The next day, Hawk woke before the sun, the city still cloaked in a grey, pre-dawn haze. He dressed quickly, shrugged on his backpack containing the documents from Mrs. Snow, and headed for the subway.
His original plan had been to take the bus. The New York City subway, as a rule, was a place to be endured, not enjoyed. It was the city's grimy, chaotic, and often unpredictable circulatory system. But a quick check of the transit map had revealed a logistical nightmare: the bus route from his new apartment to the Oscorp tower in Manhattan required three separate, time-consuming transfers.
The subway, for all its faults, was a straight shot. It was also, he noted with the grim pragmatism of a survivor, cheaper. In a city of a million tiny transactions, it was the one place where a person with sufficient nerve and agility could travel for free. A quick vault over a turnstile was a time-honored New York tradition.
He paid the fare today, but as the train doors hissed shut behind him, he instantly regretted his choice.
The smell hit him first. A thick, cloying miasma of unwashed bodies, stale food, and a dozen other unidentifiable, unpleasant odors swarmed him from all directions. With a conscious effort of will, Hawk sealed off his sense of smell, a trick he had perfected over years of navigating the city's less savory corners.
The smell was only the beginning. The carriage was a rolling theater of the bizarre. In one corner, a lanky musician with a guitar wailed a mournful, off-key ballad, dreaming of a stardom that would likely never come. Not far away, a large, imposing woman with a golden python wrapped around her neck stared down anyone who dared to meet her gaze, the snake's head lazily swiveling to survey the car.
And then there were the predators. The New York subway was a prime hunting ground for the city's pickpockets and thieves. Sure enough, Hawk felt a pair of eyes lock onto him. A hooded young man, moving with a practiced, predatory slyness, had identified him as his next target.
His intuition, honed on the streets, likely screamed subway rookie. A rookie was anyone who didn't carry the weary, hyper-vigilant aura of a daily commuter, someone who didn't yet understand the unspoken rules of this underground world. Rookies weren't necessarily rich, but their lack of awareness made them easy prey.
The young man began his approach, pretending to adjust his headphones, swaying his head to a silent beat. He moved with a casual grace that was meant to be disarming, positioning himself directly behind Hawk.
The next second, his hand dropped from his earphone. A small, wicked-looking folding knife appeared in his grasp, the blade glinting in the flickering fluorescent lights. His intention was clear: a quick, silent slash of the backpack strap, a grab, and then vanish into the crowd at the next stop.
Just as the thief's hand began to move, Hawk—with his back still turned—seemed to lose his footing as the train swayed. He "stumbled," his entire body lurching backward a few sharp, sudden steps.
The thief, caught mid-motion and unprepared for the sudden reversal, had no time to react. Hawk's backward lunge slammed into him, using the thief's own forward momentum against him. The hand holding the knife was knocked off course, the blade turning inward. With a sickening, wet thump, the knife pierced clean through the thief's own wrist.
"Aaargh!"
A raw, miserable scream tore through the carriage. The thief's eyes went wide with pain and disbelief as he stared at the knife embedded in his arm. Dark blood began to drip onto the grimy floor.
The chaotic noise of the carriage was instantly silenced by the scream. All eyes snapped towards the sound. They saw the knife, the blood, the hooded young man clutching his wounded wrist. Then, with a collective, unspoken agreement, every single passenger averted their gaze.
The train hissed to a stop at the next station. As the doors opened, the surrounding passengers rose as one and filed out of the carriage, their faces blank masks of determined indifference. No one gasped. No one offered help. No one got involved. It was the ironclad rule of the New York subway.
Hawk left with them, a ghost in the anonymous crowd. From beginning to end, he never once turned his head. As he stepped onto the platform, he felt two or three resentful glares boring into his back from the thief's companions, who had been waiting to assist. A slight, cold curve touched the corners of his mouth.
He had been merciful. If this had been a desolate alley with no cameras, he would have scattered the man's ashes. He looked down at his own worn jeans and cheap t-shirt, an outfit that totaled no more than fifty dollars. To be so poor and still be a target… was there no justice?
As Hawk emerged from the subway station into the bright Manhattan morning, still simmering with a low-grade indignation, a familiar voice called his name. He looked up, and his irritation evaporated, replaced by surprise.
"Gwen?"
She was standing at the base of the colossal Oscorp tower, looking every bit the part of a professional scientist in a crisp white lab coat, her golden hair tied back in a high ponytail. Upon seeing him, her face lit up, and she waved him over. Was she waiting for me?
He crossed the street, his eyes drawn upwards. The Oscorp building, like Stark Tower five blocks away, soared into the clouds. Half a month ago, its facade had been a ruin of shattered glass and scorch marks. Now, it was pristine, showing no signs of the alien war that had ravaged the city. This was the true charm of money. The battle had ended in the morning; the reconstruction of Wall Street had begun by noon.
"Are you waiting for me?" he asked as he reached her.
"Of course," she said with a bright, teasing smile. "If I didn't wait for you here, how would I ever find out your secret?"
Hawk shook his head, a dumbfounded smile touching his own lips. "I have no secrets."
"No, you do," she insisted, her expression turning playfully serious for a moment. "And I'll find them out." She then broke into a grin. "Alright, I'm not teasing. Mrs. Snow called me this morning. She remembered you don't have a phone and realized you wouldn't have an access card to get in. She was worried you'd be stuck outside, so she asked if I could meet you and get you in."
She paused, tapping her chin. "She told me to take you to find… oh, what was his name again?"
"Max Dillon," Hawk supplied the name, the sound of it feeling heavy with a future he alone could see.
"Right, him," Gwen said with a nod. "Let's go, I'll take you to the Bio-Electric Engineering Department."
"Okay," Hawk agreed, seeing no reason to refuse.
With a graceful flip of her ponytail, Gwen put her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and turned, leading him towards the building's imposing main entrance. She swiped her card, the glass doors hissing open, and then spoke a few words to the stern-looking security guard at the reception desk. The guard glanced at Hawk, then back at Gwen, and with a nod, manually opened the access gate.
She led him not through the grand, marble-floored main lobby, but down a side corridor and into an annex building, the sterile, white hallways echoing with the hum of powerful machinery. Before long, they stood before a set of double doors marked with the Oscorp logo and the words: BIO-ELECTRIC ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT.