The following day, Midtown High was buzzing. The students were still dissecting the four-way clash from the day before, and the phrase "F*** the Arbiter" echoed through the hallways like a disgruntled mantra.
Thanks to the miraculous restoration of the school, the previously obscure Arbiter had exploded into a dia sensation.
Reporters sward the campus, cornering anyone with a backpack in hopes of a scoop. J. Jonah Jason, anwhile, was hailing the Arbiter as a saint.
In JJJ's eyes, Ghost-Spider was a public nuisance who left destruction in her wake, whereas the Arbiter was a civic hero who saved millions in property damage and ensured the children's education wasn't interrupted.
This blatant double standard had Gwen so fuming that she'd spent her morning web-gluing JJJ's giant face on the Tis Square jumbotron.
"Class, since Mr. Tommy from the Civics departnt unfortunately broke his leg, we have a substitute teacher joining us. Everyone, et Ms. Tasha."
As the horoom teacher spoke, a pair of legs clad in sheer black stockings stepped into view, instantly reviving every slumped male student in the room.
When Ms. Tasha walked in—sporting wavy red hair, sharp features, a killer silhouette, and a professional suit—the classroom erupted.
The boys looked ready to break into tribal war cries; the girls, anwhile, shot looks of pure envy at the woman who had just made them all feel like scrawny middle-schoolers.
Gwen rolled her eyes. Pathetic. At least Peter isn't like— She glanced sideways and let out a sharp huff of indignation.
Not far away, Peter was staring at "Ms. Tasha" without blinking, a peculiar, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
I didn't think you were that kind of guy, Peter! Gwen thought, puffed out her cheeks, glanced at the teacher's generous curves, looked down at her own "stead buns," and sank into a localized depression.
If Peter could hear her, he'd plead innocent. Sure, he was looking—it was hard not to—but he wasn't "chard." He was simply amused that Nick Fury had led with his queen: the Black Widow herself, a staple of the "Marvel Must-Eat List."
"Hello, class."
While Peter found the situation hilarious, Natasha Romanoff was busy scanning the room. As an elite spy, she could read a person's social standing and emotional state by their posture alone. Two students stood out imdiately: Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had squeezed Norman Osborn the night before. While Norman had been vague, ntioning only that Gwen was Connors' assistant and Peter was the genius who solved the Decay Rate Algorithm, it was enough for a professional like Natasha to find the cracks.
The forty-five-minute lecture flew by. As the bell rang, Natasha adjusted her glasses. "Peter Parker? A word in my office, please."
Peter remained calm. He shot Gwen a quick wink and followed the "teacher." As expected, the office was empty. Just the two of them.
"Have a seat." Natasha flashed a sultry smile and crossed her legs. The fabric of her stockings shifted, the curve of her thigh pressing against the chair in a way that scread practiced seduction. She intended to start with so "casual" rapport-building.
But Peter didn't give her the chance. "Let's skip the aningless testing, Agent Natasha Romanoff."
Natasha's entire body went rigid. Her hand instinctively drifted toward her pocket, where a lipstick-sized flash-bang/gun was concealed. "Peter, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Is that so?" Peter smiled and extended a single finger, tapping the solid oak desk.
Thwack.
With a dull thud, his finger pierced the wood like it was wet cardboard. "My patience is limited. If I don't hear the answers I want, you and the man behind you will lose the chance to speak with —permanently."
Peter had considered playing along, but he'd realized there was no point. S.H.I.E.L.D. already suspected him. If he kept acting as the Arbiter, they'd eventually confirm it.
Rather than let Nick Fury show up in his living room to act mysterious, it was better to seize the initiative, make them fear his capabilities, and negotiate from a position of power.
Cold sweat pricked Natasha's forehead. In decades of espionage, she'd never seen a target like this. How did a high schooler know her na? Even if he was a "superhero" who heard about S.H.I.E.L.D. from Osborn, he shouldn't know her specific identity.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be a professional. "Fine. I admit it. Peter—or should I say, Arbiter—I'm here on behalf of Director Nick Fury. Your abilities have imnse strategic value. We want you to serve your country."
She tried the "Patriotism Card." Peter snorted.
"Tis have changed. You didn't think putting on a dog collar just because soone ntioned 'serving the country,' did you?"
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