September 19, 2007
Morning
In late September, the early morning chill in New York always cut a little deeper than the day before. Condensation had gathered against the glass of the apartnt window, tracing slow, erratic lines down the pane.
I sat at my desk, my fingertips unconsciously tracing the edge of the laptop casing. The sky outside was just beginning to brighten.
I had been sitting in this exact position all night.
It wasn't lingering adrenaline from the Hell's Kitchen crossfire. It wasn't the sudden influx of thousands of dollars in hazard pay, either.
It was the quiet, unsettling realization that I apparently no longer needed sleep.
In my old life, pulling an all-nighter to grind Azur Lane events guaranteed a punishing hangover of dizziness and lethargy the next day. Now, I had been awake for over thirty hours, and I felt nothing remotely resembling fatigue.
My consciousness was as sharp and clear as a supercomputer fresh from a diagnostic cycle. Every variable, parater, and predictive trajectory from last night's Fire Control Radar engagent remained perfectly etched in my mory. I could recall the exact milliter distance of every bullet that had missed .
I looked at my reflection in a small desktop mirror. My blue eyes were impossibly clear. There was no redness, no strain, and zero trace of dark circles.
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch in bitter amusent. The kind of existential questions I used to read about in old sci-fi novels were suddenly very relevant to my life. Do androids dream? Do they dream of electric sheep?
Since waking up in this body, I had operated on the assumption that I was a localized manifestation of TB, the Navigator.
But TB was an administrative program, entirely dependent on hardware infrastructure. I was walking around in a physical, biological body that sohow housed processing capabilities far beyond TB's standard specs. Now, even my most basic human physiological requirents were shutting down.
During the long night, I had sifted through every piece of Azur Lane lore in my head. I reviewed TB's core functions, compared them against Siren combat unit paraters, and cross-referenced the technical specs of naval fire control systems.
Nothing definitively explained how or why I had access to a capital ship's combat HUD.
Unless...
A wildly dangerous theory surfaced again, but I forcefully deleted the thought.
Impossible. Don't go down that rabbit hole.
I shook my head, stood up, and threw on the sa white hoodie I had worn the day before. I carefully tucked the mass of my white hair out of sight, leaving only the pale blue tips showing at the collar. I grabbed my backpack, locked the door, and headed for the stairs.
Before leaving the block, I routinely purged the local surveillance feeds. The action had beco entirely subconscious muscle mory. I did not even have to actively think the command; the data just dissolved the mont I entered a cara's field of view.
On the subway, I curled into the far corner of the car, keeping my eyes fixed on my shoes to avoid drawing stares.
Curiosity got the better of , and I attempted to manually boot up the combat interface.
The system engaged instantly. The physical structure of the subway car, the tallic contents of every passenger's pockets, and the exact structural integrity of the tracks five hundred ters ahead all rendered simultaneously in my vision. The HUD even flagged a loose mounting bolt on the rails with absolute, terrifying clarity.
My heart skipped a beat, and I imdiately forcefully disabled the system.
Before I could fully process the implications, the train rolled into my stop.
The front gates of Midtown High School were already swarming with students. The chaotic noise of teenagers shouting and laughing drifted across the street.
I pulled my hood down lower and aid straight for the main doors, hoping to slip into the building unnoticed.
The universe, as usual, had other plans.
"Mira! Good morning!"
The familiar, slightly hesitant voice ca from my right. I paused and looked over to see Peter Parker jogging toward . He had his battered backpack slung over one shoulder, his vintage cara in his hand, and an awkward, hopeful smile on his face.
I let out a heavy internal sigh, resigning myself to the relentless gravity of his narrative arc.
I could not actually hide from him. We shared a horoom, and we attended the sa school. Intentionally ignoring him or power-walking away every single ti we crossed paths would only make look suspicious.
I stopped and offered a microscopic nod. I kept my tone flat, aiming for the bare minimum of social politeness.
"Good morning, Peter."
Peter looked montarily stunned that I had actually responded. His smile widened, and the tips of his ears turned pink.
"Did you just get here too? First period is Dr. Connors for chemistry. The lab is in the science annex, and I figured you might not know where it is yet. I was going to wait by the gates for you."
I looked at his earnest expression and swallowed my instinct to refuse. He was genuinely trying to be helpful, and I honestly had no idea where the science annex was. Getting lost and showing up late to class would just draw more unwanted attention.
"Thank you. I appreciate it," I said quietly.
"It's no problem at all!" Peter waved his hands dismissively, stepping back to let walk beside him. "We can just head over together. Dr. Connors is notoriously strict about punctuality. Last week he locked a kid out of the lab for being three minutes late."
He rambled nervously about the class rules as we walked. I listened in silence, nodding when appropriate, perfectly content to let him fill the air while I maintained a comfortable, unapproachable distance.
Just as we reached the steps of the science annex, a bright, confident voice called out from behind us.
"Morning, Peter! And this must be Mira, right?"
We both stopped and turned around.
The morning sun caught her perfectly. She had bright blonde hair tied back in a neat, practical ponytail. She wore a crisp white blouse and a dark skirt, radiating an aura of effortless competence and easy charm. Her smile was warm, and her eyes were sharp and intelligent.
Gwen Stacy.
I kept my expression neutral, though my internal alarms spiked. Gwen was Peter's brilliant, tragic first love—a cornerstone character whose eventual fate would define a massive part of Spider-Man's psychological trauma.
Peter's face imdiately flushed a deeper shade of red.
"Hey, Gwen! Yeah, this is Mira Vale. She just transferred into our horoom yesterday."
Gwen smiled warmly and stepped forward, extending a hand toward . Her deanor was friendly, polished, and completely unintimidated by my cold exterior.
"Hi, Mira. I'm Gwen Stacy. I'm in your horoom too. I saw you at the board during math yesterday. That was incredibly impressive."
I stared at her extended hand for half a second before giving it a brief, perfunctory shake. My fingers were cool to the touch, and I withdrew my hand imdiately.
"Hello, Stacy. Just Mira is fine."
My tone was just as flat as it had been with Peter, but I intentionally dialed up the formality to establish distance.
"Then you have to call Gwen." She did not seem bothered by my freezing temperature. Her eyes flicked upward, studying the pale blue tips of my hair peeking out from the hood. "Your hair color is amazing. Is that natural? I've never seen that shade of silver-white before."
"Yes. Natural," I said, offering zero elaboration.
"Very cool," Gwen said, her eyes brightening before she tilted her head toward the doors. "We should get inside. Dr. Connors is already in the lab. If we don't grab a station near the exhaust vents, we're going to suffer. It's organic synthesis today, and the fus are brutal."
Peter nodded emphatically. "She's right. The by-products sll like burning plastic. If we get stuck in the back corner, the sll will stick to our clothes all day."
I did not say anything, simply following them into the building.
Gwen walked beside us, easily shifting the conversation to the coursework while occasionally looping in to ask how I was adjusting to New York. Her tone was genuinely inclusive, lacking the cliquish condescension typical of high school royalty.
I answered in nods, shakes of the head, and single-word replies. I was no longer shutting the conversation down aggressively, but I remained heavily fortified.
I knew exactly what these two teenagers were destined for. Getting close to them ant getting dragged into the crosshairs of genetically modified villains and tragic bridge falls. I could not bring myself to be outright cruel to them, so I settled for maintaining a polite, impenetrable wall.
We entered the lab just before the bell.
Dr. Curt Connors stood at the front of the room. He wore a crisp white lab coat and gold-rimd glasses. His right sleeve was pinned up, the arm missing entirely. He projected an aura of severe academic intensity as he arranged his notes. He glanced up as we entered, gave a brief nod, and went back to his work.
I exhaled quietly. We had made it on ti.
The lab stations were designed for pairs. Gwen naturally turned to .
"Mira, do you want to partner up? Peter usually works with Harry, but Harry is out sick today. Since it's your first lab, I can run you through the equipnt protocols."
I paused and glanced at Peter. He was nodding enthusiastically, clearly thrilled by the arrangent.
I quickly ran the variables. Partnering with Gwen was infinitely safer than partnering with Peter. Working with Peter would put directly in the center of his orbit. Gwen was a top-tier student; she would handle the physical chemistry flawlessly, minimizing any chance of an accident drawing attention to us.
"Alright. Thank you," I said, moving to the stool next to her.
Gwen smiled and pushed the lab manual across the black resin counter. "No problem at all. I read through the procedure last night. It's a little dense. I can handle the reagent mixing if you want to log the data?"
"Acceptable."
The final bell rang, and Dr. Connors tapped a marker against the whiteboard to begin the lecture.
His breakdown of the material was highly logical and aggressively dense. Within ten minutes, half the class was struggling to keep their eyes open.
I sat perfectly still, projecting the image of an attentive student. In reality, my processing cycles were entirely focused on the missing arm inside Dr. Connors' lab coat.
I knew what that missing limb ant. Cross-species genetics, reptilian DNA, and a massive lizard tearing up the sewers of New York.
Not my problem. Do not get involved. I forced the thought out of my active mory.
Dr. Connors suddenly paused mid-sentence and locked eyes with .
"Miss Vale. Regarding the nucleophilic substitution we just covered... what is the primary synthetic yield, and what secondary by-products risk contaminating the final solution?"
The drowsy classroom suddenly woke up. Every eye in the room pivoted to my desk.
Gwen subtly nudged my elbow under the table, preparing to whisper the answer.
I was already standing.
I recited the answer with the cold, flat precision of a machine reading a technical manual. I did not just list the primary yield and the by-products. I outlined the exact thermal thresholds, the required purification protocols, and the specific molecular degradation risks if the heating mantle varied by more than two degrees. My answer was vastly more comprehensive than the textbook required.
Dr. Connors stared at for a long mont. The severity in his eyes gave way to pure, unmasked academic appreciation.
"Flawless," he said. "It is clear you have a spectacular grasp of the prerequisite material. Your foundational knowledge is exceptional. Please, have a seat."
Low murmurs rippled across the room. The stares directed at were suddenly filled with a new layer of intimidated respect.
I sat down, my face entirely blank, while I scread internally.
I had done it again.
I just wanted to be invisible. Why did my automated processing keep overriding my survival instincts?
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch in annoyance. I ignored the whispers, ignored Gwen's impressed smile, and stared blankly at the lab equipnt, once again radiating an aura that practically scread do not speak to .
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