Marvel: Life is Good

We made it to school without any incidents. Gigi galloped off to her flock of friends, who greeted her with radiant smiles and cast early-access-version "sultry" glances in my direction. Mini divas in training. Ugh. I trudged over to my locker. Nearby, Harry and Flash were loitering. Harry was channeling his inner Luna Lovegood—otherworldly, completely detached—as he rummaged through his locker next to mine, clearly waiting for me. Though, his spiritual musings were less about achieving Zen and more about Thompson.

Thompson—tall, well-built, striking eyes, already rocking some curves, and actually not dumb—was something to look at, I'll give her that. But, man, that thirst for dominance. The "look at me, I'm a queen" vibe. Too aggressive, too pushy. Even if Nora Osborn wasn't the ultimate helicopter mom with a detailed Excel spreadsheet of who Harry's future wife should be, Flash still wouldn't stand a chance. Harry, despite his spaced-out demeanor, is very much his own guy. Sure, his mom can lay down the law, but Flash? Flash doesn't have the kind of clout to boss him around with her "don't go there" and "don't look at her" rules. That kind of control freak just pisses him off.

As I passed Petra Parker's locker, I heard something... weird. The lock wasn't fastened properly—it hung there, threaded through the latch but not clicked shut. Suspicious.

"This buzzing isn't random," I muttered in Russian, sliding the lock off and letting the door swing open. "Well, who'd have guessed?" I said, shaking my head as Petra tumbled out.

"Morning, Petra. Harry, Thompson—hi to you too. Flash, your handiwork?" I handed Petra her glasses, which had flown about two feet away, barely registering her muttered thanks and awkward greeting as she scrambled to gather her stuff.

"What's up, Tobias," Thompson smirked. She and I? We're good. We've got this mutual understanding. I sometimes play the role of her neglected conscience, giving her moral nudges, and she humors me like a camel does a yappy little dog—amused, unthreatened, and utterly patronizing. "She climbed in there herself, can't imagine why," she said, lying through her teeth without a hint of shame.

"Hey, Toby! How's it going? How's your sister?" Harry chimed in, extending a hand.

"All good. Gigi's off with her crew, so you can relax until lunch," I laughed, shaking his hand. Gigi, after all, was a semi-official member of Harry's fan club. Like all such clubs, it had two major activities: trailing him everywhere with doe eyes and dreamy sighs, and endlessly dissecting his every move. If you heard squeals in the hall, it was probably another club meeting.

"Flash, I know why you do this," I said, giving her a pointed look. Harry shifted uncomfortably, sensing some part of the blame might rest with him, but wisely stayed out of it. Flash looked away, a faint blush creeping up her face. "What I don't get," I continued, "is why this way?"

By now, Parker had bolted down the hallway, all flustered, red as a tomato, eyes glued to the floor.

"Toby, my friend," Flash declared with faux gravitas, "this is women's business. A woman's gotta defend her man, you understand?"

"Oh, so this is you defending your man…" I raised an eyebrow at Harry, who was busy rolling his eyes skyward. "Against Parker? Against Miss Timid as a Church Mouse? Against Lady I'll Die of Embarrassment If I Talk to a Guy? Flash, the girl's pining after MJ for crying out loud!"

We walked in silence for a few beats before Flash finally muttered, "She just bugs me, okay? Worse than any guy. I can't understand half of what she says, she's always mumbling, and she can't even look people in the eye. She's such a coward. It irritates me that someone like her talks to Harry."

"Well, Flash, since we're being honest," I said, "let me tell you something. Us guys? We don't like being told who we can and can't talk to. I mean, I talk to you, right? No beef between us. We're not besties, but we're cool. And yeah, I know your crew came up with the whole 'pants-wearing chick' nickname for me. I am not mad. 

"But listen: if I had a girlfriend who tried to tell me I couldn't talk to you, or Harry, or Penelope, I'd ditch her. No hesitation. Same with Harry—he talks to Parker because he enjoys it. And no, Harry, don't elbow me; I know she's not in your wet dreams, right? See? He talks to her because they can nerd out about their brainiac stuff."

"Excuse me, but I am right here," Harry huffed, finally giving me a solid jab in the ribs. "And for the record, Mr. Genius, you're the one with the straight-A report card."

"Please, grades don't mean squat. Straight A's are just about grinding and paying attention. Even Flash could be an honor student if she ditched her girl gang and their impromptu driveway karaoke sessions to actually hit the books."

"Hey! I'm not dumb," Flash protested. "And my music taste is fine. Your personality, though—" She waved a hand vaguely, like she was trying to encompass my entire existence. But she was clearly mulling it over. Told you she's not that bad—just sharp-edged.

"I never said you were dumb, Thompson." I softened my tone and smiled warmly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. Harry, off to the side, was grinning like he was watching a rom-com unfold. Time for the finishing move: add a touch of patronizing sweetness and— "You're just a silly little kid… with a great rack. Mwahaha!"

And I bolted. Behind me, Harry's laughter mixed with Flash's furious cries of "Get back here, you little punk!"

I ducked into class and headed straight for Penelope, Midtown's resident sunshine. Throwing my arms wide, I declared, "Tobi's being bullied, and Tobi's a good boyyyy!"

Cue hugs. The best kind.

Penny and I have always had a warm, friendly relationship. When I first transferred to her class, she was just awkward and gangly girl. The tallest in the class. But you know how kids can be—kinda cruel. They didn't outright bully her, but they teased her, calling her names like "beanpole" or "skyscraper."

Penny was naturally easygoing and non-confrontational, so she never retaliated, but it was obvious she felt hurt. And of course, once the kids noticed it bothered her—and that there were no consequences—they went all in.

A few days after transferring, I'd had enough. During a break, I jumped into one of their teasing sessions aimed at pushing the tall, shy black girl to her breaking point. With a loud snort, I walked right up to her and announced for the whole hallway to hear that they were just jealous. I told her that when she grew up, her height would make her the most stunning girl around. The kind of girl guys drool over and describe as having "legs for days." And, I added, in a few years, all the boys would be chasing after her.

Then I took her hand—she looked stunned but was starting to smile uncertainly—and said, "C'mon, Big Sis," dragging her off to the cafeteria for lunch.

Penny wasn't exactly the sociable type. She loved basketball—played all the time in her neighborhood—but refused to join the school team. She said basketball was just a fun hobby for her, but being on a team was too much responsibility. 

She dreamed of becoming a cop or a firefighter. She'd thought about joining the military, but police work or firefighting appealed to her more. She often came over to my place and absolutely adored my little sister, Gigi, squeezing her into bear hugs until G begged for help. 

Penny was a huge Captain America fan and deeply missed her dad, Joseph, who worked as an Arctic researcher and was away almost all year. Occasionally, he'd come home for a few days, but somehow, I never managed to meet him. Still, according to Penny, her dad was very curious about her best friend—"that good boy, Toby."

Fast forward to now, with Penny at sixteen, and I'm thinking of legally changing my name to Nostradamus. Or whatever that prophet dude's real name was. Penny turned out drop-dead gorgeous. I mean, legs-for-days, stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful. Sure, there was still a trace of awkwardness that came with being a teenager, but man, she blossomed. Her smile? Perfectly white and straight. Full, luscious lips. Warm, expressive brown eyes. Hair that was curly enough to fight her straightening attempts but only just, falling in soft waves to her shoulders. And her face—oh, it was adorable, with a cute little nose that suited her perfectly. You could tell she had strong African roots, but clearly, there was some mixed heritage in there that only enhanced her beauty.

I've seen plenty of black women in my previous life and this one, but Penny? She's in a league of her own. And her personality matches. She's kind, calm, and has this gentle sense of humor that always makes you smile. She also "protects" me from Thompson, aka Flash. And by "protects," I mean she pretends like she's ready to throw down while I playfully egg Flash on. Then I hide behind Penny, who dramatically acts like she'd lay down her life for her "Little Bro Toby." Harry usually cracks up at this point, delivering some zinger like, "Poor Tobias, you barely had a chance to live."

Today was no exception. We messed around for a bit before heading to our seats. As Harry walked off, he smirked and asked if Penny and I would invite him to our wedding. Penny giggled, shooting me this playful look that said she wasn't above teasing me just yet. Me? I played along, channeling my best shy anime protagonist: eyes downcast, voice stammering, and whispering that if she wanted me, I'd accept... as long as she promised to be gentle. That was all it took to make half the class—including Flash—burst out laughing. Penny turned a deep shade of embarrassed, Harry stumbled over his feet, and MJ shot me a look of pure disgust, like I'd just flashed him in a church. Classic redhead move.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a great day. We had lunch together, with the usual sighs of longing from Harry's fangirls echoing nearby, then saw Gigi off to Mom Betty's car. Classes wrapped up without much fuss, and I ended the day hauling home another crop of "A" grades. 

Penny, as usual, walked me home. She lived just a bit farther than me, so if we got caught up talking, I'd sometimes walk her home, then head back myself. On our route, there was this little spot that sold homemade "craft" ice cream and coffee. It was right next to some government building with a mysterious purpose, so there was always a steady flow of people coming and going. Naturally, there was a line.

Today was no exception. Ten people ahead of us, but we didn't mind. It was a chance to chat more, and we could both use a treat. As we waited, our conversation drifted to the current hot topic: mutants. Apparently, a young mutant girl had recently discovered her powers, and some local idiots decided to beat her up for it. Not sure what they were hoping to achieve, but they ended up in the hospital instead. Now the girl was on the run, and authorities were actively searching for her.

"That's scary, Tobias," Penny said, genuinely worried. "What if we run into a crazy mutant like that? Or you do, when I'm not around to protect you?"

She wanted to protect me. That's Penny for you—so thoughtful and sweet, even in a world like ours. It's a little silly, sure, but I appreciated it.

"Pfft. Want me to paint you a picture of how that would go?" I smirked, already running with the idea. She nodded, smiling.

"Alright, imagine this: It's a dark alley. She's coming toward me; I'm walking toward her. We lock eyes. There's triumph in hers. Anticipation." I noticed two women ahead of us subtly perking up to listen—a young, plain-looking girl in her twenties and an older, elegant lady in her fifties rocking a vintage suit and hat combo straight out of the sixties. The older one glanced at me disapprovingly, like I was single-handedly proving all her complaints about modern men. "She steps closer, leans in, and says in this husky voice, 'Hey, handsome. Wanna get to know each other better?'"

Penny giggled. The two eavesdroppers? A synchronized sniff of amusement.

"See, the problem with regular humans, Penny," I continued, shifting back to serious mode, "is they went about this whole mutant thing the wrong way. Instead of integrating them into society, they ostracized them. It's like, the people making decisions? Not as smart as they thought they were. And now we've got mobs with pitchforks—like we're stuck in some medieval nightmare—screaming 'Burn the witch!' And leading these mobs? Politicians, of course. Always the shepherds of the sheep."

By now, the two women were openly curious, though thankfully not hostile. I really didn't want to deal with mutant-haters.

"Just imagine, Penny," I went on, warming to my theme, "if mutants could work in law enforcement. How much safer would our city be? We've got supervillains running loose—ones even high-powered weaponry can't stop!" My mind flashed back to that encounter with Venom. 

"Remember when that monster, Venom, went on a rampage just two blocks from our house? So many people died. Two cops didn't even make it—they were nothing to her. She even injured a hero in power armor! But imagine if there'd been a mutant cop there, someone with magnetic powers, say. They could've ripped a streetlamp out of the ground and beaten that psycho into submission! Wrapped it around her so tight she'd have felt every single rib snap or skewered her like kebab."

I knew I was ranting, but I couldn't help it. The memory of that day still burned. I wasn't yelling—I kept my voice low—but every word dripped with fury.

"Alright, fine. Maybe not every rib and maybe not kebab." I closed my eyes for a second to calm down. "Laws, and all that. But she could've broken her limbs, tied her up with that same lamppost, added a nice little bow, and handed her over to the cops. And what do we have now? Potentially powerful police officers, firefighters, rescue workers, scientists, and doctors with unique abilities hiding in the shadows because people supposedly don't approve of them."

Penny's expression changed at that. She's always dreamed of being a cop or firefighter, and she deeply respects anyone who helps others.

"And then look at the budgets they pour into 'studying the mutant problem' and 'finding a cure for this terrible disease.'" I spat the last phrase out like it was something foul. "Imagine if they spent that money on PR campaigns to improve mutants' image. Work with the public, start experimental mixed teams of regular people and those with powers. A few years, maybe a decade, Penny. 

"Even the dumbest of idiots would eventually see the good mutants could do for society! It's not too late to fix this, but the big shots are too busy padding their political and financial capital by milking this made-up 'enemy.' Like the fascists blaming everything on the Jews back in the day, now some fools blame mutants for all their problems."

I exhaled, shaking my head and waving it off. "Ugh, it's whatever. Just the dumb idealism of a fourteen-year-old boy, I guess."

She was about to say something, probably to cheer me up, but we were interrupted by the older woman in front of us.

"That's a very… unusual perspective on the issue, young man," she said, her voice calm and tinged with warmth. "I didn't expect such an opinion from someone your age."

Relieved, I glanced at her face and saw a kind smile. Thank God. Puberty and hormones had gotten the better of me, and I'd stopped filtering my words. The last thing I wanted was a fight with some random Karen. All I wanted was ice cream and time with Penny—because Penny's a sweetheart. My sweetheart.

Then I glanced at the younger woman standing next to her, and my relief turned into a mix of excitement and sheer panic. Excitement because I'd managed to keep my face neutral. Panic because for a split second, her eyes flashed amber.

"My name is Erika Lehnsherr," the older woman continued, holding out her hand. "And this is my assistant, Misty."