Three minutes later
As I was about to leave, Mum turned to me with a look I didn't recognize at first—maternal love. She fussed over my clothes, shoved some cash into my pocket, and stuffed a brown bag into my hand. Her green eyes crinkled with joy.
"You haven't been at this school for long—even though we used to live here before—so be careful. And you have a field trip today. Don't mess around and get hurt. Oscorp is dangerous, not to mention the lab you're going to is partnered with Roxxon."
I walked to the bus stop in a daze. One thought kept echoing in my head: I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm fucked.
Oscorp. Roxxon. There was only one universe where those names carried this much weight. The Marvel Universe—or at least some twisted version of it. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I thought grimly.
When the bus came into view, the mantra repeated itself. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm so incredibly fucked. The words Midtown High were printed on its side. And the students gathered outside? Familiar faces that confirmed my fears.
Mary Jane Watson. Michelle Jones. Gwen Stacy. Guinevere Stacy. Eddie Brock. Cindy Moon. Jessica Jones. Peter Parker. Harry Osborn. Felicia Hardy. Jean Grey. Flash Thompson. Danny Rand. Ned Leeds.
Yeah, you get the picture.
MJ looked like her comic counterpart blended with fan art—curvier, freckles dusting her nose, fiery red hair framing bright green eyes. Michelle? Pure Zendaya, no surprises there.
Gwen Stacy—"Lyn" to her friends—was a mashup of her Ultimate and clone versions, with long blonde hair and a headband. Eddie Brock resembled a younger version of his movie actor, thankfully without acne. Cindy Moon looked like a cross between her 616, Ultimate, and Scope-verse selves—fanart included. Jessica Jones mirrored her comic self, only younger.
Peter Parker was a slightly taller, lankier Tom Holland with messy brown hair and mellow emerald eyes. He had that trademark air of misery, though lighter than it should have been. Probably my fault, I thought grimly, memories stirring.
Harry Osborn was straight out of the Marvel's Spider-Man animated series, mop of hair included. Felicia Hardy looked like a younger version of her PS4 game counterpart, but with comic and fanart flourishes the game left out.
Jean Grey was unmistakably her 616 self with some Unlimited traits. Flash Thompson? The ultimate jock stereotype—tall, blond, blue-eyed—basically Hitler's wet dream. Danny Rand looked like his Ultimate Spider-Man self, though slightly bulkier. Ned Leeds looked like a slimmer MCU version, thanks to gym time. And Guinevere Stacy resembled Gwen but with edgier styling—shorter, darker hair shaved at the sides, plus piercings.
Seeing them all together hammered the point home: I knew these people. I'd hung out with them, befriended them—the exact ones destiny loved tormenting.
"I am so fantastically fucked," I muttered under my breath.
As I trudged toward the bus, the voices of my imagination piped up. Yoda whispered, 'Fucked three ways from Sunday, you are.' Gandalf chimed in, 'So fucked, that if things get worse, I'll rename myself Gandalf the Black.'
I winced. Gandalf tempting Murphy's Law? That was never a good sign. And in a universe where the Queen of Nevers existed, Murphy's Law was practically a superpower.
So, to recap: Marvel Universe, Oscorp, Roxxon, Midtown High, all the A-listers in one place. It's like being dropped into a crossover comic where every panel screams, "Your life is about to suck."