The Whizz
Peter felt like an invisible edge was right under his feet, and if one more thing went wrong, he was going to topple over and fall. No money in his pocket, no food to fill his belly, no home to return to, no support from anyone, and no phone—these were the bounds of his harsh reality. Chief among his laundry list of worries was getting food to eat and finding a place to sleep. Even with his brains, He had to get money quickly but didn’t have many ways to do it. He couldn’t hack without a computer and didn't have money to buy one.
A normal job, or even day jobs, wouldn’t hire a seventeen-year-old and would take too long to earn funds. Looking for an odd job like tutoring would likewise take too long, but after some thought, Peter landed on an idea that had possibilities—something only he could do. It would require desperate people with money, but that was an easy answer.
Peter rushed to his school’s art room and borrowed the materials to create a big and bright, double-sided sign that he could hook on his shoulders, covering the front and back of his torso. Boarding the train to Empire State University, Peter was once again surrounded by oblivious souls. Looking around at the faces, each minding their own business, Peter felt a wave of sorrow for these unwitting livestock feeding the machines. They could all die and never know they were slaves. He took several deep breaths to stave off his feelings of hopelessness and focused on the task at hand.
Arriving at the renown university, a hub for many comic book characters in New York City, Peter navigated his way to the math and science departments. Once he stationed himself near the entrance of the main building, he wore his makeshift sign, bold and colorful, and many students passing could read, ‘Solve Any Math Problem for $50!’
As he walked among the flocks of students, his voice rose above the sounds of campus life. “Math Whiz! Ask the Math Whiz!” he boldly called out. “If I can’t get it right, you can punch me in the face! Punch me in the face!”
Right away, Peter’s odd offer piqued the interest of onlookers, and soon enough, two curious students approached him. One was a mathematics major with a sharp, analytical gaze, and the other was an economics student who complimented his poster. The mathematics major presented Peter with a problem that was already in his notebook, likely one of his assignments. Peter looked over the problem and quickly eyed the student with an expression of disbelief.
With a hint of incredulity, Peter asked the preppy-looking boy, “Do you know how long the proofs for this is? Would you even know if I’m right?”
The math major was taken aback by the teenager, but flipped through his notebook for a more reasonable problem. With one look at it, Peter quickly thought of the solution.
As Peter spoke the complex formula aloud while writing it down, “∂V/∂t + (1/2)σ^2S^2∂^2V/∂S^2 + rS∂V/∂S - rV = 0,” the surrounding chatter of the campus seemed to fade into the background. He was in his own world, filled with comforting numbers, balance, and order. “Where V is the value of the option, t is time, S is the stock price, σ is the stock price volatility, and r is the risk-free interest rate,” he continued, breaking down the equation in a way that made the two students’ eyes widen with amazement.
Turning to the college students, he answered, “The solution is: V(S, t) = SN(d1) - Ke^(-rt)N(d2), where N is the standard normal cumulative distribution function, K is the strike price of the option, and d1 and d2 are given by: d1 = [ln(S/K) + (r + (σ^2)/2)t] / σ√t. And d2 = d1 - σ√t.”
The astounded men hung on every word as Peter added, “For example, if a stock is currently trading at $100, and a call option with a strike price of $110 and an expiration date of one year from now has a value of $5, then the fair price of that option would be $5. If the option is trading for more than $5, then it is considered overvalued. If it is trading for less than $5, it is considered undervalued.”
Peter extended his hand and asked, “That’ll be $50.”
As Peter mingled among the clusters of students, another student confidently approached him, wearing salmon-hued shorts that ended just above the knee, a crisp light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, white shoes, sunglasses, and a white hat worn backwards. The young man who introduced himself as Ryan was the epitome of a rich fraternity student.
Ryan casually handed Peter a crisp $50 bill, then presented him with a geometry problem from his homework. Peter glanced at the problem and quizzically quirked his brow before remarking, “Uh, this is pretty easy.”
“Well, go on then, Math Whiz,” Ryan replied with a cocky smirk, cracking his knuckles in clear anticipation.
Peter rolled his eyes at the theatrics and clearly spoke as he wrote it all out in his notebook. “The problem,” he began. “Given a triangle ABC with sides a, b, and c, and altitudes h_a, h_b, and h_c from vertices A, B, and C respectively, prove that: (a^2)/h_a + (b^2)/h_b + (c^2)/h_c >= 4R, where R is the circumradius of the triangle.”
His pen flowed smoothly across the page as he spoke. “The solution: Begin by using the formula for the area of a triangle: A = (1/2)bh, where b is the length of the base and h is the length of the corresponding altitude. Using this formula, we can write the area of triangle ABC as: A = (1/2)ah_a = (1/2)bh_b = (1/2)ch_c. Simplifying, we get: a/h_a = 2A/b, b/h_b = 2A/c, c/h_c = 2A/a. Substitute these into the given inequality, and we get: (2A/b)(a) + (2A/c)(b) + (2A/a)(c) >= 4R. Simplify and we get: a^2/b + b^2/c + c^2/a >= 4R. Now, use the Law of Cosines to express each side of the inequality in terms of the circumradius R: a^2 = b^2 + c^2 - 2bc cos A. b^2 = a^2 + c^2 - 2ac cos B. c^2 = a^2 + b^2 - 2ab cos C. Substitute these into the inequality and we get: (b^2 + c^2 - 2bc cos A)/b + (a^2 + c^2 - 2ac cos B)/c + (a^2 + b^2 - 2ab cos C)/a >= 4R. Multiplying through by abc, we get: a^3(b^2 + c^2 - 2bc cos A) + b^3(a^2 + c^2 - 2ac cos B) + c^3(a^2 + b^2 - 2ab cos C) >= 4abcR(a^2b + ab^2 + b^2c + bc^2 + c^2a + ca^2 - 3abc). Simplify and we get: a^4 + b^4 + c^4 >= 2(a^2b^2 + b^2c^2 + c^2a^2) - (a^2 + b^2 + c^2)(ab + bc + ca) + 12a^2b^2c^2/(a^2 + b^2 + c^2). Finally, we can use the fact that in any triangle, we have: a^2 + b^2 + c^2 <= 9R^2. Substituting this into the inequality, we get: (a^4 + b^4 + c^4)/(a^2 + b^2 + c^2) >= 2R^2 - (ab + bc + ca) + 4R^2/(a^2 + b^2 + c^2). Multiplying through by (a^2 + b^2 + c^2), and we end up with: a^2/b + b^2/c + c^2/a >= 4R. There. The inequality is proven.”
“Holy shit!” Ryan bellowed, evidently astonished by the teenage boy. “You really are a fucking math whiz! Fucking hell! He’s a tip, man! Good shit!”
Ryan gave him an extra twenty, and it was clear to Peter that the preppy boy was from a well-off family. Before Peter could secure a regular for his services, campus security, alerted by the crowd and commotion, arrived on the scene. They asked Peter a few questions, their tone more curious than accusatory, then escorted him off the property. He got off with a warning and a firm reminder of the line between ingenuity and breaking the rules.
With his earnings in his pocket, Peter headed straight for a nearby electronics store, the smell of new plastic welcoming him. The fluorescent lights above hummed softly as he browsed the row of no-contract prepaid cell phones. His limited funds made the decision for him, and he left the store with a model that had a decent screen.
Armed with a phone number, an email, and twenty bucks, Peter went to the nearest print shop and printed out some fliers for tutoring and returned to ESU to post, ‘Get Tutored by the Math Whiz! Any level, any hour of the day. A $100/hr,’ on their bulletin. He also went to NYU and Columbia to post several fliers with his number there too.
As he journeyed back from the third most influential university in Manhattan, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take a detour through Hell’s Kitchen, certain that they had a few homeless shelters he could sleep in. As he walked through the iconic neighborhood, gazing at the rooftops in hopes of spotting someone running from building to building, his phone began to ping with inquiries about his tutoring qualifications.
Standing in the queue for the shelter, disheartened and weary murmuring around him, Peter replied to all the messages the same. “I’m a 17 yr old genius who can recite a hundred thousand digits of Pi if you want. Test me out, and if I don’t meet or surpass your expectations, you can punch me in the face. It’s a very punchable face, like that annoying little brother you’ve always wanted to hit.”
Sadly, the shelter’s attendant cut the line for beds two people away from him, wiping away the safety and security he was hoping for. Realizing the other homeless shelters were likely at capacity as well, Peter walked around the neighborhood deep in thought, the smell of rain on the pavement sharp in his nose. His home in Queens was not an option—Ben’s warning was quite clear—nor did he like the idea of breaking into his school to sleep there.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
‘But that’s better than sleeping out on the street,’ he mused. With no viable alternative, Peter made his way to the nearest station.
Two blocks later, Peter stumbled upon a boarded up church on 42nd Street that seemed to be a snapshot he’d seen before. The neglected church, with its extremely weathered exterior, was one of many abandoned structures in Hell’s Kitchen, but this one made him stop because its rusted sign read Holy Ghost Church. From his perfect recall, Peter knew this was the home—and base of operations—of Cloak & Dagger.
‘Tandy Bowen,’ his mind gasped.
Peter loved nearly all the superheroines in comics, and Tandy was no exception. He recalled the machines wanted to exclude her from the superpower list, as she wasn’t very mainstream, however, he vetoed their plea to exclude her. In fact, Peter vetoed nearly all their requests to remove the super girls and none of the super guys. Peter just couldn’t get into characters like Hercules, Captain Britain, Sentry, Hyperion, Ronin, Banshee, Puck, etc.
Ben Reilly explained that arranging canon events would take some time, and the world only learned about Tony Stark’s secret identity as Iron Man nine months ago, so it was possible that Cloak & Dagger hadn’t materialized yet. Staring at the tagged, dirty, and moss covered church, Peter calculated the odds that the Light and Dark powered teens would be there, and more importantly, the danger to him should he step inside. With a cautious glance around him for nosy people, Peter circled the gated building, searching for a gap big enough for him to sneak through.
The church was as ugly on the inside as it was outside. Cautiously walking from room to room, the silence hung heavy in the air—the kind that spoke of years of abandonment and decay. The only life he saw was the scurrying of rodents and the fluttering of pigeons in the rafters. What’s worse, the smell was a combination of moss, wet wood, and animal droppings.
Sadly, there was no sign of life in the entire rundown building, dashing his hopes of meeting superheroes. Rather than leave, Peter decided to sleep there and shower at school early in the morning. The thought of sleeping on a semi-cushioned pew was hardly appealing, but comfort was a luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment. Also, large as he used to be, he endured much worse in Zion.
At the thought of his old world, sleep didn’t come easily. Thoughts of his former life invaded his mind, weighing each memory of the way they treated him against his decision to sacrifice them. Nightmares plagued him—blood and screams from a world he left behind—and before the first light of dawn had even kissed the horizon, Peter gave up on rest and began his day.
As he left the abandoned church, the biting cold morning air seeped into his bones. He felt stupid for pausing mid-step, as if he had any other option but to take public transit back to Midtown High. Peter ignored the murmuring of commuters and the rhythmic clanking of the rails to formulate strategies and contingencies to get out of poverty. Once in school, he charged his phone while he showered, then began researching the state of the world.
In the library’s computers, his fingers tapped the keys a mile a minute as he searched the companies he wanted and corresponding new articles dating back at least ten years. Oscorp, Baxter Foundation, Stark Industries, Hammer Industries, and Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. There wasn’t a lot of useful information he could gather on the individuals he was most curious about, and he didn’t dare hack anything on a network he didn’t control. As he didn’t want to end up on a watchlist, he avoided researching S.H.I.E.L.D. or S.W.O.R.D.
Any further progress he would make was cut short by the bell’s sharp ring. He put a pin on it for when he finally purchased a laptop and forced himself through the drudgery of another school day. After all, at this level, engaging his academic mind was instinctual. He didn’t even have to think to answer questions. Throughout his day, Peter ignored Flash and Harry’s taunting because the larger teens were much more intimidating without his powers, and Ben wouldn’t tell him when he could expect to gain them.
The true stomach-kicker to the day was the realization that the gorgeous MJ seemed oblivious to Peter—albeit, to many of those who didn’t stand out. It was as if he didn’t even register to her, and Peter wondered why Peter-From-the-Comics seemed to be more popular with gorgeous women than he was in this reality.
But of course, his mind easily answered, ‘It’s a comic book written by the very nerds who wanted to be seen, you idiot!’
While Peter absentmindedly aced everything throughout his courses, he only thought of money—money and women. All of his immediate worries could be solved with money. Thus far, Peter only had one person interested in testing his math ability, and after school, he met with Ryan at a coffee shop near ESU.
Against the backdrop of the clatter and buzz of the coffeehouse, Peter proved he could accurately calculate and solve every problem Ryan posed. And Ryan proved to Peter that he was definitely an arrogant trust-fund bro—not that Peter cared. All that mattered was securing a source of funds. After Ryan hired him, they went to ESU’s library, where Peter spent a painfully slow hour tutoring him.
By the end, Peter proposed, “If you know anyone that needs help, let em know I’m available.”
Ryan’s face contorted with contemplation for a moment before replying, “You know, not saying I’d ever do this, but if you ever wanted to take a test on campus, just to see what it’s like, I could lend you my ID. Hell, I’d even pay ya for your time.”
The offer left Peter with a sinking feeling at the pit of stomach, and such an adverse reaction made him wonder if the chemical composition making him feel sick at the idea was of his own doing, or the machines manipulating his brain chemistry from his pod in the real world. Peter couldn’t be sure because he no longer wanted to make decisions that stemmed from weakness—the last one led to a lot of blood on his hands. He wanted to make moral decisions now.
Though conflicted, the allure of quick money had Peter ask, “How much?”
Shrugging three times as he nonchalantly replied, “Not that I’m one to do this myself, but, anywhere from eight to a K, depending on the score… is what I hear.”
A thousand dollars would be a sweet boon for Peter. So many of his immediate problems could be pushed down the road with that amount. Yet, it also carried the weight of past mistakes, the memory of a path that had led to profound regret.
Peter couldn’t shake that ominous feeling of sin, of responsibility, and replied, “Uh, I’ll think about it.”
With a fresh hundred tucked in his pocket, Peter left the library, pondering if he made the right decision. The numerous aromas of the city filled his nose as he walked to the streets, wondering about his comic book counterpart. Other than his one selfish mistake that cost Ben his life, Peter Parker had always been a moral and just hero. But it was undeniable that he also sacrificed a lot to stick by his principles.
‘A little too much,’ Peter humbly thought.
Reading the comics or watching the old flat movies, it seemed as if Peter-From-the-Comic didn’t know how to be efficient with his time and intellect. As the saying went, ‘there’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ and yet, Comic-Book-Peter never evolved, never grew, and those who loved him suffered the most for it. Peter was reminded that he couldn’t just survive—he needed to think bigger and do better.
Clutching the crisp hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, rather than saving up to buy a thousand dollar laptop, he decided to expedite the situation and get everything he needed in one go; a habitable place to live, a lab to work freely in, and no shortage of food to eat. A revolutionary idea was effortless to think of, but he needed a lab to produce it in.
Taking out his phone, Peter scrolled through business listings, his sharp eyes scanning for the ideal location. By dusk, his search had honed in on a promising young genetics company, nestled under the many LLC layers of the Roxxon conglomerate, near the prestigious grounds of Rockefeller University on New York Ave and 72nd.
Peter rushed over to the four-story commercial building and found the security to be fairly lax from the outside. He felt confident he could gain access. There were two issues Peter weighed against the success. The genetics company was only a handful of blocks away from the infamous Hellfire Club, which was too close for comfort. That was a hornet’s nest he didn’t want to get near while he was only a simple human.
The second problem arose when he investigated the other businesses in the building, reading the available employee lists on their company page. Peter came across a newly licensed therapist in a practice that made his heart lurch in fear. His heart quickened as he stared at the name of an Omega level telepath, who would undoubtedly be capable of reading his mind with ease. Yet, the gears in his mind turned rapidly, calculating, strategizing, and he felt the reward was worth the gamble—he just needed to prepare.
Peter plopped back in his chair and sighed, groaning, “Emma fucking Frost.”