea of capes and cowls. Nothing jumped out. Instead, his gaze snagged on a massive, bronze Dalek shell chained directly to a locker. Harry. Peter grinned, grabbed his history textbook, and kept walking.
Down the hall, Carl King stepped out from behind a row of vending machines. He was wearing green body paint and ripped shorts, committing entirely too hard to a Hulk cosplay. Carl crept up to Peter's locker and wrenched the handle. It didn't budge. Scowling, the linebacker-sized bully kicked the base of the metal door and stomped off.
From the corner of the intersecting hallway, Peter watched him go. So it's Carl, Peter thought. What's the endgame? Shoving a dead frog through the vents? The low-grade buzz in his skull faded. His spider-sense always chimed when he was being watched, but the intensity confirmed what he already knew: Carl King wasn't an actual threat. Just a daily annoyance.
Still, letting Carl shadow him every day was a massive operational security risk. He'd have to deal with it eventually. Peter ducked into his homeroom and immediately spotted Harry. "I saw the Dalek shell. Did you seriously padlock that thing to your locker?"
"What else was I supposed to do with it?" Harry said. He was slouched in a motorized wheelchair base, looking completely miserable. "I immediately regret going with the Dalek. You can't move, you can't reach your pockets. I should have done a Cyberman. Look around. Everyone else gets to wear spandex and look cool, and I'm stuck driving a pepper shaker."
"Are you kidding? Daleks are top-tier," Peter argued, sliding into the desk next to him. "You get armor plating, a laser that looks like a whisk, and a plunger for an arm. It's an iconic silhouette."
Harry groaned, tipping his head back. "You listing the parts is literally making it worse. What about you? Let me guess. Doctor Peter?"
"I didn't bring a prop," Peter said, tugging the lapels of his thrift-store trench coat. "I'm doing the Tenth Doctor. I didn't have the exact pinstripe suit, so I had to improvise."
"David Tennant. Respectable," Harry nodded.
They killed time until the warning bell rang, but the third desk in their row stayed empty. Amadeus Cho hadn't shown up. Frowning, Peter pulled out his flip phone and dialed.
The line clicked open. "Hello?" Amadeus croaked, sounding heavily congested.
"Hey, Amadeus. You alive? You aren't in class."
"Oh. Hey, Peter. I emailed the attendance office. I'm running a fever today." Amadeus sniffled, his usually sharp voice blunted by exhaustion.
"Get some sleep. We'll send you the notes," Peter said before hanging up.
Harry leaned over. "Is he good?"
"Just a fever. He'll live," Peter said. He tapped his phone against his palm. "Do you actually know where Amadeus lives? I was thinking we could drop off his homework after school."
"No clue," Harry said. "I know he's staying with a host family, but he's never given me an address."
"Right. Just like I don't know where you live, either," Peter pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "Actually, you guys are the only ones who know where I live. Feels a little one-sided, don't you think?"
Harry froze. His fingers tightened on the edge of his desk. He looked away, his jaw working as he searched for the right words. "My dad and I... we don't really have that kind of relationship. He's always been incredibly critical of anyone I bring around. It's just easier if I don't. I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's fine. You don't have to apologize," Peter said quickly, waving it off. Internally, he checked another box on his mental list. The evasion, the tension, the hyper-critical father—it all pointed squarely to Norman Osborn.
Peter glanced down at Harry's phone, which was currently playing a blurry YouTube clip of red-and-blue spandex swinging past a fire escape. "I keep meaning to ask. Why are you constantly watching Spider-Man compilations?"
Harry locked his screen and shoved the phone into his pocket. "It's nothing. Just homework, basically."
The warning bell rang, cutting off any follow-up questions. The classroom dynamics had reached peak absurdity. Two girls in matching Wonder Woman outfit were passing out the syllabus. Their math teacher—a balding, exhausted man who practically lived in plaid flannel—walked to the chalkboard, stretched his arms wide, and delivered a painfully deadpan greeting: "Good morning. I am Mr. Fantastic. Please open your pre-calculus textbooks to page forty."
"Kill me now," Harry muttered, sinking lower in his wheelchair base.
And just like that, another aggressively normal day at Midtown High began.
With the Avengers currently deployed in Wakanda, New York had settled into an eerie, fragile quiet. By the time the final bell rang, Peter had checked his phone's police scanner app six times. Nothing. No bank robberies, no runaway trains, no heavily armed mercenaries tearing up Hell's Kitchen. Spider-Man officially had the afternoon off.
Peter stretched his arms over his head, popping his shoulders, and headed for the main exit. As he turned the corner near the science wing, he stalled. Carl King was standing by a row of lockers, talking in hushed tones to a guy Peter didn't recognize. King looked terrible—sweating, twitchy, constantly checking over his shoulder. The second King made eye contact with Peter, he flinched, slapped his buddy's arm, and bolted in the opposite direction.
"Hey! Carl!" Peter called out, but the guy was already gone.
Peter frowned. He walked over to his own locker, spun the combination lock, and yanked the metal door open. He dug through his messenger bag, checking his notebooks and pencil case. Nothing was missing. His backup web-shooters and the compressed Spider-Man suit were still perfectly hidden in the false bottom of his bag.
What was he doing? Peter thought, staring at the empty hallway. Was he trying to break in? Looking for proof?
"What exactly did he think he was gonna find?" Peter murmured to himself.
"What did you find, smart boy?"
A knuckle rapped against the inside of his open locker door. Peter jumped, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. He turned to find Gwen Stacy leaning casually against the adjacent locker.
Unsurprisingly, Gwen had completely ignored the theme day. She was wearing her usual pleated skirt and a heavy wool cardigan, looking distinctly un-super.
Peter cleared his throat and adjusted the lapels of his thrifted coat. "Hello. I'm the Doctor."
"...Doctor who?" Gwen asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Exactly. Just 'The Doctor'." Peter grinned. The joke completely missed her, which only made it funnier to him. He slammed his locker shut and spun the dial. His compressed Mk. 2 suit disc was safe. But Carl King's behavior was escalating. Is he looking for the original suit? The one with the silk residue?
Peter shook the thought away and focused on Gwen. "I'm pretty sure Carl King tried to hire someone to pick my lock. Carl gave it a shot earlier, too. Dressed like the Hulk, acting like a total creep." He gestured up and down at Gwen's outfit. "So, what's your excuse? You came dressed as Gwendolyn Stacy?"
"I am Gwen Stacy. And to be completely honest, this whole theme day started before I could figure out a decent costume." Gwen let out a long, exhausted sigh. "The worst part is that this nightmare lasts all week."
Peter tilted his head, studying her blonde hair and sharp features. She would have made a perfect Supergirl, but pointing that out felt like stepping on a landmine.
Gwen ran a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. She locked eyes with him, her expression shifting into something far more calculated. "Speaking of theme days. Homecoming is this weekend. Have you figured out who you're taking to the dance yet?"
Peter crossed his arms. "Let me guess. You and MJ made a bet on who could lock down a date first, and I was the safest, closest target?"
"Bingo, smart boy," Gwen said, not breaking eye contact. "So? What's the verdict?"
Peter offered a short, self-deprecating laugh. He looked down at his scuffed shoes. "Well, nobody is lining up to go with Peter Parker. And clearly, nobody respects the Doctor." He looked back up at her, offering a genuine, easy smile. "So, Gwen. I can confidently tell you this."
"You're definitely going to win."