The following morning, Midtown High School, New York.
Sunlight filtered through the tall oak leaves, casting dappled patterns on the red brick path. The crisp autumn air carried the fresh scent of recently mowed grass.
Damian appeared at the school gate with an expression that seemed to say, "The gears of fate haven't turned at all… but the chains of life are about to snap."
His bike had broken down the night before, so he'd been forced to take the M11 bus—a humiliation so profound that even the Evil Sword Immortal might've wept in solidarity.
As soon as he stepped through the gates, Damian spotted Gwen Stacy mid-swing, whacking Peter Parker with a textbook.
Faced with her aggression, Peter remained—technically—defiant. He stiffened his neck, flared his nostrils, and declared with theatrical bravado:
"Gwen, I advise you not to go too far!"
He sounded dominant. He exuded the courage of a man ready to face death…
…if death happened to be kneeling on the ground, hugging Gwen's legs like a lost puppy.
The surrounding students barely flinched. Clearly, this was just Tuesday.
Damian strolled past them, tossing out a casual greeting:
"Good morning, Gwen! Doing such strenuous cardio this early?"
Gwen paused, glanced at the languid newcomer, and smiled.
"Morning, Z! Lucky you're not late—again. Mr. Dwight was this close to calling your parents."
Damian yawned, waving a dismissive hand.
"Eh, don't worry. After last time's lesson, I had someone patch into the school database and update my emergency contact to the Nantong Bar's takeout hotline."
"If Mr. Dwight calls, finding my parents'll be hard… but scoring a fleeting binary romance—just 0s and 1s—will be effortless."
Gwen stared at him.
"…Have some decency."
Damian shrugged it off—until he caught Peter's glare: "You owe me. Pay up… preferably with your dignity."
Normally, Damian would've ignored him. But Peter was the closest thing he had to a friend—the idiot he'd tolerated, enabled, and occasionally rescued from his own idiocy. Abandoning him now would be… unkind.
With an exaggerated sigh, Damian turned and offered Gwen a soothing word:
"Gwen, getting angry first thing in the morning is terrible for your skin. Accelerates aging, triggers breakouts, dulls your glow…"
As he spoke, he smoothly plucked the textbook from her hand.
Gwen's scowl softened. Maybe she'd let Peter live.
Peter's eyes shimmered with gratitude. He opened his mouth to say something heartfelt—
—when Damian yanked a metal baseball bat from a nearby sports bag, pressed it into Gwen's palm, and said solemnly:
"As the ancients say: 'Endure for a moment, and your gums bleed. Step back, and your chest aches.' So skip the anger—just beat him properly!"
"That textbook's flimsy. Use this! Better balance… and it won't bruise your hands!"
Peter's gratitude evaporated. He glared, teeth grinding.
Damian patted his shoulder and whispered:
"Don't worry. Given our bond, I'd never just stand by and watch you get beaten."
Peter's eyes widened with hope.
Then Damian closed his eyes, turned his back dramatically, and gestured to Gwen:
"Go on. I want to see rivers flow."
"…" ×2
A beat passed.
With theatrical regret, Damian took the bat back and offered one last consolation:
"Gwen… reconsider. Opportunities like this vanish fast. What if the wind won't stop blowing, but the stick's already gone?"
Gwen didn't answer—she was too busy physically restraining Peter from charging Damian and getting himself hospitalized.
After the trio's chaotic scuffle settled, Damian asked, half-asleep:
"So… what sparked World War III? Peter cheat? Gwen demand a dowry in vibranium?"
Peter rolled his eyes.
"Heh. Sorry to disappoint—but no. We were debating agricultural tech."
Gwen elaborated:
"I read a paper on agricultural innovation before bed. Found it fascinating, so I brought it up with Peter."
Damian blinked. Bedtime reading… was a research paper? New level of nerd.
Before he could ask more, Peter cut in:
"The paper's fine. But we disagree on which country has the strongest agri-tech."
"I say the Netherlands. She says the U.S."
Gwen turned to Damian, curious:
"What about you? Who's #1?"
Damian stroked his chin, eyes distant—then declared with absolute certainty:
"Japan."
Peter's instinct kicked in:
"Huh? Why? Is it because—"
Too late. The trap snapped shut.
Damian's eyes gleamed with mischievous gravity:
"Because Japan cultivates the world's largest crop—mushrooms—and harvests them twice a year."
A beat.
He added, dead serious:
"...The Japanese also harvest twice a year."
Silence. Then—
"…" × ∞
Peter covered his face.
"You're going to hell. There's no appeal."
Damian scoffed.
"Tch. I don't believe in that stuff. And anyway—cursing the Japanese doesn't cancel out your sins!"
Then, as if inspired:
"Actually… I've never understood why Christians revere the cross."
Gwen frowned.
"What's wrong with it?"
Damian's eyes widened in mock revelation.
"Think about it! Would JFK have loved the Mannlicher-Carcano rifle? Would Hawking have treasured his wheelchair? Would Jews adore soap made from their ancestors? Would Louis XVI have framed his guillotine?"
Gwen opened her mouth—closed it. Her moral compass spun like a confused compass.
The agricultural debate was officially dead
.
If Damian kept spouting unhinged analogies, all the good karma Peter and Gwen had earned this semester wouldn't cover today's spiritual debt
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