The alarm clock. Oh, that fiend of hell in a plastic casing! Its annoying beeping yanked me out of the pleasant darkness of non-existence straight into the harsh reality of 2008. New York. Hell's Kitchen. And I am John Smith—an orphan, heir to a modest house, and, concurrently, a transmigrator into a world where superheroes aren't just lines in DC comics (which are held in high esteem here, by the way), but a very real headache. Or rather, they will be… in the future. For now, however, the only headache was this alarm clock.
I slapped the button and groaned, rolling onto my other side. Five minutes. Five more minutes of sleep—a brilliant plan for conquering the morning. Who even thought of getting up this early? Oh right, school. Midtown High School, a hotbed of teenage drama, unfulfilled hopes, and hormonal storms. My personal purgatory.
Alright, Smith, get up. The world won't save itself, and breakfast won't cook itself. Sitting up abruptly on the bed, I looked around my room. Modest, but clean. The parents of this body, may they rest in peace, left me not only a name and a house but also a decent upbringing, judging by the order. Though I was the one who had to maintain it now.
The bathroom mirror reflected a fairly handsome guy of about sixteen or seventeen. Dark hair was ruffled after sleep, and dark eyes looked out with a slight universal weariness—a side effect of knowing that somewhere out there, Tony Stark would soon build his first suit, and a Friendly Neighbor Spider-Man would be crawling around the city. Though... Wait. 2008. There is no Spider-Man yet. Or is there already? Damn, the local chronology is quite a puzzle. For now, the main newsmaker was Stark, but not as a hero—as a missing person. Yeah, things are fun around here.
Washing up, brushing teeth, and an attempt to give my hair some semblance of a decent look—the standard morning ritual. Breakfast options were already spinning in my head. Scrambled eggs? Toast with jam? Leftover pizza from yesterday? My soul demanded coffee, a lot of strong coffee.
Going down to the kitchen, I turned on an old TV mumbling the morning news in the background and started cooking. The coffee maker hissed, filling the kitchen with an invigorating aroma. While the eggs were frying, I glanced at the screen. There it was. Again. A segment on Tony Stark. Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist... and kidnapped genius. The anchor, with a serious face, spoke about the lack of news, search operations in Afghanistan, and the concerns of the Board of Directors of Stark Industries. Yeah, it's starting. I could almost physically feel the clock ticking toward the moment the first version of the armor would fly out of a cave. It's ironic that I know more about this than all the world's intelligence services combined. Though, who would I tell? "Hi, I'm John, I'm from another world, and soon your missing weapons manufacturer will become a jet-powered tin can"? Yeah, a white-walled ward would be guaranteed for me.
Breakfast passed to the accompaniment of the news and my thoughts about the future. On one hand, it's cool to be at the epicenter of events. On the other, it's terrifying. It's one thing to read comics or watch movies, and quite another to live in a world where at any moment a Chitauri army or a psychopathic robot could attack your city. Well, at least there are friends. Gwen and Peter. My anchors in this mad reality.
Quickly swallowing the eggs and washing them down with coffee, I grabbed my backpack, checked if my keys and phone (an old flip phone—the height of 2008 fashion) were in place, and dashed out into the street.
Morning in Hell's Kitchen has a special atmosphere. The smells of coffee from small diners mixed with taxi exhaust and a light bouquet from trash cans. The sun tried to break through the smog and the tall buildings of Midtown visible in the distance. The bus stop was about a ten-minute walk—the perfect time to finally wake up and get into a school mindset.
Gwen Stacy was already standing at the stop. Blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, blue eyes, long legs, dressed in her style—jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt with some scientific formula, and a light jacket. Seeing me, she smiled.
"Oh, Smith, you didn't oversleep! And I thought I'd have to ride alone and listen to Flash's rants about his latest football 'feat'."
"Hey, Stacy," I chuckled. "Don't hold your breath. My internal alarm clock decided to show mercy today. Besides, who else but me would sustain an intellectual conversation with you 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! Have you seen the latest trailer for The Dark Knight? Ledger as the Joker is something incredible! He's frighteningly brilliant! I think it'll be the best Batman movie."
"Agreed, the trailer is powerful," I nodded, stepping closer. "Ledger really put in the work. But I'm a bit bothered by this emphasis on realism. Batman is still a comic book; a bit of grotesque wouldn't hurt him. Here everything is so serious, so grim..."
"But that's the point!" Gwen argued, gesturing. "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 such a Batman. It'll be a philosophical duel, not just a brawl in tights!"
"A philosophical duel in a cape and mask? Sounds pretentious, Gwen. I don't deny Nolan is talented, but won't the movie turn into a drawn-out drama with rare action scenes? I still find Batman Begins a bit boring in places."
"Boring? Are you serious! That's the hero's origin, his motivation, his path! And The Dark Knight promises to raise the bar even higher! You're just nitpicking, John."
Our argument was interrupted by the approaching yellow school bus. A classic of American cinema and now—my life. The doors creaked open, and we stepped inside. The cabin was already humming like a disturbed hive.
"Hey, look who's here! The nerd and his girlfriend!" a mocking voice rang out. Eugene "Flash" Thompson in person. A typical school jock—muscular, arrogant, with an intellect roughly at the level of the football he was so proud of. He sat surrounded by his entourage—similarly dim-witted athletes.
I ignored his jab, throwing only a short, contemptuous glance. Arguing with Flash is like playing chess with a pigeon: he'll knock over the pieces, crap on the board, and fly off to tell everyone how he won.
Gwen and I found free seats around the middle of the bus. The noise didn't subside. To the left, two girls—it seemed like Liz Allan and Sally Avril—were animatedly discussing a sale at Macy's.
"...I saw those shoes, Liz! Just drop-dead gorgeous! They'd be perfect for my new dress!"
"Oh, yes! And the bag? Did you see that bag at 50% off? I almost lost my mind! My mom barely dragged me away from there!"
To the right, a group of guys were arguing about video games.
"GTA IV is just a masterpiece! Niko Bellic is the best protagonist!"
"Come on, dude, it lags on anything weaker than a NASA computer! I'm playing Mass Effect—now that's where the plot and space are!"
"Space? Nah! Nothing better than good old Call of Duty 4 has been invented yet! Modern Warfare is the real deal!"
Gwen turned back to me: "So, about the Joker. I think his philosophy of anarchy is a challenge not just to Batman, but to all of society..."
And then the bus doors opened again, literally a second before the bus was about to move. A breathless Peter Parker stumbled into the cabin. A skinny guy in glasses, with perpetually disheveled brown hair and a backpack that seemed larger than he was.
"Phew... made it..." he exhaled, trying to catch his breath.
"Late, Parker? Not surprising! Always drifting somewhere, loser!" Flash reacted immediately. His cronies roared with laughter.
Peter pulled his head into his shoulders and tried to quickly walk past, but Flash stuck out his leg, and Peter almost fell, tripping.
"Oops, sorry, Parker, didn't notice your invisible legs!" Flash drawled mockingly. The laughter grew louder.
Peter turned red, picked up his fallen glasses, and silently walked on, looking for a free seat. My patience snapped. I didn't like bullies. Especially stupid bullies.
"Flash," my voice sounded calm but loud enough to attract attention. "Did your single-celled friends not tell you that asserting yourself at the expense of those who are obviously weaker is a sign of insecurity, not strength? Or does it take more than one brain cell to realize this simple truth? I'm afraid you have a deficit there."
The bus went quiet. All eyes turned toward me and Flash. Thompson's face turned crimson. He clearly didn't expect a pushback, especially like this.
"What did you say, Smith? Say it again if you're brave!"
"Why repeat it?" I tilted my head slightly, looking at him with a slight sneer. "I thought maybe it would sink in the second time. Although... who am I kidding? Hey, guys," I addressed his cronies, "is there a collective mind there or is each one of you stupid on your own? Tell your leader that wit isn't when you push someone smaller than you. It's when you can string more than two words together without mooing."
Anger distorted Flash's face. He jumped from his seat. "Why you!.. You're asking for it, Smith!"
"Asking for what, a discussion about your intellectual abilities? I'm afraid it would be too short," I shrugged. "Or are you offering your only argument—swinging your fists? How predictable."
Several students giggled. Even Liz Allan looked at Flash with some disapproval.
"That's it, Smith, you're done! After school! Behind the building! I'll show you who the loser is here!" Flash growled, pointing a finger at me.
"Deal, Thompson," I smiled my most sarcastic smile. "Just try not to forget my name by then. And where the school is located."
Flash plopped back into his seat, fuming angrily. The bus hummed again, but now the main topic of discussion was our conflict.
"Holy crap, Smith laid it on him!" someone whispered from behind.
"Flash is going to grind him into powder!"
"I don't know, Smith might not be a jock, but his tongue is sharp. Maybe he's not bad in a fight either?"
"Ten bucks on Flash!"
"And I'll put five on Smith! He totally owned him with words!"
Gwen looked at me reproachfully. "John, why did you do that? You know Flash, he has no brakes! He'll cripple you!"
"Someone had to put him in his place, Gwen," I replied more calmly than I actually felt. A small jitter was present. Fighting a local primate was not a great prospect. "We can't let him keep bullying Peter forever. Or anyone else for that matter. Besides, he asked for it."
"But a fight? That's just stupid! You could get expelled!"
"They won't expel me. At most, a few days suspension. I'll survive. But this single-celled creature might think twice next time before letting his hands and tongue loose."
Peter, sitting a couple of rows away, shot me a grateful but terrified look. I gave him a barely noticeable nod—meaning everything was fine, we'd get through it.
The bus pulled up to the school. A crowd of students spilled out into the street, discussing the upcoming "showdown." The day promised to be... eventful.
Lessons dragged on insufferably long. Math with its integrals and derivatives seemed like a mockery against the backdrop of the simple and raw force I would have to face after class. I solved equations on autopilot—thanks to my past life and a technical university degree.
Physics was more interesting. Newton's laws, thermodynamics, electricity... Here, in this world, they worked slightly... differently? Or, at least, they allowed for the existence of things that previously seemed like science fiction. I listened to the teacher while thinking about Stark's repulsors and Parker's webbing. How was any of it even possible?
In History, Mr. Harrington was talking about the Cuban Missile Crisis. More irony of fate. I was sitting in a world that would face much worse crises in the future—with aliens, gods, and a mad titan. And for now—just a fistfight with a dim-witted jock behind the school. How the mighty have fallen.
During breaks, I caught snippets of conversation. Everyone was waiting for the fight. Flash was strutting around, flexing his muscles and shooting me malicious glares. I tried to maintain an unperturbed look, chatting with Gwen and Peter about nonsense, but I felt like a gladiator before entering the arena. Peter looked especially depressed.
"John, maybe you shouldn't?" he asked during the long break. "It's because of me... I don't want you to have problems."
"Relax, Pete," I slapped him on the shoulder. "The problems aren't mine, they're Flash's. With self-esteem. And with the ability to hold a dialogue. I'm just going to conduct a session of unconventional psychotherapy. With fists."
Gwen only sighed.
The final bell rang like a gong announcing the start of a match. A crowd of students poured out of the school building, but they didn't disperse; they headed for the backyard—the traditional spot for settling scores. Flash was already there, stretching his neck and fists, surrounded by his hangers-on. He looked imposing and mean.
I approached, dropping my backpack on the ground. The crowd parted, forming a circle. Voices hummed; someone shouted encouragement to Flash, someone else to me. Surprisingly, I had supporters too. Apparently, Flash had managed to annoy more than just me.
"Well, Smith, ready to get your smart face smashed?" Flash growled.
"Always ready for a cultural exchange of opinions, Thompson," I parried, taking a semblance of a boxing stance. I had little combat experience—a couple of street scuffles in my past life and watching action movies. Not much against a trained athlete. My main trump card was my brains and reaction speed.
Flash didn't wait. With a roar, he lunged at me, throwing a straight right. I dodged, feeling his fist pass a centimeter from my ear. The crowd gasped. Flash flew forward by inertia, spinning around. He was fast but predictable.
"Too straightforward, Flash. Just like your thoughts," I quipped, trying to throw him off balance not just physically, but mentally.
He attacked again—a series of punches. I retreated, dodging, blocking as best as I could. A couple of hits still found their mark—one hit my ribs, knocking the wind out of me, another grazed my cheekbone. Unpleasant, but tolerable. The main thing was not to take a knockout blow.
"What, Smith, only know how to run and wag your tongue?" Flash mocked, breathing heavily. He clearly hadn't expected me to last this long.
"Hmm? I'm just giving you a chance to swing your limbs and blow off some steam. See, therapy. Don't forget to pay me later," I dodged another lunge and sharply stepped forward, landing a short straight punch to the solar plexus.
Flash doubled over, hissing in pain and surprise. The crowd roared. I didn't wait, adding an uppercut. The blow hit his jaw, but not as hard as I had hoped. Flash staggered but stayed on his feet. His eyes turned bloodshot.
"Why you!.." he rushed into the attack again, no longer caring about technique, just flailing his fists in every direction.
This was dangerous. One lucky hit and it was over. I tried to keep my distance, moving off the line of attack. At one point, I tripped and almost fell. Flash took advantage of this, raining a hail of blows down on me. I covered up with my arms, feeling dull thuds against my forearms and shoulders.
"Go on, Flash! Finish him!" his cronies yelled.
Through the noise, I heard Gwen's worried voice: "John!"
That gave me strength. Grouping myself, I pushed Flash back and, while he was recovering his balance, landed a quick jab to his nose. A crunch and a fountain of blood. Flash howled in pain and rage, clutching his nose with his hand. The crowd gasped.
"Blood! You broke my nose, you bastard!" he screamed.
"It's called 'consequences,' Thompson. You should read about it sometime," I said, breathing heavily. My cheekbone ached, my ribs hurt.
Flash, blinded by rage, lunged at me again. I was ready. Dodging his clumsy swing, I ducked under his arm and drove another precise punch into his ribs, in the same spot. Flash doubled over again, and at that moment, I put all my strength into a final blow—a right hook to the jaw.
A dull thud rang out. Flash staggered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground as if cut down.
Silence fell. The crowd froze, looking first at me standing over my defeated opponent, then at Flash's motionless body. I was breathing heavily, adrenaline humming in my ears.
And then the silence was shattered by a stern voice: "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!"
The circle of spectators instantly dissolved. Two teachers and the school principal, Mr. Morita, were rushing toward us. Seeing the prone Flash and then me, the principal's face darkened.
"Thompson! Smith! Both of you to my office! Immediately! The rest of you—go home! The show's over!"
The debriefing was brief but unpleasant. Flash mumbled something about me starting it first (yeah, right), while I silently listened to the principal's lecture about the impermissibility of violence within (and outside) the school walls. 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, and I was sent home to heal my wounds and think.
Gwen was waiting for me at the school exit. She looked worried.
"John! You really did it!" She came closer, inspecting my cheekbone where a bruise was already forming. "How are you? Does it hurt a lot?"
"Tolerable, Gwen, I'll live," I tried to smile but winced. "At least Flash will think twice now before bullying Peter."
"Do you think it was worth it? A week's suspension! My father will be furious if he finds out... I mean... he's kind of your informal guardian, he'll be worried."
"Don't worry, I'll think of something. I'll say I fell down the stairs. Or fought an ATM. It didn't give me enough bills."
"John!" Gwen lightly tapped my shoulder. "It's not 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 hits over brute force."
"You're incorrigible, Smith. Come on, I'll walk you home; we need to treat your battle wound."
We walked slowly down the street. I told Gwen the details of the fight (slightly exaggerating my agility and downplaying the damage taken); she shook her head, but in her eyes flickered something like admiration mixed with anxiety.
Before we could reach the bus stop, a police patrol car smoothly braked beside us. The window rolled down, and I saw the familiar face of Captain George Stacy, Gwen's father. A strict but fair cop with a tired gaze.
"Gwen? John? What happened?" he asked, looking at my face. "Looks like someone had a rough day."
Gwen immediately began rambling, telling her father about the fight, the suspension, and Flash. Captain Stacy listened in silence, his gaze becoming increasingly serious. When Gwen finished, he looked at me.
"So, you fought Thompson? Because of Parker?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded. "He crossed the line."
The captain sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"John, I understand you wanted to protect a friend. That's commendable. But a fight is not the answer. Especially when it ends like this," he nodded toward my cheekbone. "And with a school suspension. You don't need trouble, kid. Your life isn't exactly easy as it is."
He paused, then added more gently:
"But I'll also tell you this: knowing how to stand up for yourself and for those who are weaker is important. The key is not to look for trouble intentionally and to know when to stop. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Captain Stacy. I understand. Thank you."
"Alright, kid, go home. Treat that wound. And try not to get into any more stories next week. Gwen, get in the car, let's go."
Gwen said goodbye:
"Bye, John, see you next week!"
She shot one more worried look and got into the car. Captain Stacy nodded to me in farewell, and the patrol car drove away.
I was left alone in front of my house. My cheekbone throbbed, my ribs ached, and ahead of me was a week of forced rest from school. The day turned out to be... memorable. I chuckled. A transmigrator in Marvel, you say? Well, the first step toward becoming a local troublemaker and a fighter for justice has been taken. Now all that's left is not to get completely thrashed next time and, preferably, to acquire some kind of superpowers. Because against the Hulk or Thanos, a sharp tongue and a couple of hooks definitely won't cut it.