Wait. A Musical Chapter?
The halls of Manhattan High are rarely crawling with the heathenistic masses before seven, and most mornings the teachers were more likely to show up at six-thirty than the requested six o’clock. There are three regular exceptions to this rule. The first is Stanley, the head custodian. The second, Steve Rogers. The last exception is Vice Principal Phil Coulson. Some say his early arrival is because he can’t bear to be apart from his precious walkie talkie for more than a few hours. Others blame it on the satisfaction he gets from sitting behind his desk and playing God to his students. The bravest students claim it’s so he can sneak into Fury’s office and pretend to be the menacing principal himself. Sadly, none of this is correct. Should a student happen upon Coulson in his morning routine, “shocked” would be an understatement for how they were feeling.
“Secret agent man!” Coulson somersaulted across an empty hallway and swung around the corner, finger gun at the ready.
He strutted down the hall, headphones in, and paused every now and then to shoot at unsuspecting lockers and suspicious posters.
“Oh no, you let the wrong words slip while kissing persuasive lips. The odds are you won’t live to see tomorrow,” he crooned, spinning to block a blow from an invisible attacker. “Secret agent man! Secret agent man! They’ve given you a number, and taken away your name. Secret agent man!”
He turned and kicked his office door open with a loud “hiya” and pirouetted into his office. He struck a pose very much like one he’d seen Freddie Mercury strike and karate chopped the door shut. Out in the hall, two unfortunate onlookers stood frozen in shock.
“What the actual fuck was that?” Clint screeched.
Darcy shook her head slowly. “This school is insane. Everyone here is crazy.”
“This is what I get for coming to work early? This is the reward of offering a review session before class?” Clint demanded. “I get treated to Black Swan: CIA Edition? I need more coffee.”
Peter unlocked the classroom door and dropped his keys in his bag, his eyes half open. He glanced at the clock and winced. This was his payback for carpooling with Darcy, who had agreed to help Clint with some review session for his students. It was ass o’clock in the morning and he was already at work. He sprawled out on the floor behind his desk and scrolled through his workout playlist. He needed something with a kick to get him in gear. He nodded off through a handful of Metallica songs and half of a rap album his college roommate had gotten for him. He hit shuffle and skipped through a few songs before breaking into a grin and cranking the volume.
This. Was. His. Fucking. Jam.
“I’m an angel with a shotgun fighting till the war’s won. I don’t care if heaven won’t take me back!” Peter was on his feet now, singing into his cell phone. “I’ll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe! Don’t you know you’re everything I have? And IIIIIIIIIIIII wanna live not just surviiiiiiiive!”
“Shake it!”
Peter flailed in surprise, ripping his headphones out. “Jesus, Stark! Warn a guy next time.”
Tony set his coffee down on his desk. “Sorry. The Cab? Really? I never would’ve guessed that one.”
Peter shrugged. “It’s a good song.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. Remind me to suggest karaoke as our next group outing,” Tony teased.
When my fist clenches, crack it open,
Before I use it and lose my cool,
When I smile, tell me some bad news,
Before I laugh and act like a fool.
If I swallow anything evil,
Put your finger down my throat,
If I shiver please give me a blanket,
Keep me warm let me wear your coat.
No one knows what it’s like,
To be the bad man,
To be the sad man,
Behind blue eyes.
Bruce forced himself to roll over, made his body move off the bed and towards the bathroom. He stumbled over the threshold and caught hold of the sink. He shivered in the cool morning air that danced across his sweaty skin. Lifting his head, Bruce peered up through a mess of dark curls, his eyes blurring in the mirror. His hands shook violently as he reached for the small orange bottle.
He hated living his life out of a pill bottle. But not as much as he hated what he was like without the medication. If he looked like a mess now, you’d be shocked at what happened after a few days without a dose. Without them, he was a shell of a human being, a walking corpse. The fear was the worst part if it all. He would be scared of his own body, scared of the traitorous emotions that rule him with an iron fist. One moment he’d be ripping apart anything he could get his hands on, then crying until he passed out from exhaustion and dehydration, then shaking in fear under his bed, terrified of what would happen next.
Yes, without them, he was a shell of a man. With them, he was Dr. Banner. And he would kill to keep his life the way it was.
When God is gone and the devil takes hold,
Who’ll have mercy on your soul?
Oh-oh Death.
If you never met Nick Fury, you wouldn’t believe the majority of what his students- and teachers- had to say about him. For sure, they were dramatic and intimidating. He walked silently because the ghosts of the people he killed were constantly underfoot, their invisible bodies lying in piles so thick that they kept his soles off the ground. The little things he muttered under his breath were ancient curses branded into his brain from his time as a demon. His words carried the very essence of death itself, a single breath enough to kill a man. His eye could turn you to stone where you stood. His long leather coat was made of the hides of his enemies and on rainy days, it bled.
How much of this was true and how much was imagination was all in the mind of the beholder. Most attendees of Manhattan High- one Clint Barton included- believed it all. That isn’t to say they are without good reason. In his time in the Special Forces he played reaper to many people. He did mutter to himself in Latin, but more often than not he was saying the same run of the mill curses everyone else used. When you’re two hundred miles behind enemies line, you learn to be fairly light on your feet and after a decade it becomes a habit. Being in charge of a dozen unruly soldiers whose lives depend on your leadership requires you to be able to issue a command with a single glance. As for his breath, well…it was minty fresh.
Natasha pulled her hair back from her face, tying it up in a messy knot. She rubbed chalk on her hands and surveyed the set up in the gym. This week, the gymnastics team had laid claim to the gym while Coach Odinson worked on baseball with his students. The coach owed her a favor, and had left the gym unlocked so she could use the equipment during her free period. She pushed her headphones in and stepped up to the beam.
Forty-five minutes later, she was breathing heavily and ready for a quick shower. The gym door opened and Darcy stepped inside, lugging a cart of books behind her.
“Hey, Natasha. Working on your routine?” Darcy teased playfully.
Natasha laughed. “You want to see it?”
Darcy chuckled. “Oh absofuckinglutely.”
Natasha scrolled through her music and hooked the device up to the large speakers. She hopped onto the bar and struck a sarcastically serious pose, her chin raised. Darcy watched patiently, a smile on her lips. The music started and Natasha moved gracefully to the beat on the bar. Darcy knew she was messing around, but she could see the real skill behind the parody. The chorus came and Natasha flipped off the beam, landing smoothly. She grabbed Darcy and pulled her up onto the cushy mat.
“The curse on her calls your name to this wicked game called love. Black Widow! Though you know her kisses kill, you can’t resist that deadly thrill, Black Widow!” Natasha sang, her hands in the air and hips twisting.
Darcy laughed and danced along to the music.
Natasha sang into her fist like it was a microphone. “Long legs squeeze you tight, hold you for one endless night! Her touch is cold, her bite is deep, she’s everything you’ll ever need!”
Darcy tripped over her own feet and landed flat on her ass, sending her into a fit of giggles. Natasha helped her to her feet and pressed a hand to her own stomach.
“Between the laughter and the awful singing, I think I’m going to be sick,” Natasha groaned.
Darcy sighed. “God, I needed that.”
Natasha nodded in agreement. “And now what I need is a shower. I’ll see you at lunch.”
I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck,
With a pink carnation and a pick up truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day the music died.
I started singin’ bye bye Miss American Pie,
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry,
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye,
Singin’ “this’ll be the day that I die.”
Steve usually spent his free period grading papers or getting ready for the next day’s lesson. It’s what free periods were for, so he used them wisely. Today, though, he couldn’t help himself. Principal Fury had approached him a few days before about doing a mural in the courtyard of the school. The walls were blank and during the winter, the somehow made the front of the school look even bleaker than usual. Fury wanted a mural to out front to brighten up the place and to show that the school had artistically talented students and teachers. Steve would be in charge of planning and drawing the mural, and he would have a team of student volunteers to help him paint it when the time came.
So after his second class of the day cleared out, he grabbed his sketchbook and a pencil and took up a spot on one of the stone tables in the courtyard. He opened his sketchbook to a blank page and put his pencil to the paper. Every now and then he glanced up to envision the sketch on the wall, bursting with color. The courtyard was fairly quiet, interrupted now and then by passing traffic, so it was easy for Steve to realize he suddenly had company.
“I’m fine, Mom, I promise. You don’t have to come home, really. I talked to Dad this morning and I told him the same thing. I’m a big girl, I don’t need the two of you to come running every time my feelings get hurt. You and Dad have your jobs to worry about. I can take care of myself,” Becca insisted, wandering into the courtyard with her eyes on the ground. “No, I’m not upset with you guys. I love you, I just wish you would call when I wasn’t at school. It’s really weird to get pulled out of class because my mom called the principal to talk to me. Yes, I know you’re worried. No, Mom, I’m not mad. No, you don’t need to apologize. Yeah, I love you, too. I’ll see you and Dad next weekend.”
She disconnected and sat down at one of the stone tables, dropping her forehead to the cold surface.
“Ow,” she moaned to herself.
Steve shifted awkwardly. “Good morning, Becca.”
The girl popped up, her eyes wide. “Oh my god!”
Steve held up his hands. “Sorry to startle you. Is everything okay?”
“Peachy,” she sighed. “My parents are just being protective.”
“Parents tend to do that,” Steve agreed.
She smiled wryly. “In my recent experience, it’s less about being a parent and more about being an adult.”
Steve had the good grace to flush. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, too.”
Becca shrugged. “All is forgiven. What brings you to this lovely courtyard today?”
Steve held up his sketchbook. “I’m planning a mural for that wall. Principal Fury asked me to.”
She was nodding. “Right. He put me in charge of rounding up a group of volunteers to help paint it. Can I see what you have so far?”
“Sure,” Steve stood and joined her at her table.
Becca took the book from him and studied the drawing curiously, glancing up at the wall for a reference. “This is really good. Now I’m even more excited to get started.”
“I’m going to start drawing the base on the wall this weekend. I think we’ll start painting the weekend after,” Steve mused.
“If you need any help this weekend, let me know,” Becca offered.
He smiled. “Thanks. I just might take you up on that.”
Becca stood. “I should get back to class. Nice work on the mural plans, though. I can’t wait to see what it looks like on the wall.”
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man,
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man,
I hear the voices when I’m dreaming,
I can hear them say,
Carry on my wayward son,
There’ll be peace when you are done,
Lay your weary head to rest,
And don’t you cry no more.
“For your next project, I wish for you to draw out your family tree as far back as you are able. Bear in mind that I expect you to go back at least as far as your great-grandparents, and I wish to know as much about them as you can tell me. There are resources online, but I suggest that you first talk to your family members. You can learn more from them than you came from a computer program. You will have one week to complete the project, and I wish for it to be presented in a unique fashion. For those of you who will work on the school play, you may write up a skit perhaps to show your knowledge of your origins. The artists of the class could create a painting or a sculpture. I encourage you to be as creative as possible. If you have any questions, feel free to ask Ms. Lewis or myself,” Loki instructed.
A bored looking boy in the back asked quietly. “Why does our family history matter to the class?”
“It matter, Mr. Matthews, because those of you who are willing to look far enough back may find that you are in fact related to the very people we are studying,” Loki answered. “Now I do doubt you have anything in common with a member of royalty, Mr. Matthews, but perhaps if you look into your personal history you will find answers that explain why you are as infantile as you are. Inbreeding, perhaps.”
A few students choked on their laughter.
Matthews’ eyes narrowed. “Maybe you could show us an example. Have you ever made your own family tree, Mr. Laufeyson. His pale hands clenched at his side and he took a step toward the student. Darcy, sensing a wave of his loathing from across the room, leapt to her feet.
“Out, Matthews!” she ordered.
The boy feigned shock. “What did I do? I was just asking for some clarification.”
“You were being an asshole,” Darcy corrected. “Go see Coulson. Now.”
The teenager grumbled his way down to the front of the room and out the door, dragging his feet. Darcy shut the door behind him and turned back to the class.
“Okay, everyone get started!” she instructed brightly.
Loki nodded his thanks to her and retreated to his desk.
Clint’s favorite part of the first semester was the Song of The Decade project he assigned. Every year, a few weeks into the semester, he gave his students the task of finding a song to represent a certain time period. His students then had to write a short story set in their time period that incorporated bits of the song. It was fun to watch them when they started writing. The majority of students ended up dancing in their seats while they wrote, their heads bobbing along with the rhythm of the song no one else could hear. But the highlight of the project was grading the papers. He would play the song while he read the story, and more often than not he would wind up laughing so hard he cried.
He shuffled through the papers, putting them in chronological order by decade. Opening up his browser, he pulled out the papers from the eighties and got to work. The first couple of papers were decent, but the songs weren’t quite his style. He flipped to the third paper and grinned happily. He typed the song name into the browser quickly and turned up the volume as loud as he dared.
“Shot through the heart! And you’re to blame! Darling, you give love a bad name! I play my part and you play you game! You give love a bad name!” he howled, spinning around in his chair.
He paused to do a cheesy air guitar move and someone cleared their throat behind him.
“Um, Mr. Barton?”
Clint spun around, hitting pause.
“What’s up?” he asked, as if he hadn’t been interrupted making a fool of himself.
The student put his paper down on the desk carefully. “I just wanted to drop this off since I wasn’t in class this morning.”
“Oh, thanks. I’ll add it to the pile. Have a nice day,” Clint smiled.
The kid scurried out of the room, glancing at him over his shoulder. Clint waited until he was gone before hitting play again.
Forget the herse ‘cause I’ll never die
I’ve got nine lives.
Cat’s eyes,
Usin’ every one of them and runnin’ wild,
Yes, I’m back in black!
“Are you Tony Stark?”
Tony looked up at the tall man in the dark suit. “Who wants to know?”
The man removed his sunglasses. “My name is Jacob Hamilton. I work for the Secretary of Defense and-”
“Not interested,” Tony interrupted.
The man faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“Not. Interested,” Tony repeated.
“Sir, you have a duty to your country,” the man began.
Tony crossed his arms. “No shit, Bond. I’ve been supplying my country with the best nonviolent technology known to man for years. I’m doing my part, and I will not be guilted into providing weapons for anyone, even if it is my country. My technology protects, it does not destroy, so whatever it is that the Secretary wants me to work on, I am not interested.”
“Mr. Stark, if you would come with me, the Secretary would like to speak with you privately,” the man insisted.
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “If the Secretary wants to speak with me, he can call Ms. Potts and she will set up a scheduled meeting. If he wants to meet with me off the books, then he wants to discuss something that should not be shared with the public. Since protection is something everyone supports, it would have to be the opposite of that, in which case I am not involving myself with any of it. Thank you for coming, see your way out, and never come back to this school.”
The man hesitated. “We would appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Stark.”
Tony walked over to his classroom door and began to close it. “Fuck you very much. Have a nice day.”
The last class of the day was over, and Loki had headed home, looking tired. Darcy had offered to stay to straighten up the room and to get some grading done. Loki had thanked her and wandered out of the room, his face sadder than she’d ever seen it before. She sat down at his desk and opened her laptop. She pulled up iTunes and a spreadsheet of the students’ grades. She started in on the stack of homework, her blue pen at the ready. Boredom set in pretty quickly. Grading papers was dull work. Darcy slapped her pen down and sat back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. A new song started and she couldn’t help singing along, spinning the chair in crazy circles. The chorus hit and she hopped out of the chair to channel her inner rockstar.
“You’re the voice try and understand it! Make a noise and make it clear oh-oh-oh! We’re not gonna sit in silence! We’re not gonna live with fear oh-oh-oh! This time we know we all can stand together! We have the power to be powerful! Believe it, we can make it better!” Darcy sang, the cheesy eighties moves coming to her as easily as breathing.
At the end of the song she did a mock bow and was surprised when someone started clapping.
“And I thought I was the only one who sang to eighties music alone in my classroom,” Clint teased.
Darcy grinned. “Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t do that?”
Clint chuckled. “You want some help grading those papers?”
“I would be forever in your debt,” she said dramatically.
Mjolnir my hammer I hold it strong,
Defender of Asgard where I belong,
On my chariot the wildest storms I’ll ride,
As thunder speaks and lightning strikes.
And Mjolnir hits I’ll rule the night.
Thor hauled the heavy equipment from the football field into the weight room. He liked nothing more than to coach his young students, to watch them use their strength and bravery in play the way warriors of the old days would use them in a battle. Thor had a pride in his athletes much like the pride a king had in his mightiest warriors. To Thor, they were his warriors. He had trained them, had taught them how to use their skills to beat their peers in shows of wit and skill. No, it wasn’t a fight to the death, and they never meant to draw blood, but Thor saw the ferocity of the playing field and knew better than anyone that when you were playing, it was a battle. You were defending your team, your school, your pride, and you would fight bitterly until the end.
Thor was glad that there were no longer battles like in the days of kings and knights. He was glad that lives were not taken out of vengeance and spite every hour of every day. Now, the battles in life were much different. A sport was a battle. His team was an army. And he was their king, leading them into the fight, and he knew his boys would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he told them to.