Three days after the disaster, the front pages of every major media outlet in the United States were still entirely dominated by the Abomination’s attack on Manhattan.
The New York Times ran the headline: “The Return of the Hulk: Disaster or Salvation?” providing a highly detailed timeline of the battle.
However, they devoted an entire full-page spread on the back to a relatively high-definition photograph of Fischl!
Although the image was slightly blurred by the smoke and movement, the young girl’s purple-and-black Gothic dress, her flowing blonde twin-tails, and the imposing longbow wreathed in crackling lightning were all unmistakably clear.
The Daily Bugle was much more direct.
Their front-page headline screamed in massive, bold font: “A LIGHTNING ANGEL DESCENDS ON NEW YORK?” The sub-headline was equally inflammatory: “Green Beast Teams Up With Mysterious Girl While the Military Stands By Helplessly!”
On social media, the hashtag #FindTheThunderGirl had been dominating the trending charts for forty-eight straight hours.
People were analyzing Fischl’s combat footage frame-by-frame, desperately trying to decode the source of her powers.
Numerous fan clubs had sprung up overnight, frantically sharing screenshots of her with captions reading “Prinzessin der Verurteilung.” There were even hardcore cosplay enthusiasts who had stayed up all night sewing identical outfits just to stage photoshoots in Times Square.
Meanwhile, at Midtown High.
Warm sunlight filtered through the tall oak trees, casting a vibrant, dappled mosaic of light and shadow across the brick-red walls of the school buildings.
The glass windows in the hallways reflected the clear blue sky, while the ceiling fans inside the classrooms hummed with a lazy, rhythmic spin.
Inside the gymnasium, the sharp squeak-squeak of rubber soles tearing across the polished hardwood echoed loudly.
The boys ran back and forth across the court, passing the basketball, their sweat glistening under the bright overhead lights.
On the sidelines, the cheerleaders, dressed in tight, breezy tank tops and short skirts, waved their pom-poms to the beat, occasionally letting out high-pitched cheers that sent the players’ testosterone levels through the roof.
Sitting in the bleachers was Mr.
Julian—an active internet degenerate, the undisputed President of the Procrastination and Last-Minute-Cramming Association, a National First-Class Narcoleptic Actor, and the Designated Heir to the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Being Chronically Broke!
He was leaning lazily back against the bleacher seats, showing absolutely zero interest in the intense basketball game playing out in front of him.
He shot a sidelong glance at Peter Parker.
Right now, Peter was holding his camera, pretending to be deeply focused on photographing the players and the cheerleaders.
But every few seconds, the lens would subtly pan over to the opposite bleachers.
Sitting over there was Gwen Stacy.
She wore a pair of white headphones, an Introduction to Molecular Biology textbook open on her lap.
The sunlight streaming through the high windows caught her blonde hair, illuminating her side profile perfectly.
She looked as if she were completely immersed in her reading, but the corners of her mouth were curling up in a faint, unmistakable smile.
Clearly, she had already caught Peter sneaking photos of her.
Yet, instead of calling him out, she deliberately adjusted her posture to ensure she looked absolutely flawless through his viewfinder.
‘I curse you both,’ an anonymous single dog named Julian muttered bitterly from his corner, overflowing with sheer resentment.
‘May your groceries always be overpriced.
May you always be squeezed on the subway.
May you never find toilet paper when you need it.
May you always forget your keys.
May you choke on your food, run out of phone battery, have your eggs stick to the pan, and wake up with a stiff neck…’
Having completely exhausted his roll of film, Peter finally lowered his camera.
He looked in confusion at Julian, who was currently sporting an expression that screamed, ‘Life is meaningless, I am merely a corpse cosplaying as a human.’
“J, what are you mumbling about?” Peter asked.
Julian stared blankly up at the gym ceiling, letting out a heavy, melancholy sigh.
“I’m just wondering when it’ll finally be my turn to experience a sweet, sweet romance!
Honestly, if I can’t get a sweet romance, I’ll happily settle for a salty one, or even a spicy one!”
She had a smoking-hot body and a pretty face.
Looking down at Julian with a bright, charming smile, she said, “Hi!
You’re Julian, right?
I’m Emily.
I saw your video on YouTube.
Everyone is saying it was Chinese Kung Fu, is that true?”
She clasped her hands together excitedly.
“That was just so incredibly cool!
I’ve always wanted to learn Chinese Kung Fu, but I never had the chance.
Could you please teach me?!
In exchange, I can treat you to dinner tonight!
Do you like pizza?
I know a really great pizza place right near the school.
Do you want to go together?!”
Hearing this, Julian looked up and recognized her as the captain of the cheerleading squad, Emily Garcia.
The original owner of his body didn’t have many memories of her, only knowing that she was incredibly popular among the boys at Midtown High thanks to her hot body and sweet looks.
Just moments ago, while she was dancing on the sidelines, half the players on the court couldn’t keep their eyes off her.
Staring at the girl’s eager, expectant expression, Julian didn’t look even remotely surprised or flattered.
Instead, he gave her a slow up-and-down glance before replying in a lazy, completely unbothered tone.
“I’m sorry.
Although I’d really love to score a free meal, you’ve been scammed.
That video is totally fake.
There is no such thing as Chinese Kung Fu.”
He patted his own chest.
“Just look at my frail physique.
I can’t lift anything heavy, and I can’t carry a load.
If someone hits me, I break; if they bump into me, I die!
Let alone beating up Flash and his entire gang like in the video.
“The actual reality is, if we fought, it would only take a single punch…
for Flash to drop to his knees and beg me not to die!
“If you really want to learn some self-defense,” Julian continued, completely deadpan, “I highly recommend you just go buy a handgun and carry it with you.
The American Quick-Draw—it’ll never let you down!”
To emphasize his point, he gave her a solid thumbs-up, looking exactly like a paid spokesperson in a terrible infomercial.
“…Huh?”
Emily froze, staring at Julian with an expression that clearly said, ‘Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?’
“I mean, I don’t know Kung Fu, so I can’t teach you.
Sitting next to him, Peter’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.
He nearly dropped his vintage camera.
Emily’s eyes instantly welled up with red, angry tears.
She spun around and ran away crying.
A few of the other cheerleaders immediately rushed over to comfort her, shooting venomous, hateful glares in Julian’s direction.
Feeling the intense, homicidal aura radiating from the squad, Peter smoothly slid a few seats away from Julian.
“Are you insane?!” Peter hissed, keeping his voice low.
“Weren’t you literally just whining about wanting a sweet romance?
She literally delivered herself right to your door!
And that’s Emily!
She’s the head cheerleader!
Every guy in this school wants to date her!
And you just mercilessly rejected her?!”
Peter leaned in closer, a look of profound, inappropriate sympathy crossing his face.
“Look, be honest with me.
Are you having…
difficulties?
I know a men’s health clinic down in Brooklyn, a friend of mine says the doctors there are top-notch!
If you have some unspoken physical problems down there…”
Before Peter could finish the sentence, Julian waved him off in pure exasperation.
“Can’t you wish for something good to happen to me for once?!”
“You should be grateful!
I didn’t even bring up the possibility that you might have been secretly neutered out of respect for your dignity!” Peter shot back.
“You can’t be this ungrateful.
Anyway, stop changing the subject!
Why on earth did you reject Emily?!”
Hearing this, Julian rubbed his chin, a highly peculiar expression crossing his face.
“How do I put this…
I guess you could say I’m a bit of a psychological germaphobe.
I really don’t like girls who have overly messy personal lives.
And Emily…
as far as I know, her dating history is so rich and extensive you could literally publish it as a book.
A three-part trilogy, at that!
The entire recorded history of the United States probably isn’t that thick!
“Besides, just because she saw some random, short clip of me on YouTube, she suddenly runs over to shower me with all these romantic perks?
No matter how I look at it, it just feels completely wrong.
I highly suspect this is just some sick prank orchestrated by someone who wants to make me look like an idiot.”