'Okay. This can't be that bad. It's just kindergarten. Kids. Crafts. Nap time. It's not like they're going to throw me in a gladiator pit, right?'
Gwen hesitated at the door of her new classroom just as a ball of fire zipped past the hallway behind her.
'I stand corrected. This is the MHA world. I am in a gladiator pit.'
Inside, pure chaos reigned. One kid was floating upside down, another was crying because his pencil turned into a snake, and someone in the back was just… barking?
Gwen took a steadying breath and walked in, clutching the strap of her backpack with a carefully neutral expression.
Blend in. Stay small. Don't do anything spider-y unless you want to spend the next ten years being tested in a lab.
She took an empty seat near the window, eyes flicking over the room—taking mental notes like she was profiling a crime scene.
That same boy from earlier—blue button-down shirt, brown hair, too-big glasses—sat near the front, fidgeting with a rubber eraser like it might explode.
'Still looks familiar. Why do I feel like I know him from somewhere?'
Before she could make another snarky internal comment, the teacher shuffled in.
The Voice of Sanity
"Good morning, children," said the woman with heavy eye bags and a voice that made Gwen's brain immediately let go of all tension. Like a warm blanket made of lavender and soft jazz.
"This is your principal, Mrs. Snow. Please don't explode the furniture, the other children, or yourselves."
And somehow… it worked.
The chaos stopped.
Kids slowly returned to their seats, some looking sheepish. A kid with sparks coming off his fingertips quietly blew out his bangs.
Gwen's eyes narrowed slightly. That… is definitely a quirk. Mental calming field maybe? Must be passive vocal activation. That's terrifying in an argument.
She looked around. Everyone had chilled out in seconds. Including herself.
I don't trust how good that feels.
Name Game
"Alright, sweethearts, line up so we can get your names and sort you into your groups."
One by one, the kids were called to the front to introduce themselves and display their quirks if they wanted. Most were more than happy to show off—this was the age of attention-seeking and sugar-fueled confidence.
A girl made a giant flower bloom out of her palm. A boy sneezed confetti. Someone made their ears grow ten feet and had to be carried to the nurse.
When Gwen's turn came, she stood slowly, putting on her best "harmless kid" smile.
She took the chalk with her non-dominant hand—just in case—and wrote:
Gwen Stacy
"I don't know what my quirk does yet," she lied easily, hands behind her back. "But I like science stuff. So maybe I'll build things when I'm bigger!"
A few kids yawned.
Perfect.
She returned to her seat with zero fanfare, already planning how to keep it that way.
Tiny Observations, Big Thoughts
The rest of the day passed in a sugar-sticky haze: story time, snack time, the "who can scream louder" contest (unofficial), and more finger painting than Gwen thought morally acceptable.
She didn't talk much, didn't show off, didn't raise her hand even when she knew answers. Just watched.
Watched the girl whose hands turned into crayons.
Watched the kid who could float two inches off the ground but only when panicking.
Watched the teacher, who—quirk or not—was somehow holding it all together with duct tape, willpower, and the voice of God.
When the final bell rang, George was waiting just outside the pickup gate, leaning against the car with a quiet smile and two drinks from the gas station—apple juice for her, black coffee for him.
"How was it?" he asked as she climbed in.
"Loud," she replied. "And weird."
He laughed softly. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
They drove in silence for a while before Gwen said, "There's this kid who turned into smoke when she got scared. Like… just poof. Gone."
George raised a brow. "Smoke girl, huh? That's kind of cool."
"Yeah. But then she had to re-form and someone stepped on her foot while she was halfway back. It was gross."
"…Less cool."
Gwen chuckled a little. It surprised even her.
Nighttime Thoughts
That night, Gwen lay in bed, arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Not the comforting kind of quiet—the "you don't belong here" kind.
The walls were too bare, the bed too soft. Nothing smelled right. The air didn't feel lived-in.
Not her room. Not her body. Not her life.
Not yet.
But it would be.
Eventually.
She thought about what it meant to be Gwen now—someone new, but still carrying the echo of someone else inside.
She thought about the way the other kids had looked at her. Barely. Like she wasn't even interesting. And somehow… she was okay with that.
She thought about what it would take to build something new, something strong enough to live in a world like this without breaking.
She thought about what kind of person she needed to become.
She thought about what it meant to be Gwen now—someone new, but still carrying the echo of someone else inside.
She thought about how weird it felt to be looked at with care by a man she'd only known for a few weeks, but who called himself "Dad" like it meant something.
She thought about the future. About the fights she'd eventually pick. About the mask she'd one day wear.
She thought about what it meant to be Gwen now, to not just live for herself but the person who's body was now hers.
She thought about the boy with the nervous hands and the look of someone who used to being ignored.
She thought about how easy it would be to disappear in a world that expected so much from children so young.
She thought about how the world didn't care if you weren't flashy. If you weren't loud. If your power wasn't immediate.
She thought about the difference between surviving and living.
And about the mask she'd eventually make for herself.
She thought about what it meant to be Gwen now—someone new, but still carrying the echo of someone else inside.
She thought about what it meant to lie to everyone to protect something they didn't even know they were in danger of losing.
She thought about the stories she'd read as a kid. About heroes who rose up when no one expected them to. About people who hid their pain behind jokes, behind masks, behind silence.
And how far she'd have to go before she felt like she really belonged.
Not just to this world.
But to herself.
Step one: survive kindergarten without getting noticed.
Step two: become the genius kid no one questions until it's too late.
Step three: save the world… in a hoodie.
She smirked, just slightly, before rolling over and closing her eyes.
"This is really getting exciting."