Marvel: Life is Good

Work in the lab with McCoy dragged on until evening, with Jennifer eventually joining us. Once Banner caught up with what we were doing, she suggested adding an air filtration system to my mask. She pointed out that relying solely on holding breath to avoid poisons wasn't exactly foolproof; besides there are toxins that can work just by touching your skin. So yeah, better safe than sorry. Beast promised to cram the necessary filters into my mask, and then we got back to experimenting with my powers.

After a series of electricity tests, the suit design got an upgrade: mini-harpoons built into the forearms, kind of like stun guns. They shoot darts up to fifteen meters, attached by a thin cable that delivers a jolt when I charge it. Coolest part? If the conductor burns out but I keep the juice flowing, the arc will stay fixed to the same spot, frying it like a lightning laser. In my energy vision, the path the current took glows a pale green for about a second after I cut the flow, then it just fades into nothing. Unfortunately, I can't manipulate this "lightning trail," but I made a mental note: if I ever meet the local Spider-Girl, I'll beg for her web-shooters with conductive webbing.

Controlling energy is my biggest problem. I can generate it and adjust its output, but once it's out, I can't manipulate it. Like the saying goes: the eye sees, but the hand can't reach. The only exception so far is thermal energy—I can heat things up or control temperature over an area, either a small part or an entire object. Honestly? It pisses me off beyond belief. Even basic fine control of thermal energy with my energy vision would be a game-changer. Imagine a fight where I could fry specific muscles or tendons from eleven meters away, right through walls or other obstacles—no need to charge in like a lunatic. I'd be the ultimate infiltrator. Every mission in a closed space would just be a walk in the park, leaving opponents drooling and helpless behind me. Hell, I wouldn't even need to hurt anyone. Just induce heatstroke—boom. They'd either collapse unconscious or start projectile-vomiting like a human fountain.

And that's just the basic stuff. If I ever learn how to generate kinetic impulses, flinging plasma bolts could become my reality. Or imagine manipulating electricity like Magneto's long-lost grandson—magnetic fields galore. I could turn into a human railgun, shooting chunks of metal at supersonic speeds. And don't even get me started on light manipulation. If I could focus a beam with the right properties, Cyclops would wet himself with envy.

Even someone like me, a scientific idiot, can see the potential. McCoy? She dreams about my power potential more than I do—and honestly, her enthusiasm is kind of terrifying sometimes.

The whole situation with my powers is like being a toddler who just figured out he has arms and legs. I can move them, but coordination? Nonexistent. Fine motor skills? Laughable. Doing anything more complicated than a basic "grab-the-boob" is hard as hell. What kept me sane back then was knowing it would all work out eventually, so I just put up with it. I really hope it's the same with my powers.

This is probably the biggest challenge for mutants: figuring out your abilities is like stumbling around a forest where nobody's ever set foot before. There's no standard curriculum like there is for mages or cultivators with their polished dantians. Being a pioneer sucks—especially when you realize your hard-earned knowledge might never help anyone else.

Later that evening, I caught a news report about myself. Yeah… it was a massive ego boost.

There were interviews with the rescued women. They described their nightmarish captivity and the horror of their conditions before a mysterious mutant came to the rescue. One after another, they gushed about how I melted locks, stayed calm, and treated them kindly. Captain Julia Stacy even made a public statement promising that justice would be served, and the trafficking ring was already under investigation. Naturally, she didn't come up with that herself—orders from above, no doubt—but she did look straight into the camera and thank me with real sincerity.

Felt good. Damn good.

Yuriko found me afterward for a "talk." Which was less a conversation and more her handing me a brutal new training schedule. Along with the usual stuff, it now included "tactical games," "field exercises," and "marksmanship." That last one probably means gun drills—I hadn't touched a firearm since coming to the School. She didn't bother explaining the first two because, you know, classic stoic Japanese warrior woman. I guess I'll find out soon enough. She also let me know that I'm now on call for missions at any time, day or night, and my gear had better be ready when duty calls.

Looking at the schedule, it was clear I'd have exactly zero free time. Six to seven hours of training a day—on top of studying to catch up on this Earth's history, literature, and general knowledge.

The next morning confirmed my fears. I hadn't even opened my eyes before the demoness dumped a bucket of ice water on me at five a.m. Naturally, I just rolled over and kept snoring. She had to shove me off the bed to get my attention. I swear, the look on her face when she remembered my resistance to cold was priceless. Too bad I was too groggy to gloat properly.

Training now starts at the crack of dawn: jogging, exercises, sparring, then breakfast at half-past eight. By then, I'm already dead on my feet. Oh, and charging up during morning drills? Forbidden. I have to crawl to the charging station afterward, fill my energy reserves, then drag my sorry ass to breakfast before staggering into class or hitting the books for my self-study sessions.

Afternoons? More of Yuriko kicking my ass in brutal one-on-ones while everyone else watches in horrified sympathy. She calls it "warm-up."

Then come tactical games or field exercises. The former happens in the School's training rooms, but for the latter, we head into abandoned buildings around the city. During the drive, I'm stuck studying tactical guides and special forces handbooks. Yuriko quizzes me on what I read, asking for my take on tactics that are useless for someone with my powers and how I'd adapt or replace them.

After finishing this part, we headed to the shooting range, where I got to fire all kinds of weapons, from pistols to assault rifles. Unfortunately, they didn't let me handle machine guns. Basically, Sensei—yes, that's what I started calling her—took me under her wing, seriously. Yuriko reacted to her new title with a satisfied squint, though it quickly disappeared behind her usual stone-faced expression. A stone cold samurai, damn it.

Logan trained the junior X-team girls in a similar way, but their sessions were at least twice as easy. I didn't complain—manly pride, you know? Besides, Oyama gave me these looks that practically screamed, "Whine even once, and you'll be tossed aside and forgotten." While I valued comfort, I respected free stuff even more—if you get a top-tier mentor for free, you give it your all so you don't disappoint her.

After shooting practice, it was time for dinner, followed by homework. Kristi and I did it together since we barely had time to hang out now. We'd snuggle on my bed for half an hour, talking, kissing from time to time. Sure, I wanted more, but no need to go overboard—recharging my "battery" restored physical stamina, so I wasn't dead-tired by evening, but mentally? Drained as hell. Then she'd teleport to her room, I'd spend thirty minutes catching up with friends and family, and I'd crash.

The Sunday after my debut as a mutant hero, the girls had a patrol. Two teams: Wolverine-Rogue-Kristi and Storm-Kitty-Colossus. Adventure only found the first group. Well, if you call it adventure. Two dumbasses decided to rob a store just as our team drove by. The girls handled it quickly and smoothly: Kristi blinked behind one of them, teleported her to Rogue, who slapped the gun away and KO'd her with a touch. Rinse, repeat, success. The thieves ended up tied up outside the shop, and the cashier handed out chocolate bars as thanks. 

Rogue wasn't thrilled with the easy win, but Kristi was practically squealing—she's super insecure about her looks, so being thanked and given candy instead of scaring people? Yeah, that made her night. Logan was his usual "I'm so done with this shit" self, nothing surprising there. Storm, though, wasn't pleased. Her team had nothing but cleanup duty—Hell's Kitchen scuffles were already handled by the time she finished her briefing. Daredevil doesn't mess around—fast, brutal, and efficient. All they did was tie up the bodies and call the cops, just in case.

Anyway, the senior mutants were hell-bent on improving our image. Under their watch, we're putting their plans into action and gaining experience. No, not all the work will fall to the kids, but we'll handle patrols and minor dust-ups. Was I against it? Not a chance. Combat practice in real conditions and actual community work? Win-win. Plus, I don't like freeloading, so I welcomed the opportunity.

My next outing was Wednesday. Same deal: middle-of-the-night wake-up call, Yuriko looming over me, car ride. Except this time, I was fully charged before we left. Our target wasn't slavers—it was a drug dealer's "office" in the city. Nothing fancy: a stash house for cash and product with about twenty guys, no supers. Yuriko's intel said they mostly carried SMGs and pistols, with a few defensive grenades I was strongly advised to avoid.

"Tobias, listen carefully. The building's in a rough part of Queens. We park two hundred meters away. I'll block the back entrance and jam the signals in the area but the battery will last twenty minutes. No landline, so no need to cut wires. You go in the front, knock them out, tie them up, call Captain Stacy, and we leave."

I paid close attention, helmet-mask resting on my lap, shoulders draped in a plain gray trench coat for low-profile city wear.

"Three floors, barred windows. Two entrances—front and back. No fire escape. Stay quiet. If your performance is acceptable, I'll arrange a meeting with your school buddies. I won't give you a floor plan—use your vision. It's an old apartment building—one staircase, three units per floor. No cameras except the intercom. Questions?"

"Why Captain Stacy?"

"You are in her good graces after you saved her daughter, it's her precinct, she's not corrupt, and she won't bury it."

"Got it. Can I have a gun?"

"No. Civilian arrest is one thing. A minor with a weapon? Totally different." Oyama's grin turned wolfish as she let out a terrifying chuckle. "Beat them up, bite them if you want."

She barked a laugh that made me shiver. Comedy gold, this one.

We rode in silence after that. I rehearsed my approach in my head—bet it wouldn't go as smoothly as last time. This wasn't some isolated house but a gang hideout in a crowded area. The thugs would be on edge, ready for trouble. First, scout if I could. If not, go for a blitz: strobe, shock touch, harpoons—my go-to tools. Thermal moves for locks or emergencies. No fatalities—not because I'm a saint, but because we need a good rep.

Lost in thought, I didn't notice we'd arrived until the car stopped. Yuriko was already pulling on a balaclava and grabbing her compact EMP rig. I ditched the coat, pulled up my hood, secured my mask, and checked my harpoons. Everything ready.

I nodded at her, stepped out, and walked to the alley. Two women smoked by the metal back door, jackets bulging with hidden guns. Two clicks, shots fired—electricity coursed through them. They danced like puppets on live wires before my harpoons retracted. As Yuriko set up her jammer and tied them up, I moved to the front entrance. No one gets away. If shooting started, word would spread fast. The longer the silence, the better.

On my way in, I carefully "scanned" for enemies. First floor: seven targets. Two sleeping, two stationed by the entrance, three inside a room, sorting something—judging by their movements—and a couple going at it, having very enthusiastic sex. I almost made a full sweep when I spotted five more on the second floor, all asleep. The third floor? My range wasn't that big, but I picked up a pair sitting together.

I decided to keep it simple and repeat my previous approach. I chose a spot with no people and started cutting through the bars. The metal wasn't easy to handle, so I sliced it into sections, carefully lowering each piece to the ground. Everything was going smoothly… until a thermal signature suddenly dropped behind me and straightened into a human silhouette.

Then came that voice—Petra Parker's unmistakably familiar, intentionally cheerful tone—asking the dumbest question possible:

"Sir, do you have a permit for welding work?"

'Yeah, no shit,' I thought, slowly turning to face the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Girl, who was now going to want a word with me. At least she didn't shout. She said it quietly enough. Small mercies.