Leadership has taught me one thing: the quiet ones volunteering extra time are either saints… or stress-inducing mysteries.
Constrictor is making a strong case for the second category.
"Hey, Peter," he catches me after a standard team briefing, that friendly grin already in place. "Got a minute?"
I'm carrying three clipboards, a tablet I borrowed from Fury that I'm terrified of breaking, and a protein bar I haven't had time to eat. "Define 'minute.'"
"I was thinking—could we do some extra one-on-one training? Nothing formal. Just... you know, work on team synergy. Fine-tune coordination."
It's a reasonable request. Hell, it's a *good* request. Shows initiative, dedication, the kind of thing a leader should encourage.
So why does my stomach tighten?
"Sure," I hear myself say. "When were you thinking?"
"Tomorrow? Auxiliary training room? Keep it low-key, no Taskmaster commentary, no Fury staring through the observation window like he's deciding which of us to fire."
I laugh. It's a good joke. Relatable. The kind of thing teammates say.
"Yeah, okay. 0800 work?"
"Perfect." He claps me on the shoulder—friendly, casual—and walks away.
I stand there holding my clipboards, telling myself I'm being paranoid.
The auxiliary training room is smaller than the main facilities, which makes it feel more intimate. Less official. The kind of space where you can actually hear yourself think instead of just reacting to Taskmaster's running commentary on your life choices.
Constrictor's already there when I arrive, stretching methodically, coils retracted. He's dressed in his standard gear—practical, functional, nothing flashy.
"Morning, boss," he greets. "Thanks for doing this."
"No problem. Though I should probably mention our liability waivers are notoriously vague about 'informal training accidents.'"
He laughs. A beat late. Just a fraction of a second where the sound doesn't quite match the timing.
I file that away.
"So," I say, setting my water bottle down and rolling my shoulders. "What specifically did you want to work on?"
"Just sparring, mostly. Get a feel for your rhythm, your patterns. You're the team leader—if I can sync up with you, I can sync up with anyone."
"That's... actually a good point."
"I have those occasionally."
We square off. Light contact, no real force behind the strikes. Just technique, movement, the dance of anticipating and reacting.
Except it doesn't feel like dancing.
It feels like being studied.
Constrictor doesn't try to overpower me—which is smart, because he can't. But he's not just reacting, either. He's *observing*. Every exchange, every block, every counter, I can feel him cataloging the information.
Most people learn patterns through repetition. Fight someone enough times, you start to recognize their tells, their favorite combinations, the habits they fall into under pressure.
Constrictor learns faster than that.
We trade strikes—my webbing versus his coils, agility versus technical precision. He blocks a kick, absorbs the impact, and immediately adjusts his stance to compensate for the angle I used.
Next exchange, he's already positioned to counter that same angle before I even commit to it.
"You're getting better at this," I say, backflipping to create distance.
"Good teacher." He grins, coils extending in a defensive pattern. "You always lead with your left, right? Or is that just when you're warming up?"
The question sounds innocent. Friendly. The kind of thing training partners ask.
But it's also tactical analysis wrapped in casual conversation.
"Depends," I answer, deliberately vague. "Sometimes I switch it up to keep people guessing."
"Smart. What about your web timing? That instinctual, or do you plan your shots?"
"Little of both." Half-truth. My web-shooting is mostly instinct now, muscle memory built over thousands of hours. But I'm not about to explain the exact rhythm to someone who's asking this many questions.
My spider-sense hums faintly. Not danger. Just... attention. The feeling of being watched, measured, calculated.
We continue sparring.
Twenty minutes in, Constrictor anticipates something I haven't used yet.
I'm mid-combo—left jab, right hook, web to create distance—standard stuff I've done a thousand times. But then I switch, go for a low sweep I haven't telegraphed, haven't set up, haven't even used in this session.
Constrictor's already moving to counter it.
His coil snaps out, positioned perfectly to intercept my leg mid-swing, and for half a second I think he's got me.
Then my spider-sense *screams*.
I twist, web-zip sideways, break the pattern completely. His coil whiffs past where I would've been, and I land three meters away, heart pounding.
"Okay," I say, forcing a laugh. "Creepy. You practicing telepathy in your spare time?"
Constrictor straightens, retracting his coils, looking genuinely confused. "What?"
"You knew that sweep was coming. I didn't telegraph it. So either you're psychic, or you're really, *really* good at reading people."
He blinks. Processes. Then laughs—this time the timing's right. "Sorry, man. I just... I guess I'm good at reading patterns? You were favoring your right side, so I figured you'd compensate with a left-low attack. Educated guess."
It's plausible. Technically accurate, even. The kind of explanation that should satisfy me.
But my spider-sense is still humming.
"Right," I say. "Educated guess. Cool."
We reset.
Between rounds, Constrictor keeps up the friendly questions.
"How do you decide when to swing versus wall-crawl?"
"Do you ever run out of web fluid mid-fight? What's the backup plan?"
"Your spider-sense—does it warn you about everything, or just direct threats?"
Each question sounds innocent. Curious. The kind of thing a teammate might ask to better understand how to coordinate in the field.
But taken together? They feel like reconnaissance.
I answer with jokes and deflections, half-truths mixed with misdirection. Leadership 101: never give away more information than necessary, even to people you're supposed to trust.
Especially to people you're *supposed* to trust.
Halfway through the session, I make a decision.
If Constrictor's studying me, I'm going to make it as difficult as possible.
Next round, I deliberately switch fighting styles. Instead of my usual fluid, acrobatic approach, I go aggressive—boxing combinations, straight-line attacks, no webs. Then I shift to pure evasion, dodging without countering, moving unpredictably just to move.
Constrictor stumbles for the first time.
His coil swings where I should be, hits empty air. He adjusts, tries to compensate, but I'm already somewhere else, fighting like three different people in the span of thirty seconds.
He recovers fast.
Too fast.
Within two exchanges, he's adapted to the chaos, found the patterns in my unpredictability, adjusted his timing to match my rhythm even when I'm deliberately *not* establishing one.
I stop mid-strike, breathing hard.
"You okay?" Constrictor asks, concerned.
"Yeah. Just... thinking."
"About?"
*About how you just adapted to randomness like it was a puzzle to solve. Its nothing. Let's call it here. Good session."
Constrictor thanks me sincerely as we pack up.
"This really helps," he says, rolling his shoulders. "Training together makes the team stronger. We should do this again sometime."
"Yeah," I say automatically. "Anytime."
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it.
He waves as he leaves, friendly and casual, and I'm left alone in the auxiliary training room with my thoughts and a growing sense of unease that I can't quite articulate.
Two hours later, I'm in the security office, reviewing footage of our session.
Fury gave me access to the training room cameras for "leadership evaluation purposes," which really means "making sure nobody's doing anything stupid without supervision."
I watch the playback in double-time, tracking movements, analyzing exchanges.
And I notice something.
Constrictor never repeats the same mistake twice.
First exchange where I catch him off-guard with a web-shot? He adjusts his defensive positioning for every subsequent web-shot, always staying just outside my effective range.
Second exchange where I fake left and go right? He never falls for a directional feint again. Not once.
Every single error, every miscalculation, every moment where I gain an advantage—he catalogs it, processes it, and never lets it happen again.
That's not just learning. That's downloading.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my face.
Maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe he's just a really good fighter with an excellent memory. Maybe the mercenary background taught him to adapt quickly, to learn from mistakes, to never give an opponent the same opening twice.
Or maybe helpful partners don't usually feel like they're taking notes.
I close the footage, stand up, and stare at my reflection in the darkened monitor.
Frank Payne. Constrictor. Former mercenary with a history of working for anyone who paid. Says all the right things. Does all the right things. Integrates perfectly into the team.
Almost too perfectly.
My spider-sense didn't go off during the session—not really. Just that low-level hum of attention, the feeling of being watched.
But watching isn't always dangerous. Sometimes it's just... preparation.
The question is: preparation for what?
I file the concern away—not dismissed, just cataloged—and head back to my quarters.
Tomorrow there's another team briefing. Another training session. Another day of trying to lead people I'm not entirely sure I can trust.
But that's leadership, right? Making decisions with incomplete information, trusting your instincts when the evidence isn't clear, hoping that paranoia and caution look similar enough that nobody can tell the difference.
I really hope I'm wrong about Constrictor.
But I've learned the hard way that hope isn't a strategy.
And right now, that's all I've got.