In the days that followed, Maya called the student council officers together again, walked them through the situation with Matt, and redrew the budget allocations. Once that was sorted, she slipped back into her default low-activity state — though "low-activity" didn't mean doing nothing. She'd just finished working through graduate-level biology and had moved on to reading cutting-edge genetic engineering research papers.
Unfortunately, she hit a wall almost immediately.
It was like being a student at a lower-tier university back home — she simply couldn't access the databases that mattered. Maya's reputation might be impressive, but her school's credentials weren't. The network didn't connect to the major research institutions' internal systems, and she couldn't look at ongoing experimental data even if she'd wanted to. Some projects were so classified that even the names were redacted. She was stuck reading publicly available information.
She made a decision: the moment she entered high school, she'd find a cutting-edge biomedical research institution in New York and apply for an internship. Even if she learned nothing hands-on, at minimum she'd gain access to internal networks and current genetic research archives.
Tony Stark had none of these problems, naturally. For him, "technical barriers" didn't exist. He could walk into any lab he found interesting and strike up a direct conversation with the project lead.
No wonder Tony Stark always seemed so unfairly blessed — born with a halo over his head, and apparently living on miracle pills.
Maya was still in the middle of that train of thought when faint sounds of an argument drifted up from somewhere below. Her perception — which she'd developed into three distinct modes — was running in its most passive setting.
In full-intensity mode, she could reach down to individual cells, even genetic material. In precision mode, she could read muscle movements in real time to anticipate attacks, or detect shifts in a person's biochemical stress markers to gauge their emotional state. But she couldn't run either of those continuously — the mental fatigue would pile up fast.
The third mode was passive and unfocused — a vague, ambient awareness. It cost almost nothing and let her attention drift across a broad space without actively processing anything.
And right now it had snagged on Matt Murdock.
Maya shifted her attention through several floors, down to wherever Matt was. A few school thugs had him surrounded — a familiar setup, the same old routine.
What happened next, however, was not familiar.
One of the three stepped forward and shoved toward Matt's chest. Matt pivoted sideways, his cane sweeping out at ankle height, and the guy went face-first into the ground.
The other two came in with fists raised. Matt ducked, then jabbed the tip of his cane backward — and the one trying to blindside him buckled, clutching himself, and dropped to his knees. Maya kept her perception away from the specifics of that particular injury.
The third guy was still frozen mid-swing when Matt hooked his cane around the back of the kid's neck and drove a kick into his backside. The guy hit the ground with a thud and stayed there, groaning.
Maya sat back slowly, one arm across her chest, her free hand resting against her chin.
That's… very familiar.
The way Matt had moved — reading each attacker's approach before it arrived, positioning himself to neutralize threats before they fully materialized — it was almost exactly what Maya herself had been doing when she'd taken apart William Beck and his crew a few days ago. She'd mapped out where every punch would land before throwing it, like executing a pre-planned routine.
"Matt Murdock has developed some kind of ability," Maya concluded. "Whether it's the same type of sensory expansion as mine, or something more like telekinesis, or something else entirely—"
She turned it over in her head for a while.
A blind kid. One who — if he didn't go off the rails — was unlikely to become a supervillain.
So. A blind superhero.
The Marvel universe had one of those, didn't it? A minor street-level hero. A vigilante who operated in the neighborhood. Given everything — the background, the location, the fighting instincts — that was almost certainly Matt.
Classic origin story: rough upbringing, poverty, being picked on, trying to save someone, getting hurt, radiation exposure—
The textbook tale of an ordinary underdog mutating into something extraordinary. Though to be fair, Matt remained relatively ordinary by Marvel standards. He mostly just dealt with street crime. Hopefully he'd find a wealthy girlfriend at some point to offset the overall vibe.
Maya couldn't really fault herself for not recognizing him sooner. Daredevil's solo movie had been a box office and critical catastrophe — the kind of failure where both audiences and reviewers agreed it was done. Even among people who'd started watching Marvel content out of completionist duty after Infinity War, almost nobody had gone back and sat through the Daredevil film. Even I fast-forwarded through half of it and gave up. It was genuinely bad. The TV series is another story, but the film? Hard pass.
Regardless, knowing Matt was a future hero didn't require any further involvement from Maya. She had her own schedule to keep.
She returned to her after-school routine — heading out in the afternoons to her part-time job. Her time at school needed to count. She had to keep learning, keep advancing. Because Maya was clear-eyed about one thing: the future was going to be full of people with world-changing technology, and she intended to be the most brilliant star in that sky.
New York. Southern Manhattan. Bowery Street. Authentic Sichuan Spice — a Chinese restaurant. Saturday afternoon, 2:00 p.m.
"Thank you, have a great day — come back soon!" Maya gave a small bow and smiled at the two departing customers as she saw them out.
Her hair today was pulled up in two buns on either side — Chun-Li style, the red cord showing off her high, smooth forehead. Her cheeks had been touched up with two rosy blush circles, and her lips were naturally red without any product. The slight almond shape of her eyes — usually carrying an air of cool composure — was curved up now into little crescents.
She was wearing a tailored red qipao embroidered with orchids.
In short, Maya Hansen looked exactly like a Chinese good-luck charm brought to life.
Today was the restaurant's tenth anniversary. Boss Huang had run a thirty-percent-off anniversary promotion, and that generosity extended to the staff — even part-timers like Maya had been fitted with custom red qipaos to mark the occasion. Everyone was celebrating the restaurant turning ten.
Maya had agreed to be dressed up as the welcoming mascot partly because Huang had always treated her well, and partly because — embarrassing as the outfit was — it was generating a genuinely impressive volume of tips. Honestly, not a bad trade.
American middle schoolers working part-time jobs were completely normal. It cut across class lines. Whether you needed the spending money or just wanted real-world experience, you picked up a job during breaks. Work history could even help with college applications — scholarship committees sometimes contacted their former employers to check on their character.
Even Trump's daughter — whose father owned enough hotels to fill a small city — had taken a part-time job during high school. That was just the culture.