The weekend passed in a blur.
No headlines. No whispers. No videos going viral. Just silence.
No one talked about Kick-Ass.
I mean, I didn't expect a parade or anything, but... a part of me hoped that woman might've said something—a news segment, a post, a blurry photo. Anything.
But that's moronic. And more than a little insensitive, considering what she went through.
Still, the vanity in me wanted recognition. A pat on the back. Maybe even a "thanks."
I shoved those thoughts down, locked them up in the same box I kept all the dumb ideas—right next to "Tell Peter everything" and "Wear the suit under your clothes again."
Baby steps.
One good deed at a time. Build a rep slow and quiet.
That's the plan.
But somewhere out there, Kick-Ass was starting to mean something.
And that? That was enough.
---
I spend the rest of the weekend working out—push-ups, crunches, a couple of YouTube routines that looked easy until my body begged for death. By Saturday night I felt like someone had stuffed my muscles with wet cement. By Sunday morning, I moved like an old man.
Peter kept texting me. Half support, half snark.
> "You're not gonna get abs in a weekend, Wade. That's not how science works."
> "Try not to herniate yourself, Kick-Ass."
Fucking smartass. I should've let Flash toss him into a locker one more time. Just once.
Anyway, back to what really matters: me.
I still went out. Still tried to help when I could. Nothing big, nothing costume-worthy. No rooftop theatrics. Just small things—holding doors, stopping some dumb kid from shoplifting a candy bar that later I bought for him, giving directions to an old lady who then tried to set me up with her granddaughter.
The suit stayed under the bed. I wasn't planning on getting into any fights. Not yet. Just the hoodie, the jeans, the usual mask of normalcy.
Because, honestly? I still felt like a fucking idiot in that wetsuit.
But beneath all that?
The idea of it lingered. That feeling. Like I'd started something. Like I had finally taken one step off the edge—and didn't fall.
A leap of faith, or at least a hop.
It felt good. Dangerous. Real.
Still no clue what happened on Friday, though. No divine voice. No glitchy matrix. Maybe some R.O.B. in the clouds pitied me, hit a reset button on my miserable life.
But if that was the case… Not even a heads-up? No Morgan Freeman? No talking screen? C'mon.
Weird.
---
I hate Mondays.
Always have—in this life and the last. Something about the air just feels heavier, like the universe itself woke up cranky and decided to take it out on everyone at once.
This time, I didn't wear the suit under my clothes. Lesson learned. I may be an idiot, but I'm not that stupid.
The suit's in my backpack now, folded underneath notebooks. It's not ideal. Slows me down if things go sideways. But if it ever comes to that, I'll just put the mask on, grab the batons and make it work.
The cafeteria kind of became my unofficial meet-up spot with Peter.
He's my guy in the chair.
Can you believe that?
Spider-Man—well, future Spider-Man, hopefully—is my guy in the chair. How cool is that?
I mean, sure—it'd be cooler if he actually had his powers by now and was out there swinging from rooftops, punching goblins and charming redheads. But instead, he's here geeking out over science stuff and conspiracy theories.
Still. Cool.
I shoveled a questionable meatball into my mouth—might've been beef, might've been shit—and I just pretended it didn't taste like rubber soaked in mystery gravy.
Across from me, Peter was deep in one of his rants. Something about a new algorithm he was coding to optimize data flow or web traffic or—I dunno—microwave burritos. I nodded like I understood even half of it, chewing like I was paying attention. Because hey—gotta support the tech guy.
Then… something felt off.
My Kick-Ass sense was tingling
The usual lunchtime chaos—yelling, laughter, gossip—was just… muted. Like someone had turned the volume down on the entire room.
I paused mid-chew. Blinked. The meatball suddenly felt heavier in my mouth.
I squinted.
Peter had stopped talking mid-sentence—just frozen there, eyes fixed on something behind me. Wide-eyed. Not blinking. Not breathing.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
I groaned softly and closed my eyes in resignation.
"It's Flash. It's Flash, isn't it?"
I turned my head.
Yep.
There he was.
Flash Thompson.
Standing near the entrance like a vulture, his jaw working side to side, eyes scanning until they locked right onto me.
I tried ducking. Nope. Too late.
He zeroed in on me and started walking—fast. Practically jogging, like he couldn't wait to make a scene. His smirk was wide and wolfish, like he'd just spotted a wounded animal.
People were already turning their heads. Whispers started flitting through the cafeteria like smoke.
Peter shifted nervously in his seat. "You want me to fake a seizure?" he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Might buy you thirty seconds. Maybe forty if I add some foaming."
I wasn't like Peter. He could crack a joke when he was nervous, use sarcasm like armor. I didn't have that.
The last two times I tried to be funny, it didn't help me for shit—just made me look like a bigger idiot.
No, I had to do this raw.
I looked at him, and said quickly "Go get a teacher."
Peter hesitated, eyes darting between me and the incoming Flash.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
I stood up, slow but steady. My chair scraped back across the floor, loud enough to draw a few more eyes. "Yeah. I'm sure."
I turned to face Flash dead-on, stepping just slightly to the side so I was in his path—cutting him off before he could make it to our table.
He slowed, only a little, surprised maybe that I wasn't running away. His smirk faltered, then twisted into something meaner. Challenge accepted.
"Wade" he said, voice dripping with a fake-friendly venom.
My fists twitched at my sides, but I didn't lift them. Not yet. This wasn't a fight—not until he made it one.
Flash tilted his head, looming over me. Taller. Broader. Flash Thompson, king of the food chain. But for the first time, I didn't feel like prey. I just felt... grounded.
He noticed that, and said "Oh yeah?" stepping up close, chest puffed. "You think you can take me now or something? Last time I beat your ass, you just hugged me, remember?"
I smiled—tight and steady. Not cocky. Not shaky. Just there. The kind of smile that says try me, idiot.
"Back off, Flash."
That hit a nerve.
His nostrils flared.
And then, the punch.
He swung wide and fast.
I ducked—sloppy, but fast enough. His fist cut through the air where my head had been a split second ago, missing by inches. I felt the wind of it rush past my ear.
Before he could recover, I shot up and shoved him sideways—palms flat against his ribs. Just enough to throw him off balance, not enough to really hurt.
He stumbled hard, sneakers skidding across the cafeteria floor. His elbow slammed into the edge of a lunch table, and someone's tray went flying.
Flash cursed, one hand on the edge of the table to keep himself from falling completely. People gasped. Laughed. Cheered.
I winced a little, raising both hands. "Sorry. My bad." I had to de-escalate things, because I really, really didn't need my Monday turning into a cafeteria brawl.
Flash whipped around, face flushed crimson, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap. His eyes were wide—wild—humiliation boiling down his reasoning. He looked less like a guy and more like a pissed-off honey badger that just got poked one too many times.
I raised my hands, palms out, like I was trying to calm down a wild animal. Or the Hulk.
"Flash, dude… just chill, alright?"
I took a slow step back, keeping my voice level, easy. Like he wasn't trying to redecorate my face.
"Let's not turn this into something stupid. We can talk."
He didn't answer. Just breathed harder, his fists clenching and unclenching like they couldn't wait to meet something soft and punchable. My face.
His ego had just taken a nosedive in front of half the cafeteria—and now the caveman part of his brain was screaming for a rematch.
I could feel it too—that familiar itch under my skin. The adrenaline bubbling, unconsciously gritting my teeth, eager to let my instincts be free.
My muscles tensed on instinct. My body wanted to move. Swing. End it.
And I knew I could win. I could take him.
For once, I had the upper hand.
But I didn't move.
Because yeah—Flash is a jerk. A loudmouth, arrogant, dumbass who thinks muscles make him a man.
But he's still just a kid.
And I'm not here to beat up kids. Even if they're morons like Flash.
I have the strength to be better.
That's the whole point, right?
I don't have to become the bully just because I stopped being the victim.
I always hated the idea—that the oppressed, once they get a taste of power, just turn into the next oppressors. Like it's some kind of natural cycle, like pain is supposed to be passed down like a fucked up family heirloom.
So I stood there.
Palms still raised. Voice steady.
"I'm not gonna fight you, Flash" I said, clear enough for the tables around us to hear. "You can hit me if you want. Go ahead. But I'm not gonna give you the benefit of dragging me down with you."
Flash froze mid-step. Just for a second. Just enough for me to see past the anger.
Most people saw a bully when they looked at Flash Thompson. A loud-mouthed, hot-headed jerk with fists for brains. And yeah—he was that.
But I remembered something he said, back when he still thought I was part of his little pack of idiots.
He told this story—half-brag, half-macho sob tale—about how he used to "take the hits" from his old man so his sister didn't have to.
Said it like it made him a man.
Like it gave him some kind of hero badge.
Everyone laughed. Clapped him on the back. Called him tough. Built different.
But I remembered the look in his eyes.
The way they didn't meet anyone else's. The crack in his voice on the word "sister."
The pause—too long—before he kept talking.
The way he said it like he was reciting lines he'd rehearsed in the mirror a hundred times, trying to get the tone just right.
He wasn't proud.
He was covering something up.
He lied—not about getting hit. That part was probably true. But maybe about how it went down.
Maybe it wasn't some noble, brother act.
Maybe he didn't choose to take the hits.
Maybe there were no choices at all.
Maybe he didn't take the hits at all.
And now here he was. Chest puffed out, fists clenched, breathing like a bull. Trying to wear his dad's shadow like an armor. Trying to be scary so nobody ever sees he's just scared kid underneath it all.
I saw it.
I wasn't gonna fed into his crap.
"I know you're angry, man" I said. Calm. Quiet. Just for him. "But I'm not your enemy."
He paused. Just slightly. Just enough.
And I pushed it.
"Do you really want this?" I asked. "To be like your dad?"
That hit harder than any punch I could've thrown.
His eyes flinched. Just a flicker—but it was there.
I stepped forward, my voice was lower.
"What would your sister think, huh?" I said. "If she saw you right now? If she saw you turning into him?"
The silence that followed didn't feel triumphant. It felt… heavy.
I didn't enjoy saying it. I didn't enjoy any of this.
But he had to hear it. Someone had to say it.
He has to learn that his actions have consequences.
I stepped closer, slowly—like approaching a wounded animal. Close enough to reach out.
And I did.
A hand on his shoulder. Steady. Reassuring. Not challenging. Just… there.
"You can be better than him, Flash."
Simple words. Maybe too simple. But they were true. And sometimes the truth is the heaviest thing you can drop on someone.
He didn't move. Not right away. Just stood there, locked in place, staring at me like I just said the biggest nonsense ever.
Lost.
Confused.
A flicker of disbelief in his eyes like—maybe—some small part of him had hoped for someone to say that to him for a long time.
Then it all collapsed.
His jaw tightened. His body tensed.
And he slapped my hand away like it burned.
He turned on his heel and stormed off, pushing past tables and people without a word. Eyes low. Shoulders high. Hiding himself behind that same old wall of anger.
Because being angry is easier than being vulnerable.
And I just stood there.
Watching him go.
Not proud. Not smug.
Just… quiet.
I didn't win anything.
There was no crowd cheering or moral victory high score.
Just a guy who almost gave in to the violence.
And another who heard the truth—but couldn't accept it.
Not today, at least.
But maybe someday.
---
The rest of the day was… awkward.
People kept looking at me like I was some exotic monkey at the zoo.
Whispers followed me down the hall. Half admiration, half mockery.
Apparently, standing your ground without throwing a punch is more controversial than just throwing one.
Even Peter gave me a look like I had "Moron" stamped across my forehead in neon letters.
Honestly? It was annoying.
But still… it felt good.
Not having to give in.
Not having to throw a fist just to be heard.
Felt like I was following and giving the right example.
The Kick-ass way. My way.
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