Mrs. Serena Snow was the eleventh-grade counselor, a title that barely scratched the surface of her role at Midtown High. She was a combination of therapist, academic advisor, life coach, and occasionally, a proxy parent. Her office was a calm, organized sanctuary amidst the chaos of high school life, and unlike her counterparts in the public system who were often buried under caseloads of two hundred students or more, Mrs. Snow was responsible for a mere thirty-five. This allowed her to provide a level of personalized, in-depth support that was one of the key selling points of a Midtown education.
By sheer coincidence, both Hawk and Gwen were under her purview.
As Gwen urged a still-sweaty Hawk out of the gym and towards the main school building, he felt a familiar wariness. An unexpected summons from an authority figure rarely meant good news.
"Did Mrs. Snow say what it was about?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral as they walked through the bustling, end-of-week hallways.
"She didn't," Gwen replied, effortlessly matching his long stride. "Just that if I could find you, we should both come to her office together."
"Really?" Hawk considered the possibilities. A joint meeting could only mean a few things. "Could it be about college? Maybe your early admission and scholarship for Berkeley came through?" He turned the focus onto her, a reflexive, defensive maneuver.
It was a logical guess. October was passing quickly, and by next September, they would be seniors. The great, hungry machine of college admissions was already churning. The best students, like Gwen, would have their futures secured long before graduation day. Her sights were set on UC Berkeley, a public ivy league titan that had produced more Nobel laureates than almost any other institution on the planet.
Gwen gave a slight shrug, easily deflecting his attempt to steer the conversation. "Maybe. What about you? Still set on NYU for law? I heard Mrs. Snow say she suggested you prioritize Stanford."
While NYU's law program was excellent, Stanford's was in another league entirely.
"I heard that too," Hawk admitted, his voice taking on a wry, practical edge. "But I know for a fact that I won't get a scholarship from Stanford."
"You don't know that," Gwen started to argue, but he cut her off.
"I do," he said, the certainty in his voice stopping her. "NYU is different. I won't get a full ride, but I'll get something. And any scholarship, no matter how small, gives you leverage when you're negotiating interest rates on a student loan."
It was that simple. That brutal. Of course he would have preferred to go to Stanford, or even Yale, and maybe even see if their legendary secret societies were real. But his life wasn't about what he wanted; it was about what was possible. The tuition fees for those elite institutions were astronomical, a mountain of debt he had no intention of being crushed by. He had no desire to be in his fifties, finally earning a good living, only to watch half his paycheck vanish to pay for a decision he'd made as a teenager. His pre-Cosmo life plan was a cold, hard calculation of risk versus reward.
Now? His desire to go to Stanford or Yale was even less. New York was his comfort zone, his home ground. He knew its rhythms, its shadows, its dangers. In a world full of cosmic threats, that intimate knowledge was a strategic advantage he had no intention of giving up.
Gwen listened to his pragmatic, almost clinical explanation, and the argument she was about to make died on her lips. She looked at him—at his simple, worn but clean clothes, at his complete lack of any accessory that hinted at wealth or luxury—and she understood. Her desire for him to aim for the absolute best crashed against the unassailable wall of his reality.
"Knock, knock."
"Come in."
Mrs. Snow's warm voice came from inside the office. Gwen pushed the door open, greeting the counselor who sat behind a large, organized desk. Mrs. Snow was in her forties, with kind eyes behind stylish glasses and an aura of benevolent competence.
"Gwen, have a seat," she said with a smile, gesturing to the sofa. Her smile faded into a familiar, weary sigh as she looked at Hawk, who followed Gwen in. "And Hawk. You really, really need to get a phone."
It was their familiar refrain. From the day he had enrolled in ninth grade, Mrs. Snow had been gently pestering him about it, even offering to give him one of her old ones. And for three years, his answer had been a well-worn shield against her concern.
"I'll get it as soon as possible," he said, the words a perfect, copy-pasted echo of every previous time.
"You always say that," she sighed, but before she could continue, the office door knocked again.
The next second, Peter Parker walked in.
Hawk, who had just sat down, felt his posture straighten, his eyes narrowing slightly. Something was different. The last time he'd seen Peter, the boy had been a scared, humiliated heap on the locker room floor. This Peter was… not that.
He walked with a new confidence, a different center of gravity. The apologetic hunch in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a coiled, athletic energy he seemed to be struggling to contain. It was in the way he moved, the way he held his head. Hawk saw the faint but unmistakable shadow of the swaggering, confident, "Bully Maguire" from his past life's memories.
His mind raced. This was the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Logically, this world's Spider-Man should be the younger, quippier version. But the boy standing before him was, without a doubt, the template for the first generation, the Tobey Maguire Spider-Man. It was a strange, impossible paradox. Another piece of evidence that this universe did not play by the rules he thought he knew.
"Peter!" Mrs. Snow's eyes lit up. "Wow. I haven't seen you in a few days. You look like you've suddenly gotten stronger."
Her mundane observation was a perfect confirmation of Hawk's superhuman one. The previous Peter was a stick. This Peter was a young bull.
Peter scratched his head, a shy, awkward smile on his face that seemed at odds with his new physique. His gaze then swept across the room and landed on Hawk.
He froze.
Hawk watched him, his own gaze intense and analytical. In that instant, as their eyes met, he saw it clearly. Peter's pupils, caught in the afternoon light, contracted and then dilated with an insane, inhuman speed. It was the physiological reaction of a body with senses processing information at a rate far beyond any normal person.
It wasn't just a physical change. It was a biological one. A mutation.
The shy, nerdy boy was gone. The true first-generation Spider-Man, the one who could shoot organic webs from his wrists without the need for technology, had successfully come online. A new, powerful player had just entered the game.