Date: Wednesday, October 13, 2010.
Location: Oscorp, Manhattan, New York
The sun was just beginning to set over the Manhattan skyline as Tyson stepped through the glass doors into the headquarters of Oscorp that Wednesday evening. It had been over a week since Uncle Ben's tragic passing. Tyson knew he couldn't let himself fall into depressed inaction. So here he was, badge clipped neatly to his belt, walking into his internship as usual, unaware of the chaos that awaited within.
The moment he entered the lobby, Tyson sensed something was amiss. Security guards paced with stiff urgency, their brows furrowed with evident concern. Scientists chatted in small groups, looking sadder than Tyson felt. The mood was decidedly grim. Everyone seemed to be carrying a heavy weight, their shoulders slumped and their faces drawn.
Except one scientist who stood out as he headed through the lobby on his way home.
He walked with an unsettling spring in his step, a smile playing on his lips that seemed utterly disconnected from the palpable atmosphere of distress surrounding him. His attire was impeccable. He wore a tailored black suit, under his lab coat, that hugged his tall, lean frame. His skin was pale, and his meticulously slicked-back hair was jet black with the slightest hint of blue sheen under the artificial lighting.
Tyson approached this seemingly out-of-place man. The ID badge pinned to the man's lapel identified him as Dr. Stasis. The name wasn't familiar, but his scent of electric ozone and dusty velvet with chemical undertones was. It took a moment for Tyson to recall where he'd encountered the smell before he realized it was during the field trip. Dr. Stasis must have been one of the scientists working in the spider lab.
"Excuse me," Tyson interrupted, his deep voice carrying a mix of curiosity and concern. "Do you know what happened today that has got everyone on edge?"
Dr. Stasis turned towards Tyson, and his smile widened as if he relished the opportunity to recount the day's events. "One of our scientists was discovered dead this morning," Dr. Stasis said in a tone that almost bordered on joviality. "And that's not all. Military hardware went missing, as did an experimental serum."
Throughout his explanation, Dr. Stasis's eyes sparkled with an odd glee that seemed grotesquely out of place given the nature of his news. The cheerfulness in his voice was disconcerting as he described what would otherwise be considered grave outcomes.
Tyson furrowed his brow, confusion etching lines across his forehead as he tried to reconcile the man's demeanor with the information he had just been given.
"I see," Tyson managed to say after a moment, still perplexed by Dr. Stasis's unusual happiness about such dire events. "Thank you for letting me know."
"Oh, it's quite all right," Dr. Stasis replied with a dismissive wave of his hand as if discussing nothing more consequential than a change in the weather. "Such incidents are simply... opportunities for progress, wouldn't you agree?"
Before Tyson could respond or inquire further, Dr. Stasis nodded curtly and continued on his way out of Oscorp's lobby, leaving behind a trail of unsettling energy that seemed to linger in the air.
Tyson watched him go, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly as he pondered what kind of person found joy in such events. He shook off the unease creeping up his spine and turned to begin his patrol through Oscorp.
As Tyson ventured deeper into the building, fragments of hushed conversation painted an increasingly dire picture. When Tyson managed to catch a glimpse of the ransacked laboratory itself, the story became clear. Tables were overturned, glass shattered across the floor, and ominous stains smeared on the walls.
With his meta-knowledge, it was obvious to Tyson what had happened. Norman Osborn was a genius, but also a man driven by dangerous ambition and desperation. He had been on the brink of a breakthrough that promised to push human capabilities further and solidify lucrative military contracts. However, there were rising concerns about the safety and stability of the untested super soldier formula he'd been developing. Now, in the wake of death, destruction, and Osborn's disappearance, Tyson felt the weight of the dreadful realization settle upon his chest.
Osborn tested the unstable formula on himself. What had occurred in that lab was born of his reckless transformation, a Jekyll and Hyde scenario that could only spell disaster.
The Green Goblin was coming.
Tyson had thought that with the Lizard's rampage on the bridge, Osborn might not become the Green Goblin, at least not yet. He wondered if he should do something, but he was caught in the grip of uncertainty, his mind churning with indecision. He had no real evidence to turn in to the authorities to substantiate his suspicions about Osborn's dangerous experimentation. He was sure others had already gone through the security footage, but he would look it over with a fine-toothed comb. Hopefully, there'd be some evidence, he couldn't just outright accuse Norman Osborn.
But the thought of doing nothing, of leaving Osborn potentially out there along with the Lizard, was unacceptable. Tyson was no stranger to feeling helpless, and the sting of it now, in the wake of Uncle Ben's death, was poignant.
He left Oscorp late that night, the lights of the city blurred as he rode, his mind troubled and restless. He couldn't approach the authorities, he hadn't found any hard evidence, but he couldn't sit idle either while Osborn posed a menacing threat. There had to be a way to mitigate the danger the reckless scientist presented. He mulled over his options as buildings and streetlights slid past in the darkness. Even with the super soldier serum and the military tech he stole, Tyson should be able to stop Osborn before the Green Goblin was unleashed upon the city. Tyson's brows furrowed in contemplation as he navigated the nighttime streets. Would preemptively taking out Osborn affect Peter's development as Spider-Man, and was letting a madman run around the city a fair trade-off for Peter's growth?
— Rogue Replacement —
Tyson's morning routine proceeded as usual, the hotel staff delivering a breakfast spread that he picked at between gathering textbooks and double-checking his backpack. As he jabbed at the power button on the room's television, ready to catch the morning news, a familiar brash voice blared out, arresting his attention mid-bite.
There on the screen, in high-definition, was J. Jonah Jameson, editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, his mustache bristling with indignation. Today Jameson's tirade seemed to be ratcheted up to a whole new level.
"They're criminals, that's what they are!" Jameson bellowed, slamming a clenched fist onto his cluttered desk and sending papers jumping. "This city's becoming a playground for vigilantes with no regard for the law, no accountability!"
A series of images flashed on the screen beside the incensed editor. Blurry shots and shaky video clips showed the chaos on the Brooklyn Bridge, cars crunched and tossed aside like toys, the monstrous form of the Lizard looming large...and then, himself. Tyson swallowed hard at the sight of the dinosaur-like creature he had transformed into.
Jameson jabbed a finger at the image on the screen, his face contorted in a sneer. "This one appeared out of nowhere, fighting what witnesses describe as a 'dinosaur'!" the editor bellowed, once again slamming a fist onto his desk. "And during this so-called 'heroic' act, dozens of vehicles were destroyed, traffic disrupted for hours, and lives put at risk! There was a child, for heaven's sake, trapped in a car that nearly fell off the bridge during the melee!"
The images on the screen shifted to a shaky clip of Tyson in his reptilian form, engaged in a fierce battle with the Lizard. Debris and crushed cars littered the bridge around them. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, Tyson was gone. It was a trick of the camera as the bystander turned to check on the wailing child just as Tyson sprinted away.
"And then, poof! Vanishes into thin air!" Jameson continued his bulbous face reddening, voice dripping with disdain. "The locals are calling him 'Mirage.' Ha! More like a nightmare!"
Tyson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had known there were cameras, cell phones... But seeing himself broadcast on national television was something else entirely. His scaly visage splayed across the screens like a wanted criminal.
"Let me make this clear!" Jameson's eyes were alight with fervor, spittle flying. "This city does not need 'heroes' hiding behind masks or vanishing acts! We need law and order, accountability, and responsibility! These vigilantes, like this 'Mirage', they're a menace!"
Tyson's appetite was gone as he stared down at his plate of food. He had tried to help, to do something good, but in the eyes of blowhards like J. Jonah Jameson, he was just another problem plaguing the city. The injustice of it stung, though he supposed he shouldn't have expected more from such a caricature of a newsman.
The television screen split, displaying images of himself on one side and the flashy new Spider-Man on the other. "Let's not forget about our wall-crawling menace, Spider-Man!" J. Jonah Jameson roared, spittle flying as his finger jabbed at the images. "He's just another vigilante causing chaos in our city, taking the law into his own hands! These masked hooligans are a plague on our society!"
Tyson's eyes were fixed on the red and blue figure dominating the other half of the screen. Spider-Man had become the talk of Midtown High recently, with many fascinated by his gravity-defying stunts.
The news segment transitioned to shaky footage captured by enthralled bystanders, showcasing Spider-Man's agility as he effortlessly vaulted over rooftops and ricocheted between buildings. But it wasn't just acrobatics. There was an intensity to his actions, a personal motivation fueling his driven movements.
The footage cut to a dingy alley, the camera unsteady as Spider-Man had a suspect pinned menacingly against the brick wall. "Where is he?" Spider-Man hissed, his voice a fierce whisper. "The guy with the star tattoo on his wrist!" The thug frantically shook his head, and in an instant, Spider-Man was off again, a red and blue streak vanishing into the darkness.
"He's not just patrolling," Tyson muttered under his breath, leaning forward intently as the scenes played out. He recognized that relentless intensity. Spider-Man, Peter, was hunting for the man who had killed his Uncle Ben, seeking to right his wrong or perhaps for revenge.
The screen cut back to Jameson, the news anchor's smug expression one of vindication. "See? He's a menace!" Jameson proclaimed, jabbing an accusatory finger at the screen. "Provoking violence, instilling fear! This Spider-Man is a law unto himself, and it's only a matter of time before innocent people get caught in his web!"
Tyson's fists clenched at his sides, he tried not to let Jameson's inflammatory words reach him. But the man did have somewhat of a point. It was a reminder of the fine line he and Peter walked. Heroes only to some. Were they really that different from the criminals they fought if they embraced their raw drives? For Peter, right now, it was his rage and vendetta.
For Tyson, it was the morally questionable ways he used his powers since arriving in New York. This suite, the expensive clothes, the shiny new motorcycle parked in the underground garage, all of it was acquired by manipulating others. The slowly dwindling collection of gold he'd been spreading across the city's goldmongers had been stolen from the Federal Reserve, a whim at the time, that was proving difficult to justify.
Tyson slouched in his chair. The more he dwelled on recent events, the heavier the unease grew within him. He thought back to the chaos on the bridge, how he had intervened without hesitation to stop the Lizard's rampage and rescue that child trapped in the dangling car. That had been the right thing to do. So why did he feel this creeping doubt?
Tyson moved to the suite's window and peered out at the sprawling cityscape before him. This was his fresh start, a chance to define himself on his own terms. He didn't have to be a hero, but he refused to become a villain either, no matter how alluring that path might seem.
With a frustrated sigh, Tyson grabbed the remote control and switched off the TV, plunging the room into silence. Glancing at the time on his phone, Tyson realized he'd be late for school if he didn't hurry. Grabbing his backpack, he cast one last conflicted look at the blank TV as he headed for the door, the echoes of Jameson's accusations haunting his steps. Down in the garage, Tyson swung his leg over his motorcycle, the engine rumbling to life beneath him. As he sped off down the street, doubts and questions swirled within him. Was Jameson right? Was he just a menace?
— Rogue Replacement —
The atmosphere in the gym was filled with the chorus of exertion and the unmistakable tang of competition hanging heavy in the air. Thick ropes dangled from the lofty ceiling. Students shuffled into lines, at each rope. Their faces broadcast a spectrum of emotions; determination, apprehension, or outright dread.
Tyson took his place in line. Beside him stood Felicia Hardy, her distinctive shock of white hair seeming to radiate indifference, her attention apparently miles away from the gymnasium.
"So," Tyson began, his tone casual to the point of aloofness, "how was your night?"
Felicia's eyebrow arched slightly in the first acknowledgment of his presence that morning. "It went well," she replied evenly, her voice low and laced with an air of mystery that clung to her like a second skin. "Much like most of my nights."
The corner of Tyson's mouth twitched upward knowingly. He had witnessed Felicia just last week infiltrating Oscorp after dark. He wondered what secrets she pursued, what drove a girl like her to take such risks.
"Been busy with that paper for class?" he ventured, watching her closely. "The one on cats?"
The only crack in Felicia's composure was her eyes narrowing a fraction. "It's going," she said guardedly, though her tone hinted otherwise. "Lots of late nights spent researching."
Tyson nodded, "Need any help?" he offered, infusing his words with genuine concern. He was signaling, as subtly as he could, that whatever she was caught up in, he was willing to assist.
Felicia eyed him appraisingly, her crystalline blue gaze seemingly weighing him. "Maybe," she conceded after a moment, though her voice betrayed her unaccustomedness to accepting help. "I might take you up on that."
Tyson turned at the sound of Natalie Rushman's voice echoing through the gym. Their PE instructor stood at the climbing ropes, her lithe yet muscular frame accentuated by her form-fitting outfit. "Next up," she called, gesturing to the ropes.
Tyson flashed Felicia a grin before striding to take his position. His strong hands gripped the coarse rope, and he began ascending with the strength expected of his large size. Reaching the top in mere moments, he rang the bell overhead, its chime resonating proudly across the gym. As Tyson descended, controlled and confident, he found Felicia's gaze following his progress. Her eyes held a new glint of interest.
When Felicia took her turn, she approached the rope with lithe grace. Her slim form exuded athletic poise as she ascended the rope with the effortless skill of a gymnast. At the top, she paused only briefly before beginning a swift and elegant descent.
"Nearly as fast as Tyson," Natalie remarked approvingly, pitching her voice to carry. "I'd say it would be a close match if you two went head-to-head."
Tyson met Felicia's bright eyes, reading the challenge and excitement there. "I'm up for it if you are," he called back, infusing his words with playful taunt.
Felicia's answering smile held a glint of wicked charm. "You're on," she agreed, a competitive edge sharpening her melodic voice.
Sensing the growing energy in the crowd, Tyson raised his voice to ensure all could hear his proposition. "But let's make it interesting. If I win, we get together later tonight… to work on some research," he emphasized meaningfully, holding Felicia's gaze. The crowd whooped at his suggestive tone, though his true intent was clear to Felicia alone.
"And if I win?" she asked, unfazed by their audience.
"I'll carry your books for a week," Tyson offered loudly, playing to the crowd.
"You'll carry my books for a month? Deal," Felicia agreed, not allowing Tyson to rescind her changed terms. Excitement buzzed through the gym at this agreement between the two of the school's most popular but low-key students.
The energy in the crowded gym was electric as Tyson and Felicia took their positions before the climbing ropes. Natalie, always one to command attention, stood with her whistle in hand. "Ready... Set..." she called out, her voice rising above the chatter. At the piercing shriek of the whistle, Tyson and Felicia launched themselves at the ropes.
Tyson's muscular strength propelled him upwards as Felicia's fitness and agility allowed her to gain ground initially. The two climbers strained against gravity, muscles bulging. But Tyson's power quickly overtook Felicia's finesse. The gap between them widened decisively. Tyson's hand slapped the bell in victory, its clear ringing tone reverberating through the gym.
Back on solid ground, Felicia's chest heaved from exertion. She and Tyson faced each other. Felicia extended her hand in concession. "You won, fair and square," she acknowledged between labored breaths. "I'll see you tonight."
The crowd erupted in raucous cheers and shouts, the other students reveling in the public spectacle. Many of the boys looked on in jealousy at Tyson easily scoring what they saw as a date with Felicia, while others reveled in his success while wondering what the evening might hold for them. Tyson and Felicia shared a knowing look, a silent understanding passing between them. Tonight was not about a date; it was about unraveling secrets and potentially about finding an ally.
— Rogue Replacement —
Tyson walked down the polished linoleum hallway of Midtown High, approaching the main office. The office was situated just off the main lobby, with a large counter dividing the public space from the administrative area. Behind the counter were two secretaries stationed at desks equipped with computers, phones, and piles of paperwork.
Tyson stepped up to the counter and offered a polite smile to the secretary who looked up at his arrival. "Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
"Yes, one of my classmates has been absent for several weeks, and I was hoping to find her address so I could drop off the notes she's missed," Tyson explained.
The secretary returned his smile, though with an apologetic look in her eyes. "That's nice of you, but I can't give out your classmates' addresses. Sorry."
Tyson nodded in understanding. He had expected the refusal but thought it was worth a try. "I understand. I just wanted to check since she's been gone for a while. Her name is Cindy Moon."
The secretary nodded, recognition flashing across her features. "Cindy, yes. She was out sick, but her parents informed us that Cindy would be transferring. She won't be coming back to school, so you don't need to worry about those notes." The secretary then asked kindly, "Was there anything else I can help you with?"
Tyson locked eyes with the secretary, focusing his thoughts on weaving the illusion. His illusion spread silently, leaving no discernible trace of its existence.
The door to the office creaked open, and the school nurse entered, her gaze falling on the secretary with whom Tyson was conversing.
"Excuse me," the nurse began, "my computer is down. Can you write down the contact information for a parent for me, please?" Her tone was urgent and brimming with concern. The secretary turned to Tyson and said, "Excuse us, this is important." The directive hung in the air as Tyson made his exit from the office.
The urgency in the nurse's voice was palpable as she requested the student's contact information. "The student's name is Cindy Moon," she said, her brows knitted with concern.
The secretary's fingers clacked over the keyboard with practiced speed as she pulled up Cindy's records. Selecting a fluorescent post-it note from the cluttered desk, she scribbled down the address and phone number before handing it to the nurse.
"Thank you," the nurse replied gratefully, tucking the note into her pocket as she hurried from the office, focused wholly on contacting Cindy's family.
Tyson's lips curled into a sly smirk as he strode from the office, the door clicking shut behind him. His deception with the nurse had yielded the desired results with little effort on his part. Hands shoved casually in his pockets, he meandered through the school halls and out the front entrance to where his motorcycle awaited.
The engine roared to life beneath him as he twisted the throttle, speeding off down the street. Though he now had Cindy's address in hand, uncertainty gnawed at his mind. What would he say when he arrived at her doorstep?
Her modest apartment building came into view, nestled amidst the quiet residential streets of Queens. His boots thudded heavily on the pavement as he crossed the street and climbed the concrete steps leading inside. Consulting the resident directory, Tyson's eyes scanned the list of names before confirming on the Moon's 3B.
The stairwell was stark and utilitarian, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls as he climbed. Coming to a stop outside her door, Tyson hesitated, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts before rapping his knuckles sharply against the faded wood. Silence greeted him initially, so he knocked again, harder this time.
The second knock at the door startled Cindy's mother, who had been sitting on the living room couch. She rose slowly, setting aside the framed photo of Cindy she'd been staring at, and shuffled to the door.
Peering through the peephole, she saw a uniformed police officer standing in the hallway.
With a slightly trembling hand, she unlocked the door and opened it just a crack.
"I'm Officer Smith from the NYPD," the officer introduced himself politely. "We're here to investigate the report of a missing person."
Cindy's mother nodded mutely, her dark eyes wide with apprehension. "Show me your badge," she asked, needing the reassurance that he was truly with the police.
Officer Smith promptly unclipped his badge from his belt and held it up to the crack in the door.
After scrutinizing it briefly, Cindy's mother closed the door to unlatch the chain. Taking a steadying breath, she pulled the door open fully to grant the officer entry.
Cindy's mother was a petite Asian woman in her late forties, with sleek black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Though she stood at just over five feet tall, her posture was rigidly straight. Her cheekbones were high and elegant, but her face looked gaunt and pale, the dark circles under her eyes speaking to sleepless nights. She wore a simple gray cardigan and black slacks, her outfit neat but muted, much like her demeanor.
Ushering Officer Smith inside, Cindy's mother clasped her hands together tightly to still their trembling. "Please, come in," she invited in a soft voice laced with restrained panic.
Officer Smith stepped inside and was greeted by the faint scent of lavender and jasmine. Cindy's mother gestured for him to sit and directed him to the sofa. "Thank you," he said, taking a seat. "The reason I'm here is we received an anonymous report that one Cindy Moon has not been attending school for a month," he began. "Normally that's something the school handles, more so than the police, but a missing person report was also filed with the department and I'm here to follow up."
Cindy's mother nodded along as the officer spoke. "I'm sorry officer, but there's been a mistake," she said. "Cindy isn't missing. She was removed from school."
"Removed?" Officer Smith asked, raising an eyebrow. "By whom?"
"My self and my husband," Cindy's mother replied softly.
"I understand," Officer Smith said, making a note on his pad. "Is she registered in a school in New York that we can call to confirm her registration?"
Cindy's mother shook her head. "No, my husband took care of that. He lives out of the country. He enrolled her in a school where they live."
Smith asked, "Would it be possible to speak with Cindy over the phone, just to confirm she's safe, so I can close this case?"
Cindy's mother shifted in her seat, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap as Officer Smith pressed for more information. "I'm afraid that just won't be possible," she said, her voice strained. "The remote village they are staying in, in China, has no phone service at all."
Officer Smith's eyebrows knit together. "I see," he said, making another note. Though his tone remained even, his probing questions betrayed his skepticism.
Sweat beaded on Cindy's mother's brow despite the cool temperature in the apartment. She dabbed at it with a crumpled tissue, buying time to think. "While I understand your position, officer, I simply cannot provide what I do not have," she said carefully. "My husband handled all the arrangements. I'm sure once he returns stateside you can sort this out."
At the mention of the husband, Officer Smith leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "And when might that be, ma'am?"
Cindy's mother averted her gaze. "Well, that's hard to say exactly..." she trailed off, wringing the damp tissue between her hands. "He travels quite extensively for work."
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Officer Smith's expression darkened. He tapped his pen on his notepad. "I'm going to need his contact information as well as his last known location," he said firmly. "Otherwise, I cannot close this case until the child's safety is confirmed."
Panic flashed in Cindy's mother's eyes. "I'm not sure where he is currently," she admitted. "He has always been very secretive about his work. But I assure you, Cindy is perfectly safe." Her voice shook slightly despite her best efforts.
Cindy's mother gazed into Officer Smith's mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. For a moment, her world narrowed just to his entrancing orbs.
"Where is Cindy?" Officer Smith asked again.
Under the hypnotic spell of Tyson's gaze, the truth spilled out. "Cindy's father took her to get help," she admitted softly.
Officer Smith's brows drew together. "Took her where?"
Cindy's mother twisted the damp tissue between her fingers. "I'm not sure exactly. One of his business associates said they could help Cindy."
Leaning back in his chair, Officer Smith clicked his pen thoughtfully. "I see. And you haven't heard from your husband or Cindy since they left?"
She shook her head, eyes downcast. "No. He always kept me in the dark about his work. He said it was for my safety."
"Why did Cindy need help?" Officer Smith prodded gently. "And who was this business associate?"
Haltingly, Cindy's mother explained, "Cindy had been acting strangely. She got sick, and when she recovered, it was like she was possessed. She could walk on walls, had abnormal strength, and this odd substance leaked from her fingertips." She took a shaky breath. "My husband called his associate, Edgar Lascombe. He runs a pharmaceutical company. If anyone could help Cindy, it was someone with access to experimental treatments." A tear slipped down her cheek. "My husband took her to him, and I haven't heard from either of them since."
Officer Smith studied her face intently. After a weighty pause, he closed his notebook and stood. "Thank you for your time, ma'am," he said coolly. "We'll be in touch if we require anything further."
Cindy's mother nodded, relief washing over her. As Officer Smith turned to leave, she called out "Please let me know if I can provide anything else that would help put this matter to rest."
He glanced back, face unreadable. "You can count on that," he said before stepping out the door.
— Rogue Replacement —
Tyson and Natalie circled each other slowly, bamboo swords at the ready. The slender lengths of bamboo were deceptively harmless in appearance, but Tyson knew from experience that a solid strike would deliver a painful sting. The air between them was electric with tension, both physical and conversational.
As always when they sparred, Natalie wore form-fitting workout clothes that accentuated her lithe figure. "So," she said, breaking the anticipatory silence, "what was that little show in gym class earlier about? Was Felicia the mysterious voice on the phone last week?" Her tone was light, but her gaze was piercing as she searched Tyson's face.
Tyson met her probing look with a relaxed yet alert stance, ready to react in an instant. "That wasn't Felicia on the phone," he responded evenly, "and that still wasn't my girlfriend." The corner of his mouth quirked in a subtle, teasing smile.
Their dance continued, bamboo meeting bamboo as they exchanged blows. Each strike was met with a deft parry in a rhythmic sequence that was almost musical. They were evenly matched, neither able to gain an advantage over the other.
Natalie pressed on as they sparred, her voice casual yet insistent. "Is that your type then? A penchant for mysterious girls in black?"
At her words, an image flashed unbidden in Tyson's mind. Natalie, or rather Natasha, her form clad in a dark SHIELD bodysuit. The image, pulled from his meta knowledge, was a vivid reminder of how dangerous she could be, and yet how good she looked in black. Tyson's smile broadened, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes as he looked pointedly at Natalie. "Maybe I do," he responded, leaving his look and his meaning up to her interpretation.
Her eyes narrowed, accepting the challenge in his look. In a flurry of motion, she attacked. Her strikes were a tempest that would have overwhelmed any normal opponent. But Tyson was far from normal. He could see the path of each strike, his enhanced senses mapping out a web of evasion and parries.
Yet he held back, letting one strike slip through his defense, the bamboo connecting with a resounding thwack against his shoulder.
"Ow!" Tyson yelped, the sound exaggerated more for show than actual pain. He rubbed the spot theatrically, attempting to maintain the facade even as her sharp gaze saw through his act.
Natalie halted her barrage, relaxing her posture slightly as her face wore her understanding. "You're holding back," she stated plainly, the accusation hanging in the air between them, heavy with unspoken implications.
Tyson met her gaze steadily, neither confirming nor denying her claim. They were both hiding in plain sight, that much was clear. And in that unspoken understanding, there was a kind of fragile trust between the two.
"Notice that, did you?" Tyson's voice was a cheeky blend of challenge and amusement as he locked eyes with Natalie, the glint in his gaze belying his exaggerated nonchalance. "I admit, I have been holding back. Because I know something you don't know..." He trailed off, pausing for dramatic effect as a grin spread across his face. "I'm not right-handed."
With a flourish bordering on theatrical, Tyson switched his bamboo sword to his left hand and struck an exaggerated fencing pose straight from a swashbuckling film. The unexpected move was so comically out of place that Natalie couldn't help but let out a small huff of laughter despite herself.
Natalie asked incredulously, "The Princess Bride. Really?"
Tyson's grin widened at her reaction. "A woman of culture!" he exclaimed, giving her an exaggerated nod full of playful camaraderie.
The air around them shifted as the earlier tension morphed into something lighter and more playful, yet still charged with competitive spirit.
Natalie attacked. Her movements were a series of graceful, calculated arcs and thrusts. She was a storm, her strikes relentless and designed to overwhelm and outmaneuver. But this time, Tyson was different. While his movements were more awkward and less coordinated with his non-dominant hand, they were executed with blinding speed and agility that more than compensated for the lack of finesse. It was a humorous contradiction. His "left-handed" swordplay was clumsy yet performed with superhuman reflexes and dexterity.
They moved together in a blurring whirlwind of strikes and counters, their bamboo swords meeting in rapid succession. Natalie's dark hair cascaded around her face, which was set in a look of fierce determination, though her keen eyes sparkled with delight. She was enjoying this battle of wits and skill.
The dojo was filled with the rapid percussion of their duel, the outside world fading away as a student and his mentor became lost in their dance. Tyson's movements were a blur of awkward angles and supernatural speed, his enhanced reflexes compensating for the lack of finesse in his left hand. Though he could have pressed the attack, he chose instead to counter and defend, inviting Natalie to match his pace.
It was the first time he had willingly revealed even this small portion of his power without prompting, and the significance was not lost on Natalie. She wondered at his reasons. Had it been seeing her on the bridge, and knowing she was more than she let on? Was he beginning to trust her? Or was it something else entirely?
When they at last came to a standstill, it was with their swords locked in a stalemate. And for the span of a heartbeat, Tyson increased the pressure, allowing Natalie to glimpse his immense strength. Her sword groaned under the strain, and she knew if he had pressed a moment longer, the bamboo would have shattered along with her defenses.
As Natalie disengaged, breathing hard, her eyes were drawn to the creaking swords. But she swore she caught him wink briefly before she backpedaled. The tension dissipated as Natalie remarked, "You're full of surprises, Tyson," the corners of her lips quirked upward.
"Just trying to keep up with you, teach," he replied, his casual tone belying his unspoken knowledge.
Despite his casual attitude, Tyson's mind churned. He had revealed more of his capabilities to Natasha today. SHIELD already had their eye on him, that much was clear. Natasha's presence at the school confirmed it. Last week, Natasha saw him on the bridge fighting the Lizard. In his haste to protect Uncle Ben, Tyson had revealed most of his capabilities… and he'd still failed to save Uncle Ben. But SHIELD never came knocking on the door to his suite. So Tyson figured, either their intention wasn't to arrest him, or Natasha hadn't revealed what she knew about him. Or, they hadn't decided and were watching, waiting to see what he would do. And that gave Tyson somewhat of an advantage, for now. Letting Natasha glimpse another portion of his strength today had been calculated. A subtle message to her that he was aware of her, that she hadn't been overlooked on that bridge. But also, an even subtler message, he knows she's more than she appears to be, and he could've continued to exert his strength, causing serious injury at the end of their spar.
Tyson and Natalie faced each other, their session paused as they conversed. The afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows and illuminated the dust motes that danced through the air. "So, you're going to meet with Felicia tonight?" Natalie asked, keeping her tone light despite the concern that lurked beneath the surface.
"Yep," Tyson confirmed with a casual nod, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "We're hitting the Broadway Comedy Club on 53rd Street."
"Hell's Kitchen?" Natalie replied, arching an eyebrow slightly. Tyson just nodded, seemingly unperturbed. "Should you be going out so late on a school night?" she prodded further, her dark eyes searching his face.
Tyson scoffed, his carefree attitude was a stark contrast to Natalie's composed concern. "I'll be skipping my internship. No biggie," he replied flippantly, his purposefully aloof reply sidestepping her apprehension.
"They just let you come and go as you please?" Natalie questioned. Tyson could see the gears turning in her mind as she analyzed the situation.
"They aren't paying me, so nobody complains when I don't show up," Tyson retorted with an indifferent shrug. Curiosity gleamed in his eyes as he turned the inquiry around on her. "Why the sudden interest in me hanging out with Felicia anyway?"
Natalie's expression softened, her eyes gentle. "I don't want to see you falling in with the wrong crowd," she confessed quietly.
Tyson asked, "What's wrong with Felicia?" Natasha only shrugged in reply. Tyson chuckled lightly at that. "With my best friend being the biggest nerd in school? There's no risk of falling in with the bad kids," he assured her with an easy grin.
Natalie's face adopted a touch of sadness, her voice softening as she gently broached the subject. "How's Peter doing these days?"
The mention of his grieving friend immediately dimmed Tyson's cheerful demeanor. His easy grin faded, a troubled look clouding his eyes as he hesitated before answering honestly. "He's having a really hard time," Tyson admitted.
Tyson's concern for Peter was evident in the downturned corners of his mouth as he sighed. "The loss of Uncle Ben hit him devastatingly hard. If you weren't aware, Peter's parents died years ago," he explained, his voice tinged with sadness for his grieving friend. "Peter is still reeling. The grief is a lot to bear on top of… everything else he was dealing with. With his uncle gone, the family is struggling financially now. The stress of money woes just adds to the weight, compounding Peter's despair."
Tyson wished he could do more to help his friend through this incredibly difficult time. Seeing Peter so devastated and lost was heartbreaking. He shook his head slowly. "Peter is too proud. Even if I offered him money to help his family, he wouldn't accept it," Tyson admitted, trailing off more so in his thoughts than from waiting for Natalie's response.
"I'm planning on dragging him out soon, getting him out of that funk," Tyson continued after a pause, "but I want to give him some time first, you know? Time to fully grieve before pushing him."
Natalie nodded in understanding, her expression growing solemn and sympathetic upon hearing of her classmate's struggles. "Of course," she said gently. "Let me know if there is anything I can do to help too. Peter seems like a nice kid."
Tyson gave her a small, grateful smile in return for her kind offer. "I will. Thanks, Nat," he said, shortening her name for the first time.
Natalie's lips matched his smile. The use of the nickname caught her off guard. He had never called her anything but Natalie or Miss Rushman until now. "Of course," she replied after a pause.
— Rogue Replacement —
The night air was cool as Tyson pulled up to the curb in front of the Broadway Comedy Club on 53rd Street. The engine of his bike purred before he killed it, the echo mingling with the sounds of New York nightlife. A figure approached, heels clicking against the pavement in a steady rhythm.
Felicia Hardy, but he almost didn't recognize her. Her hair, usually a striking white, was a cascade of glossy black that emphasized the pale hue of her skin. Her eyes, a stunning blue, were accentuated by her new dark hair. She wore a form-fitting red dress that hugged her curves, with a modest neckline that teased more than it revealed. Her lips were colored to match the dress, and they stretched into a sly smile as she regarded him.
"You like it?" she asked, gesturing to her hair. "I thought I'd try something new."
"Looks great," Tyson commented, offering his arm. She took it and together they entered the club.
Inside, laughter and chatter filled the air. They were led to their seats, midway to the stage, and the show kicked off. Comedian after comedian delivered their sets, and Tyson found himself laughing along. Felicia was right there with him, her laughter like music to his ears.
However, halfway through the show, she leaned in close. "I need to use the restroom," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. "Be right back."
Tyson nodded, watching her as she sashayed through the crowds, the black hair bouncing with each step. But he couldn't shake off a nagging feeling.
Felicia's bathroom detour was strategic. In the privacy of the stall, she swiftly changed, her attire transforming to accommodate her alter ego. The glamorous dress was replaced by a tactical, skin-tight black suit, perfect for agility and stealth. It hugged her figure like a second skin, emphasizing her toned physique. In mere minutes, she became the notorious cat burglar, the Black Cat, and with the ease of practice, she slipped unseen into the club's office.
Her movements were fluid, a gymnast's grace in her silent steps. She knew exactly where the club kept its earnings, her fingers deftly bypassing the safe's security. The thrill of the heist made her heart race, a smile playing on her lips as she pocketed her prize.
As swiftly as she had changed earlier, Felicia returned to her previous ensemble, the black wig settling perfectly around her shoulders. She ensured her appearance was immaculate, the red dress once again hugging her curves enticingly, before sauntering back to rejoin Tyson.
He noticed her return, her presence pulling his attention like a magnet. "Miss much?" she asked, reclaiming her seat.
"Just a few jokes," Tyson replied with an easy smile.
— Rogue Replacement —
When Felicia excused herself, that secretive smile playing on her crimson lips, Tyson waited for a beat, his gaze sweeping the club's interior before he stood, feigning a casual stretch. He ambled off in the same direction Felicia had disappeared moments before.
Tyson's steps were leisurely only in appearance. He maintained his cool facade, nodding at a staff member as he passed by, but his senses were heightened, razor-sharp.
Upon entering the hallway with the restrooms, he paused, casting an illusion to make himself not noticed by others. The soft click of a door closing reached his ears, and his lips twitched in a half-smile as the Black Cat snuck past him, unaware of his presence. Instead of following immediately, Tyson tracked Felicia's path. He followed, unseen, as she slipped with feline grace into the club's office. Tyson observed from the shadows, using his illusions to mask his presence.
She was efficient, her movements poetry in motion, and Tyson couldn't help but be captivated even as he memorized every detail of her heist. She passed him, returning to the restroom, unaware he stood in the hallway. The money that Felicia had taken was neatly tucked within her purse, and Tyson snatched it. Such a thing would’ve been impossible without her knowledge, but illusions allowed him to override her senses completely. Tyson's touch went unaware. Tyson returned to his seat with the cash hidden in his inner pocket.
Tyson's laughter mingled with the crowd's, his applause as enthusiastic as any, but his mind was elsewhere, on the enigma that was Felicia Hardy.
When she returned, Felicia's eyes sparkled more than before, and Tyson studied her anew. "Miss much?" she asked, the innocence in her tone belied by the knowing twinkle in her eye.
"Just a few jokes," Tyson replied with a grin.
The night was alive, vibrant with the city's endless energy, as they stepped outside. Tyson’s motorcycle stood waiting, and Felicia asked, "Do you have an extra helmet?" bringing a playful smirk to Tyson's face.
"Nope. But you can wear mine. Don't worry, I've got a hard head," he quipped, his joke about his indestructible adamantium skull soaring over her head as he handed over his helmet.
Tyson straddled the motorcycle, patting the seat behind him as an invitation. Felicia swung a leg over with a grace that spoke of her agility, her body coming to rest against his.
The moment her arms encircled his waist, warmth began seeping through their clothes, her form a soft, constant pressure against his back. As the bike leaped forward under Tyson's guidance, Felicia's hold tightened, her hands not just securing herself but exploring. Her fingers danced over the fabric of his jacket, tracing the contours of his abdomen and chest.
The city blurred past them, but all Tyson could register was the feel of Felicia behind him, her body moving with his as the motorcycle weaved through the traffic. There was an intimacy in the way she held on, her head occasionally leaning against his shoulder, breaths warm against his neck, igniting a cascade of sensations he hadn’t prepared himself for.
Her hands were bold, daring in their wanderings, as if she was mapping him, learning the secrets his body held through touch alone. It was distracting and exhilarating all at once, and Tyson found himself caught between focusing on the road and getting lost in the feel of her. Felicia's closeness during the ride from Hell's Kitchen to the Four Seasons Downtown made Tyson acutely aware of every second that ticked by with her arms around him.
As they pulled up, the world seemed to snap back into focus, the city noise flooding back in. Reluctantly, they disentangled, Felicia's hands sliding away from his body with a lingering touch as if silently saying goodbye to the closeness they'd shared.
Tyson brought the motorcycle to a stop in front of the gleaming facade of the Four Seasons.
"That was quite a ride," Felicia murmured as she removed the helmet. As she slid off the bike and removed the helmet, her gaze swept over the luxurious building. Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pursing into a frown.
"I'm not sure you got the right impression," she stated plainly, her voice taking on a sharp edge. "You're cute, but an expensive hotel room isn't going to get you into my pants." She crossed her arms over her chest, blue eyes flashing. "It doesn't hurt, but that wasn't what I had in mind."
Tyson barked out a laugh at her accusation, the sound rich and unrestrained. He shook his head, lips quirked into an amused grin. "Felicia, this is where I live," he explained, his tone casual and matter-of-fact, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Felicia's frown dissolved into surprise, her defensive posture relaxing as she stared at him incredulously. "You live in a five-star hotel?" she asked, skepticism heavy in her voice.
"Yup," Tyson confirmed with a nonchalant shrug. He nodded towards the hotel's entrance. "Come on, I'll show you."
Felicia hesitated, seeming torn between wariness and curiosity. But after a moment she stepped forward, falling into stride beside Tyson as he led the way inside. Her heels clicked against the polished marble floors as her gaze roved over the elegant lobby appreciatively.
They approached the front desk where the attendant greeted Tyson with familiarity. "Evening Mr. Smith. How can I assist you?"
"Just heading up to my suite," Tyson replied casually. "Can you have some champagne sent up?"
The request was made so naturally as if it was the most ordinary thing to have champagne delivered to one's residence. Felicia watched the exchange silently, taking it all in.
Moments later they were stepping out of the elevator onto the top floor. Tyson led Felicia down the plushly carpeted hallway to a set of double doors. He unlocked them with a keycard and gestured for Felicia to enter first.
Felicia's eyes widened as she stepped into the expansive luxury suite, taking in the sprawling living area that was far larger than most New York apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the space, offering sweeping views of the glittering Manhattan skyline that sparkled into the night. Original artwork adorned the walls while sleek, modern furnishings lent an air of sophisticated elegance to the palatial rooms.
"Well now, color me impressed," Felicia remarked, unable to keep the awe from seeping into her voice as she turned in a slow circle, absorbing the opulent details.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of their champagne. Tyson tipped the server generously after he uncorked the bottle and left two frosted flutes on the coffee table. Tyson lifted the bottle, glancing at Felicia with a roguish twinkle in his eyes as he watched her reaction. Her eyes were wide, taking in the luxurious suite as she stepped further inside. Tyson poured champagne into the glasses as Felicia approached the windows, enthralled by the glittering cityscape.
"How can you even afford a place like this?" she asked, her voice a mix of wonder and curiosity as she accepted the offered glass.
Tyson shrugged nonchalantly, a vague expression on his face. "Let's just say I've got my ways," he replied, intentionally ambiguous. He didn't miss the way her eyes narrowed playfully, clearly not entirely buying his evasion but letting it slide for the moment.
Felicia reached up and pulled off her wig, revealing lustrous white hair that fell around her shoulders in soft waves. Her magnetism intensified as she began to slowly loosen the top buttons of her blouse. Her unbuttoning was a distraction. With her other hand, she reached into her purse, producing a thick wad of cash, then fanned herself with it slightly as her lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Or maybe you acquire things in a similar way to me?" she teased.
Surprise flashed through Tyson. He hadn't even noticed her retrieving the cash from his jacket earlier. Had she done that when they were on the motorcycle? His features morphed into mock indignation. "So you weren't just feeling me up then?" he asked, the words heavy with jest.
Tyson's humor-filled eyes locked with Felicia's, whose gaze held a glint of seriousness underneath the mirth. An impasse formed between them, understanding and curiosity dancing along the edges. Then Tyson chuckled, the warm sound building a bridge between them.
"Yeah, that's how I can afford places like this," he admitted, not entirely truthful but not a total lie either. His smile faded as he ventured further. "But what about you, Felicia? Why the club? Why Oscorp?" The questions hung delicately in the air, a shift from their playful banter.
For a moment, vulnerability flashed across Felicia's face, her confidence wavered. She sat on the plush velvet couch, patting the space beside her in a wordless invitation. Her eyes spoke volumes.
Join me. Understand me.
Tyson moved to sit beside her, intrigued by the glimpse behind her façade. She turned to face him, hesitation in her eyes before she began speaking softly. "It started a few years ago..."
Felicia's eyes took on a faraway look as she delved into her memories, her voice conveying a blend of defiance and sorrow. "It was a day like any other," she began, "or so I had thought until I received an ominous message. 'Fisk wants to see you.' Just that. My heart froze in my chest. One does not get summoned by Wilson Fisk and expect good news."
Tyson leaned forward, his meta-knowledge allowing him to empathize with the precarious position Felicia had found herself in. "The Kingpin..." he murmured softly, acknowledging the gravity that the name held in New York's underworld.
Felicia looked momentarily surprised that he knew of Fisk, but then gave a slight nod, her lustrous white hair swaying gently with the motion. "I was escorted to an office that screamed of wealth and power, of a man who enjoyed the finer things in life while ruling with an iron fist. Everything was lavish yet...ominous." Her slender fingers traced absent patterns on the velvet couch as she spoke. "Fisk was sitting behind a massive desk, like a king holding court from his throne. And then he reminded me..." Her voice hitched almost imperceptibly. "He reminded me about my father."
"Your father?" Tyson prodded gently, seeing the flash of pain in her eyes at the mention of her father.
"He was...is... a complicated man," she admitted. Felicia's gaze grew distant as she recounted the past. "My father was one of the best thieves in the world," she began with a hint of pride in her voice despite the sorrow that lingered at the edges.
"He could slip in and out of anywhere unseen. His skills were unmatched, his reflexes like a cat. I remember watching him practice as a child, mesmerized by his grace and agility as he leaped and spun. He was surprised that I was interested in what he did but fostered it. I was enrolled in gymnastics, martial arts, climbing, all the activities so that I could be like him." A ghost of a smile crossed her lips at the memory before fading.
"But then he got caught, doing a job for Fisk. Of course, he didn't snitch. Loyalty meant everything to my father. He went away for five years." Her voice grew thick with emotion.
"He missed me growing into a teenager, my first school dance, first boyfriend...so many things. I used to imagine him cheering proudly at my gymnastics meets that he never got to see." She blinked rapidly against the sting of tears.
"But even though he didn't snitch, the job for Fisk wasn't finished. There was still a debt owed that didn't just disappear because my father was in prison." Anger and resentment simmered beneath her words.
"And so my family was indebted to the Kingpin. We struggled to get by with my father gone. My mother worked herself to exhaustion trying to make ends meet." Felicia shook her head, old grief and helplessness welling up inside.
"When my father was finally released, Fisk's men were waiting. The first thing he had to do was finish that job from five years prior. It didn't matter that the plan was outdated. His debt had to be repaid."
Felicia paused, taking a shaky breath. "But my father had gotten into a fight in prison, he was stabbed in the leg and let's be honest, he was getting old. He couldn't move like he used to. That's when I decided. If my father was forced back into a life of crime to settle debts that weren't even his, then I would take matters into my own hands."
Her eyes hardened with conviction. "I swore I would pay back every cent through my own skills, free my family from Fisk's chains. And that's exactly what I started doing."
Felicia's confession weighed heavy in the room. Tyson could see the anguish in her eyes as she recounted her father's plight. He imagined the crushing revelation of her taking his place, forced into Fisk's service to repay debts that were not her own.
"So you took your father's place, doing jobs for Fisk?" Tyson surmised, his voice gentle.
Felicia nodded, her eyes flashing with remembered anger. "Exactly. In that first meeting, Fisk slid a dossier across his desk to me. Photos, plans, everything I needed for a job." She spat out the words. "He wanted me to help him acquire some properties in Hell's Kitchen through less than legal means."
Tyson frowned, disgust welling up inside him. "That's low. Blackmailing you with your father’s mistakes."
She let out a sarcastic chuckle, but her eyes held no humor. "Oh, he didn’t see it as blackmail. He called it 'repaying generosity.'" Her voice dripped with contempt. "I was trapped, Tyson. He made sure I knew it wasn't a request. It wasn't just about me. He has a hold over my entire family. I couldn’t refuse, not really."
A heavy silence fell between them with the weight of her confession. Tyson's heart ached for the impossible situation she had been forced into. This changed everything he thought he knew about her. Reaching over, he took one of her hands firmly in his gloved ones, meeting her eyes.
"You're not alone in this, Felicia," he said resolutely. "Fisk is on another level, but he's not untouchable. We can find a way to get you out of this...together."
She searched his eyes with her own, so vulnerable at that moment compared to the confident socialite or sultry thief she portrayed. Felicia's chuckle was devoid of any real mirth. "I appreciate that, Tyson, I really do," she said, her voice tinged with a gentle yet pitying condescension, as though he were a naive child making promises he couldn't possibly keep. She gave his hand a brief squeeze before pulling away, tucking a stray lock of platinum hair behind one ear. "You're sweet for trying to help."
She sighed, a hint of regret audible in her tone. "I don’t even know why I spilled my guts to you. But you?" She shook her head, an ironic twist to her lips. "What can you do? Fisk is rich, and he's got a gang and mercenaries at his beck and call. Sure, you're a tough guy, and you’ve got quick hands." She shot him a wry smirk. "But you’re not on my level of light-fingered. So tell me, what's your play here? Just trying to sweet-talk me out of my catsuit?"
Tyson's smile was slow, confident. He leaned in just a bit closer, his one blue eye, the other green, held her gaze with an intensity that drew her in despite herself.
"My hands aren’t that good," he confessed, his voice low. "I’m a decent thief, but I cheat."
Felicia's brow furrowed, intrigue sparking in her emerald eyes. "Cheat? What do you mean?" She unconsciously mirrored his posture, leaning in.
In response, Tyson simply placed his hand behind his back. When he brought it back into view, the stack of bills from the comedy club was nestled in his palm.
"How did you—" she started, shock widening her eyes.
He cut her off by handing her the money. As she took it, confusion creased her brow. Reaching to tuck the cash back into her designer purse, she paused, startled. The bills were already there. But then... Glancing down at her hand, she found it empty.
When she snapped her head back up, bafflement fluttered across her striking features. Rechecking her purse revealed the money had vanished completely.
Tyson held the stack out towards her once more, the hint of a smirk playing about his lips. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the bills cascading through the air like a magician’s card trick. They swirled around the pair in a green flurry before disappearing entirely, as if they had never been.
Felicia blinked in disbelief. Every bill was back in her purse, stacked neatly as if they'd never left. "How?" was all she managed, her voice an awed whisper.
Tyson posed his question as if he hadn't just performed an impossible feat. "Do you follow the news? Heard about the city's new heroes?" he inquired, a playful challenge dancing in his eyes.
Recognition sparked across Felicia's striking features, her eyes widening as fragments of news reports and rumors swirled together, coalescing into a stunning realization. "Wait...the vigilante from the bridge? The one who took on the Lizard? That was you?" she breathed out, her voice an awed whisper brimming with disbelief and excitement.
Embracing the dramatic reveal, Tyson channeled his inner showman and did his best impression of Jubilee. Conjuring a spectacle of illusory fireworks with a flick of his wrist, he sent the vivid sparks bursting over their heads where they crackled and popped, raining down in a confetti of light that reflected off his playful gaze. "Surprise?" he offered, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
As the illusion faded, Felicia's shock shifted into an impish smile. The familiar sultriness returned to her demeanor as she processed the game-changing revelation. Leaning in, her eyes sparkled with newfound respect and a hint of mischief as she purred, "Well, Mirage, I do believe this changes everything."
Rising fluidly, she closed the distance between them, her hand finding its way to his arm, manicured nails tracing the contours of muscle hidden beneath his long sleeve. "You know, I think we could help each other out," she continued, her voice a throaty whisper, warm breath tickling his ear conspiratorially.
Tyson met her gaze, his own eyes serious despite the curve of his lips. He knew the stakes, knew the challenge they faced with Fisk, but Felicia's confidence was infectious. "I'm listening," he responded.
With a cat-like twinkle in her eye, Felicia stepped back, creating a sliver of space between them. "First, we'll need intel. Fisk's resources, his empire, his weaknesses..."
She paused, a smirk playing at the corner of her ruby lips as a plan took shape. "And for that, we'll have to pull off a little heist of our own. What do you say to a field trip over to Fisk Tower?"
Tyson's laugh was a low rumble, the sound wrapping around them like a shared cloak of camaraderie and anticipation. "It's your world, Felicia," he replied, ready to take on the city's underworld. Together.