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"He absolutely can't know about this."
Peter's voice echoed through the auditorium, raw with pure mortification. Every single one of his classmates froze mid-conversation and whipped their heads around like startled pigeons caught in a sudden gust. Blood rushed to Peter's face, hot and prickling, leaving him wishing desperately for a convenient, building-collapsing alien invasion. Right. Now.
Across the aisle, Ned bit down hard on his knuckles, shoulders shaking with silent, treacherous laughter. Beside him, MJ's pencil flew across her ever-present crisis sketchbook, her brow furrowed in concentration as she captured Peter's existential dread with brutal, artistic efficiency.
And Harley—
God, Midtown School of Science and Technology never stood a chance against Harley Keener. Eight months into his unexpected residency, and the school still collectively reeled, struggling to adjust to his particular strain of chaos. Not the loud, messy kind, but the unsettling, competent kind—the kind that involved advanced robotics projects developing unnerving levels of sentience, strategically deployed minor explosions to "test structural integrity," and an air of knowing exactly what buttons to push.
The Tennessee kid had arrived with little more than a beat-up duffel bag, a hatred for his old school, and a permanent, easy smirk that made teachers a bit afraid. Tony had deposited him at Midtown through some vaguely plausible "Stark Industries Young Innovators Exchange Program" that nobody dared question. Three lab evacuations, two cafeteria robot battles ending in philosophical stalemate via strategically deployed tater tots, and one field trip incident involving Principal Morita's prize-winning toupee later, Harley had become as much a fixture at Midtown as Peter's perpetual tardiness and the mysterious disappearance of the science lab's chemical supplies.
"For a superhero with a secret identity," Harley pushed off the cool cinderblock wall, his Southern accent a low, amused rumble, that smirk firmly in place. "Your volume control rivals a tornado siren. Almost a year of friendship, Parker, and that irony still gets me."
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, mentally attempting to channel inner zen, counting to ten and forgetting this conversation existed. He only made it to four before Ned—treacherous, backstabbing, ex-best friend Ned—leapt headfirst into elaborating on his catastrophic suggestion.
"Dude, you destroyed the 'Boys Are Back' choreography at my Halloween party!" Ned burst out, finally giving in to the laughter bubbling in his chest. "May recorded the whole thing! Even Harley admitted you had moves!"
"That performance was private," Peter's voice cracked embarrassingly right as MJ's pencil stroke got definitively sharper. "I mainlined seventeen Twizzlers and four Dr. Peppers. I rode a sugar high that could've powered the Tower for a week. We all swore that night would die with us!"
"That means nothing in the face of academic desperation," MJ contributed, her eyes still fixed on her sketchbook. Her mouth twitched slightly at the corner—the MJ equivalent of full-blown, hysterical laughter. "Last semester we had the hoverboard fiasco, this semester it's the dance crisis. Your life moves in perfect, comedic circles. Almost as perfect as when you two geniuses stuck yourselves to the lab ceiling for three hours."
"The Ceiling Incident died with the restraining order against that adhesive formula," Harley rubbed his wrist unconsciously where the hyper-adhesive compound had left a faint mark for weeks. He said it with the air of someone discussing a tragic scientific failure. "That compound came this close to revolutionary."
"Yet gravity remains gravity-ing," MJ replied flatly.
Mr. Tucker, standing at the small podium, cleared his throat, a sound that conveyed a mix of professionalism and barely contained enthusiasm. He smoothed his tie, his gaze sweeping over the students. "Students! Enrollment for the 'Applied Physical Expression' course closes today! This is your opportunity to explore the dynamic between physicality and emotion! To find your voice through movement! The Showcase is not merely a final assessment, but a chance to step into the spotlight! To share your unique perspective! And yes, many of you require these critical PA credits. Let this course be your pathway to academic completion! Your chance to find expression!"
"Speaking of incomplete," Flash Thompson materialized beside them with his signature blend of terrible timing, misplaced confidence, and worse judgment. He reeked of cheap cologne and academic desperation that clung to him like a second skin. "Still missing those participation points, Parker? Stark's personal coffee fetcher doesn't qualify as extracurricular?"
Peter's fingers curled involuntarily at his sides. Super-strength worked wonders for stopping runaway trains and lifting collapsed buildings but created problems when fantasizing about launching obnoxious classmates into low-earth orbit while maintaining a non-violent academic record. The mental image of Flash Thompson achieving escape velocity satisfied him a little too much.
Harley stepped forward, his posture shifting subtly, becoming stiller, sharper. Months of witnessing Flash's targeted campaign against Peter had honed Harley's verbal evisceration technique into something precise, cutting, and delivered with unnerving calm.
"You know what?" Harley tilted his head, the Tennessee drawl sharpening like a whetted blade. He spoke softly, forcing Flash to lean in slightly. "I remember that video from the Stark Industries tour. Where you begged to touch Peter's lab badge for 'good luck' while hyperventilating." He paused, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face, but his eyes remained level, assessing. "One wrong move, Flash, and it can—accidentally, of course—become the company training video on 'inappropriate visitor behavior during official facility tours.' Set to a loop. Probably featuring your face in a little picture-in-picture. With sound effects. Maybe a dramatic soundtrack, Mr. Tucker would approve."
Flash's face cycled through a rapid series of expressions that resembled a Windows error screen, his mouth performing an impressive, silent goldfish routine before he managed a weak, strangled, "Whatever, hillbilly," and retreated, his fragile dignity in tatters around his ankles.
"Unnecessary psychological warfare," Peter murmured, appreciation bleeding through his soft admonishment.
"Anyone who sabotages my lab partner's self-esteem forfeits their right to emotional security," Harley shrugged, as if stating basic, fundamental science. He adjusted the strap of his backpack. "Lab partnerships come with certain… benefits. Including my scorched-earth revenge policy. It's in the fine print nobody reads."
He pivoted seamlessly back to their immediate crisis, because Harley Keener possessed a remarkable ability to compartmentalize like an Olympic sport. "Now, about these credits…" He sighed, a quiet sound of weary resignation. "And before you suggest it—no, last month's emergency dive for cover during the spontaneous lab combustion does not qualify as 'choreographed movement.' Already verified with three separate administrators. Mr. Tucker said it lacked 'narrative arc' and 'a clear emotional through-line'. He seemed quite disappointed."
Peter groaned, pulling up his student portal on his phone. The blue light reflected the grim tableau of his impending doom in high definition. "Ten elective points short. Between the whole…" he gestured vaguely ceiling-ward with a low, almost inaudible thwip , their established shorthand for 'swinging around Queens in spandex fighting crime while trying not to die,' "…I neglected the 'maintaining academic normalcy' portion of my life. The part that doesn't involve web fluid calculations. And our robotics presentation crashed and burned—"
"—when our delivery drone achieved sentience and attempted to unionize the vending machines," Harley completed, a dry flatness in his voice. "It submitted a formal grievance about working conditions. To the PTA. Mr. Tucker asked if it could express its struggle through interpretive dance. It declined. Stated it preferred a sit-in."
"Oh my God, the school board's therapy bills continue to accumulate."
"And MJ's brilliant solution involves High School Musical?" Harley's eyebrows ascended slightly, not to his hairline, but to a level of weary incredulity.
"It wasn't my suggestion!" Peter protested vehemently, skewering Ned with a glare that would've made any normal person shrivel into a raisin. Ned did shrink slightly, though not enough to indicate genuine remorse. "I'd prefer fighting the Vulture again to letting Mr. Stark even thinks of witnessing me dancing. His blackmail archives overflow after the company Christmas party karaoke incident. You witnessed my public execution via 'Don't Stop Believin'!"
"To be fair," Harley said, his tone even, assessing. "Tony spiked the punch with Asgardian mead. What followed was alcohol-enhanced physics. Or chemistry. Some branch of science factored into the equation. Chaos theory, mostly"
MJ finally glanced up from her sketchbook, her expression dry, amused, utterly lacking in pity. "The probability of finding another viable credit solution before the showcase is low." She paused, letting the dread sink in before delivering the final blow with practiced timing. "Also, I've already registered both of you."
"You WHAT?" Their synchronized shout turned heads again, earning them another enthusiastic wave and a beaming smile from the teacher at the podium.
"Consider it arts patronage," MJ shrugged, unaffected by their horror. "And I need more inspiration for my portfolio. After documenting ten months of your superhero-adjacent disasters, fresh material became necessary. Two-for-one. Less paperwork. More dramatic potential."
Life, Peter had discovered the moment a radioactive spider decided his bloodstream looked like a five-stars vacation property, had a special talent for taking his carefully made plans and feeding them through a wood chipper. Occasionally with Tony Stark providing color commentary from the sidelines, or, apparently, additional participants.
Twenty minutes later, their emergency summit convened in the boys' bathroom—their traditional crisis headquarters. The room reeked perpetually of industrial cleaner and teenage anxiety.
Harley leaned against the sink, maintaining an infuriating level of composure while Peter paced like a caged animal experiencing an existential breakdown. He moved across the tile, each movement punctuating another catastrophic thought.
"Summarizing our predicament," Harley cataloged on his fingers with scientific precision. "Your semester implodes without these credits. My SI program derails—because apparently engineering a functional quantum engine for Tony's R&D department fails to satisfy 'team-based physical expression,' an educational requirement more ridiculous than DUM-E's fire safety protocols. Our only salvation lies in this showcase, happening fourteen days from now. And your friend—"
"Former friend," Peter corrected, mentally calculating how long he could realistically maintain a grudge against MJ. Probably three hours, max.
"—committed us to performing Disney-approved teenage choreography. Under the enthusiastic direction of Mr. Tucker, who sees us as some kind of untrained dance troupe." He paused, a slow smirk spreading. "Any corrections to this catastrophic outline? Anything I've missed in this elegantly constructed nightmare? Perhaps the strategic placement of prop hubcaps?"
"You missed one critical variable," Peter continued moving, wearing hypothetical trenches into the tile floor. "Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, possessor of unlimited technological surveillance capabilities, who has dedicated the past months to documenting every humiliating moment for his so-called 'Intern Hall of Fame'—can't discover this performance, in any shape or form, or I'll spontaneously dematerialize from shame."
Harley observed him silently for a moment. His shoulders shook slightly, and a quiet chuckle escaped him, more a sound of resignation than mirth, but still undeniably amused. "This is ridiculous," he said, shaking his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I abandoned Tennessee to escape small-town drama, only to spend nearly a year entangled in increasingly absurd situations with you. The quantum tunneling mishap. The DUM-E revolution and subsequent labor dispute. Accidentally sending sixteen pizzas to Dr. Strange's sanctum because you transposed two digits on the address." He met Peter's eyes, the smile turning into a full smirk. "And now, the pinnacle of our shared disaster portfolio—High School Musical: The Parker-Keener Catastrophe. Directed by the exuberantly dramatic Mr. Tucker. The universe has an exquisite sense of humour. Tony's going to love this. If he finds out. Which, let's be honest, is probable."
Peter paused, blinking. "You're not... upset?"
"Oh, I'm upset," Harley assured him, pushing away from the sink. "I'm also deeply, existentially amused. It's a complex emotional state. Like a rollercoaster." He paused again, his expression shifting slightly. "Besides," he added with a calculated nonchalance that didn't quite hide a slight, nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth, "I might know the choreography. My sister maintained a religious devotion to those movies. It's ingrained. Against my will. Like a fungus. A catchy, annoying fungus that makes you want to jump on things."
Peter's expression balanced precariously between disbelief and a fragile, desperate hope. "You'd actually consider this?"
"Consider our options. We need credits. This showcase offers credits." He gestured around the dingy bathroom. "Two weeks of temporary, soul-crushing embarrassment in a room that smells like industrial cleaner should buy a lifetime of Tony Stark never discovering our shame. Provided we're good at keeping secrets. Which, given our track record, is questionable, but worth the gamble." He extended his hand, suddenly businesslike, though his eyes still reflected the fundamental absurdity of their situation. "My proposal: we execute this performance, secure our credits, and carry this secret to our graves. Deal? With non-disclosure agreements. And possibly witness protection."
Peter measured the catastrophic potential for approximately three seconds, weighing it against the equally catastrophic potential of academic failure and Tony's future mockery should he find out anyway. He clasped Harley's hand. "Deal. With non-negotiable conditions. First and foremost: Tony never discovers this. Ever. Not in this timeline, not in any alternate universe where we might exist. This secret dies with us. Burn the evidence, erase the internet, mind-wipe ourselves if necessary. And Ned. And Mr. Tucker."
"Agreed," Harley nodded solemnly, though his eyes glinted with amusement. "Operation: Avoid the Mockingbird officially commences. Phase One: Acquire props. And potentially a fog machine. Mr. Tucker is very pro-atmosphere."
"We are absolutely not using that codename."
"We absolutely are. It's catchy. And technically accurate. He swoops in. Like a mockingbird. A rich, technologically advanced mockingbird. And a camera phone."
Their first rehearsal mirrored a heist movie planning montage, if the heist involved two teenagers trying desperately to hide their dance routine from the most technologically advanced man on the planet while simultaneously trying to live up to their enthusiastic teacher's dramatic expectations. Tower Conference Room B? Aborted instantly when FRIDAY commented on their unusual request.
"Peter, your request for camera deactivation and the repeated playback of 'The Boys Are Back' from High School Musical 3 has been flagged as an unusual activity. Mr. Stark has been alerted." Peter instantly disconnected his phone and pretended the fire alarm blared.
School gym? Derailed by simultaneous basketball practice and Coach Wilson's deeply concerned expression when he caught them trying every locked door, looking like a pair of desperate burglars who might be casing the joint.
Peter's apartment? May walked in halfway through their first stumbling attempts at a side-step sequence, offering both genuinely enthusiastic encouragement ("Oh! Are you boys starting a new hobbie? That's wonderful!") and immediate video recording with such a teasing face that Peter nearly webbed her phone to the ceiling to make it stop.
"What about that storage closet behind the auditorium?" Ned suggested during lunch the next day, his mouth full of the mystery meat the cafeteria insisted was chicken but had never convincingly proven its biological origins. "The drama club only uses it for prop storage. Nobody goes there except before productions."
"Perfect," Harley declared, swiping a fry from Peter's tray with the casual, practiced theft that had somehow become part of their friendship. "No surveillance, minimal traffic, zero chance of Tony making a surprise appearance to 'check on our educational progress'. Unless he develops a sudden interest in dusty mannequins and the lingering scent of dramatic despair. Or is following Mr. Tucker."
"It also smells perpetually of mothballs and adolescent failure," MJ commented without looking up from her book, somehow making the turning pages sound judgmental. "Betty Brant practices her slam poetry there on Thursdays. Bring air freshener. Something industrial-strength. Or maybe fire."
Harley snagged Peter's sleeve after the last period, dragging him through dimly lit, rarely-used back hallways like they were infiltrating a HYDRA base rather than seeking adequate dance space. The storage room door creaked ominously when Harley pushed it open—a sound effect straight from a B-grade horror movie, or possibly in need of WD-40.
"If something in here kills us," Peter muttered, squinting into the darkness, "at least we'll escape the showcase."
"Noted," Harley flipped the light switch, illuminating a space that could generously be described as "cramped" and more accurately described as "where dreams, dusty props, and possibly forgotten drama club members coexist in mutual depression... with excellent acoustics, surprisingly."
Peter propped his phone against a stack of what appeared to be medieval weaponry fashioned from painted cardboard. "I downloaded the video. I figured we'd watch it, break down the choreography, then practice until we either get it right or develop stress-induced amnesia. Or spontaneously combust from sheer awkwardness."
"Sounds about right," Harley nodded, pushing aside what looked suspiciously like a partially dismembered mannequin head wearing a sad little wig. "At least isn't crawling with other people. And might offer props. And minimal judgment."
The video played, showing two Troy and Chad relentlessly executing synchronized dance moves in a junkyard. Peter's internal cringe deepened with each passing second, his face heating up with secondary embarrassment.
"This is worse than I remembered."
"Are you kidding?" Harley leaned in, a glint in his eye. "This is peak Americana. Look at that form. The raw emotional connection to the theme of... reclaiming your space." He had already subtly mimicked three of the moves, his body translating the chaotic energy of the screen into surprisingly coordinated movement. "They're jumping on cars! There's that spinning thing with the iron rod! We can absolutely replicate this. With scientific precision. And a little dramatic flair, for Mr. Tucker'."
Peter stared, mystified by Harley's unexpected, dry commentary on the choreography. "You're actually finding this... interesting, aren't you?"
"Parker, I grew up in Rose Hill, Tennessee—population: boredom and livestock. The highlight of my childhood pre-Tony was when Old Man Jenkins' cow wandered into the First National Bank during mortgage approval day. The entire town talked about it for six months. My standards for excitement exist at subterranean levels. This," he gestured at the video, "is performance art compared to that. It's... compelling in its absurdity."
Thus began the most surreal fourteen days of Peter Parker's existence—an impressive accomplishment given his resume already included spider mutation, a man in a Vulture suit, battling cosmic warlords in space, and watching Thor challenge Clint Barton to a Pop-Tart eating competition that ended with the kitchen ceiling needing structural repairs.
"We need junkyard aesthetics," Harley announced on day two, sketching what appeared to be a detailed blueprint for... dance props? Peter peered over his shoulder at the surprisingly thorough diagram, complete with measurements, material specs, and a risk assessment for projectile items. Of course, Harley would approach Disney with the same precision he used for engine components. "One bandana, minimum. At least one basketball. Something metallic and circular—preferably hubcap-shaped. And ideally, something that suggests 'I'm dancing on top of abandoned cars' without requiring actual vehicles."
"You've... really thought about this," Peter observed, an equal mix of impressed and horrified.
"My sister made me watch the movie seventeen times," Harley's voice remained flat, haunted by the memory. "Seventeen. It lives rent-free in my cerebral cortex right alongside differential equations and that one time I accidentally saw Tony in Iron Man-themed boxer briefs." He shivered slightly. "Some things you can never unsee, Parker. This choreography is one of them. It's etched into my soul."
So the Operation: Prop Acquisition begin with military precision.
Ned handled basketball procurement ("borrowed indefinitely" from the gym storage, with a vaguely worded note promising its return "when the sun rises in the west and sets in the east"). MJ, despite her proclaimed neutrality, contributed hubcaps she'd spray-painted silver ("Found these. Didn't steal them. Maybe.") and milk crates that could be stacked to simulate the junkyard car piles from the movie. Her only comment: "I'm not helping you. I'm creating the optimal conditions for maximum crisis documentation. For posterity." Harley contributed his prized, slightly-greasy SI baseball cap, and Peter reluctantly stealed one old bandana from May.
"This is actually starting to look..." Peter trailed off, surveying their motley collection in the dusty storage room.
"Surprisingly authentic? Artistically resonant? A compelling tableau of urban decay?" Harley adjusted a stacked milk crate with the focus of someone calibrating precision equipment. "Mr. Tucker will be proud."
"I was going to say 'less completely mortifying,' but sure."
By day four, Peter's enhanced reflexes proved more hindrance than help. His body, accustomed to calculating trajectories for web-slinging, dodging bullets, and performing complex mid-air acrobatics, stubbornly refused to execute simple dance steps without overcomplicated risk assessment and unnecessary flips. Troy Bolton's moves shouldn't be this complicated, but somehow Peter was making them look like advanced calculus.
"You're overthinking the transitions!" Harley demonstrated Chad Danforth's turn-step-arm movement combination for the twelfth time, his movements economical and precise. "It's not rocket science! Your body knows what to do if you'd stop trying to calculate shit while executing a simple pivot! Feel the music, Troy! Let the rhythm guide you! Find your truth!"
"Easy for you to say, Chad!" Peter blew his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. "You're not fighting enhanced reflexes that want to turn every simple step into a backflip! My body thinks we're in combat training! It's anticipating threats! It thinks music is an enemy!"
"What if..." Ned interrupted from his usual corner spot, mouth full of Cheetos, the orange dust highlighting his thoughtful expression, "you actually thought of it like fighting? Like, choreographed combat but without the hitting?"
Peter paused mid-frustrated-hair-ruffle. His eyes widened. "That's... actually brilliant."
"Even blind squirrels find occasional nuts," MJ muttered from her sketching corner, though her tone suggested something dangerously close to approval.
Peter closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He reimagined the sequence not as awkward dance steps but as combat moves. The sharp pivot became a combat dodge. The chest-pop and shoulder roll transformed into the same motion he used to slip out of his backpack before a fight. The side-step-with-attitude morphed into a tactical position shift. The basketball spin and pass? Just like tossing a web grenade to Ned during their lab tests. Even the jump-and-point move that Troy does on top of the car hood in the video—that was basically just a superhero landing with extra sass.
When the music restarted, something clicked. His body flowed through the sequence with a new understanding, meeting Harley's movements with unexpected precision.
"Holy crap," MJ murmured, actually looking up from her sketchbook for more than a second. "That almost resembled competence. Or highly stylized urban combat."
"Don't sound so shocked," Peter replied, though a grin broke through his attempted indignation.
"If we maintain this trajectory," Harley calculated, wiping sweat from his forehead with his t-shirt hem, his expression flat, "we might achieve 'not completely mortifying' by showcase night. Possibly even 'mildly acceptable'."
"Let's not oversell our potential," Peter warned, though a smile tugged irrepressibly at his mouth.
Their practice intensified, each session bringing marginal improvements and increased confidence. The looming threat wasn't just academic failure anymore; it was the increasing certainty that Tony Stark knew something. Happy had given them a particularly long, assessing look in the lobby yesterday, mentioning Tony had been asking about their "new extracurriculars". And FRIDAY kept making subtly concerning comments.
"Peter, Mr. Stark inquired about the unusual spike in your consumption of high-fructose corn syrup-based confectionery. He theorizes it is linked to a significant stressor or unusual physical exertion. Additionally, Mr. Tucker called earlier requesting a manifest of available fog machine fluid in the Tower's inventory for 'artistic purposes'. Mr. Stark has been notified of both inquiries."
"He knows!" Peter buried his face in his hands. "He totally knows!"
"He suspects," Harley corrected, ever pragmatic. "Big difference. Suspicion can be managed. Knowledge is a critical failure."
Showcase day arrived with inappropriate cheerfulness. Peter resented the bright optimism—proper apocalypses demanded stormy atmospherics with occasional thunderclaps for dramatic emphasis. Maybe a well-timed lightning strike could vaporize him before he had to perform.
"I might actually vomit," he informed Harley as they huddled backstage among equally nervous, strangely eccentric performers. Someone juggled what looked suspiciously like stolen chemistry equipment while a ventriloquist dummy stared ominously from the corner, its painted eyes following passersby with uncanny, malevolent intent. The air reeked faintly of mothballs, hairspray, and Mr. Tucker's slightly overpowering enthusiasm.
"Projectile anywhere near our props and I'll reconfigure your web shooters to dispense glitter," Harley warned, adjusting the baseball cap he'd "acquired" from Tony for the twenty-third time. They'd assembled surprisingly accurate costumes: distressed jeans, loose-fitting t-shirts layered under open flannels with the sleeves rolled up, and Harley's backwards baseball cap for Chad's look. Peter had even reluctantly tied a red bandana around his head for Troy's signature style, after MJ insisted it was 'non-negotiable for authenticity.' Tony's baseball cap that Harley wore balanced precariously between 'perfect Chad Danforth aesthetic' and 'flashing neon sign announcing our connection to Tony Stark, who might be here, watching, and recording.'"
"Has anyone spotted Tony?" Peter asked for the fourteenth time in as many minutes, peering anxiously between the thick velvet curtain gaps at the gathering audience. "MJ was supposed to text reconnaissance updates. What if she's been compromised? Or is just sketching the ventriloquist dummy in a fabulous costume? Or sketching Tony's reaction face? Or OUR faces?"
"Parker," Harley's forced calm radiated dangerous potential energy, like a compressed spring about to snap. His voice dropped low, even. "If you ask that question one more time, I'm going to weaponize these jazz hands. Directly into your nasal cavity."
"PARKER! KEENER!" Mr. Tucker materialized beside them, bustling forward, clipboard clutched against his chest. His eyes sparkled with opening night jitters and undiluted artistic passion. "Five minutes, darlings! Five minutes until your moment in the spotlight! Are you prepared? Please tell me you're prepared! The board members are here, the house is packed, Mr. Stark is reportedly in the audience, and we simply must make an impact! A truly memorable moment! Unleash your inner performers! Unlike last year's unfortunate incident with the experimental saxophone and the unexpected smoke machine... and the spontaneously combusting prop tree. And the unsupervised robot that tried to unionize the snack bar! And the fire marshall inspection that followed!"
"Absolutely not," Peter stated precisely as Harley declared, "Approximately performance-ready. With a high degree of statistical uncertainty. And impending doom. And a non-zero chance of spontaneous combustion."
Mr. Tucker paused, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. "Oh, the drama! It's palpable! Excellent! Channel that nervous energy into your performance! Let it fuel you! Remember, a C+ minimum guarantees credit qualification! Now go! Break a leg! Find your light! And try not to stick yourselves to the ceiling again, please, it causes structural issues." He bustled away, presumably to oversee other moments of artistic tension or locate missing props or practice his curtain call.
Ned appeared beside them, vibrating with secondhand excitement and enough nervous energy to power a small city. "Guys! The auditorium's packed! Flash just completed his 'magic' performance and dropped everything! Cards everywhere! He tried to salvage it by claiming it demonstrated entropy! Called it 'Chaos Theory in Practice' right as Principal Morita got hit in the face with the ace of spades!"
"Fascinating, Ned," Peter still scanned the audience, his enhanced vision failing to penetrate the sea of indistinct faces under the house lights. "Any sign of—"
"And now," the announcement blared through the auditorium speakers, cutting through their conversation like a theatrical chainsaw, delivered with Mr. Tucker's enthusiastic voice soaring, "please welcome to the stage Peter Parker and Harley Keener, presenting a piece entitled... 'The Boys Are Back'! From High School Musical 3! Let their movement transport you! Prepare to be... moved!"
"Universe, end me," Peter whispered, wondering if Thor could be summoned with a desperate prayer. "Just one lightning bolt. I'm not asking for much. The teacher said finding our light was important. I'd prefer it to be the light of instantaneous disintegration. Or perhaps a dramatically timed power outage."
"Showtime," Harley nudged Peter forward. "Remember our pact—if this fails, at least we'll fail precisely on beat. And hopefully securing those credits. And Mr. Stark is definitely here. Ned confirmed he saw the hair."
"That's not remotely reassuring!"
Blinding stage lights hit them the moment they stepped onto the stage, transforming the auditorium into an indistinct, terrifying shadow sea. Mercifully, this obscured individual faces, though it also meant he couldn't clearly see if Tony was there. For three agonizing seconds, complete, terrifying silence reigned. Peter's enhanced hearing picked up every tiny sound – someone unwrapping candy, someone else whispering "Isn't that the kid who blew up the chemistry lab? The other one looks like he's planning property damage," and the distinct, frantic sound of his own heart attempting to escape his ribcage.
Then the music exploded through the speakers.
Take it back to the place where you know it all began
Something remarkable happened—muscle memory activated like emergency generators during a power outage. Their bodies snapped into well-rehearsed positions, moving with surprising synchronization as the familiar, ridiculous beats washed over them.
We could be anything we wanna be
You can tell by the noise that the boys are back again
Together making history
Peter's consciousness split—half remained firmly in his body, executing the choreography they'd drilled into submission in the sweat-scented closet, while half floated somewhere near the ceiling, watching with detached fascination as they actually pulled this off without major catastrophe. No tripping. No accidental sticking to walls.
The opening verse flowed into the chorus, each movement linking to the next with unexpected fluidity. The basketball bounce-and-pass, the shoulder pop, the synchronized side-step with attitude—their bodies remembered what their nervous brains completely forgot in the face of public performance. Harley wasn't broadly smiling, but a definite, subtle smirk played on his lips as he executed Chad's signature moves with practiced ease, hitting his marks precisely while keeping that essential too-cool-to-care vibe.
Halfway through, Peter caught Harley's eye during one of Troy's spins after jumping off the prop car hood. Instead of panic, he glimpsed that familiar glint of dry amusement, a shared acknowledgement of the ridiculousness. A reluctant grin tugged at Peter's mouth as they launched into the second verse, his red bandana somehow staying perfectly in place despite the movement. The adrenaline rush wasn't entirely unpleasant—surprisingly similar to swinging between buildings, actually, but with the added bonus of power slides across the stage floor and zero risk of plummeting to death. It felt... controlled. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit fun.
The audience, previously a terrifying void, transformed into actual human beings under the stage lights—nodding along, some even cheering. Not the pity reactions he'd expected, but genuine appreciation for two science nerds committing fully to their ridiculous academic salvation plan. Someone even whistled when they nailed Troy and Chad's synchronized basketball trick sequence.
Their confidence built with each successfully executed move. Peter completed a perfect spin, landing precisely as Harley moved across the stage to meet him, his movements efficient and sharp. Their movements sharpened, transitions crisper, elevating the performance from "acceptably mediocre" to "surprisingly competent" to "shockingly entertaining." Harley even added a little flourish with the baseball cap that wasn't in the original choreography but somehow worked perfectly – a casual flip and catch, like it was just another tool.
For seventeen glorious, suspended seconds, Peter forgot everything – academic disaster, potential humiliation, even the looming threat of Tony's discovery. Pure movement absorbed him, riding the ridiculous wave of Troy Bolton's junkyard choreography with unexpected joy. Maybe, just maybe, this was what normal teenagers felt like when they weren't balancing superhero duties with advanced physics homework and trying to keep their multi-billionaire mentor from finding out they were dancing for credits.
They hit the iconic junkyard sequence. Peter grabbed the hubcap Ned had spray-painted silver (and gotten mildly high from the fumes, spending twenty minutes explaining to his mom why he was giggling at the refrigerator). He spun it dramatically before tossing it to Harley, who caught it with unexpected grace, spinning it on his finger before incorporating it into their dance, just like the scene where Troy and Chad reclaim their friendship amid choreographed chaos.
Keep coming with the right, win the fight every single time
Undefeated here in our house, yeah
"Look at Parker go!" someone shouted from the audience. It sounded suspiciously like Coach Wilson, which was... weird, but oddly validating?
We can rock, we can shock, anytime we like
And tonight we're going all out
The music shifted into the bridge—that unmistakable section where they leap between junked cars. Peter and Harley had improvised this part using the stacked milk crates MJ had "borrowed" from the cafeteria and painted to resemble rusty car parts. Harley jumped onto the first crate, striking Chad's exact power pose, arm extended toward Peter in a moment of choreographed brotherhood. His smirk widened, a knowing glint in his eye, completely caught up in the unexpected success of their predicament.
Here to change the world
To solve the mystery, fight the battle, save the girl
No one can stop us now
We're the ones that make the rules, oh
Peter leapt onto his own crate, narrowly avoiding toppling the entire structure thanks to his enhanced balance and a prayer to the patron saint of improvised dance props. They mirrored Troy and Chad's iconic moves, somehow making it look intentional when Harley stumbled slightly and Peter compensated with a controlled hand on his shoulder that transformed into a synchronized spin. The audience actually cheered at their coordinated save.
The boys are back, oh yeah
Betty Brant hit them with the dramatic blue spotlight they'd requested during tech rehearsal—matching the film's moody junkyard lighting. The effect transformed the Midtown stage into a convincing teenage dreamscape. Betty gave them a discreet thumbs up from the booth, her slam poetry experience apparently translating well to dramatic lighting design.
The final chorus approached. Energy surged through Peter's veins—either enhanced adrenaline, the culmination of two weeks of choreographic trauma therapy, or a delayed sugar rush from Ned's Cheetos. They accelerated into the final sequence, grabbing the prop basketballs Ned had acquired from the gym and executing the precise dribble-spin-pass combination that had taken fourteen excruciating attempts to perfect in rehearsal. Their synchronized jumps, coordinated hand movements, and theatrical poses that had once seemed physically impossible now flowed with the strange magic that happens when desperation meets muscle memory and a live audience is surprisingly receptive.
The boys are back
Climbing up the walls anytime we want
No need to worry
Three moves from the finish, Peter's enhanced vision, scanning the audience like a paranoid radar, caught movement at the auditorium's rear entrance. A familiar silhouette. Sunglasses perched atop carefully styled hair. Phone raised, not subtly, at recording height.
Tony Stark.
Oh god.
Peter's rhythm faltered for a millisecond, a microscopic stumble that only his spider-sense noticed, before pure muscle memory dragged him back into formation. Too late to abort. Too late for anything but completion. Too late to fake a medical emergency or spontaneous combustion.
The music swelled, crescendoed to its peak. They struck their final pose—in position, baseball caps tilted at their rehearsed jaunty angles—as the last note echoed triumphantly through the auditorium.
The boys are back
Silence.
Then applause erupted—actual, enthusiastic applause punctuated with genuine cheers and at least one loud wolf whistle that sounded suspiciously like Ned. Flash Thompson sat rigidly in his seat with his arms crossed, scowling, but even MJ applauded with something approaching genuine enthusiasm, though she'd probably deny it later under intense interrogation. Mr. Tucker would be vibrating with delight backstage.
"Harley," Peter hissed through his frozen, performative smile as they held their pose for the requisite three seconds. "Eleven o'clock. Back of the house."
"Don't tell me—" Harley began, his own smile freezing.
"He's here. Recording. Wearing the smirk."
"Well," Harley muttered through his performance grin, which now started to look a little strained, "at least we're getting those credits. Think they'll accept them in the afterlife? Because I'm pretty sure we're dead."
The applause continued as they broke pose, taking quick, slightly stiff bows before power-walking toward the wings like they were being chased by a particularly motivated supervillain.
"Emergency exit!" Peter grabbed Harley's sleeve, pulling him along. "Name changes, Canada, hermit lifestyle. I hear Yukon is nice this time of year. Minimal population, excellent chances of avoiding billionaire mentors. No WiFi. Minimal theatrical opportunities."
"Too late for that, Underoos," came the familiar, amused voice from their intended escape path.
Tony Stark lounged against the backstage wall, phone still raised, his grin suggesting he'd just discovered vibranium, cold fusion, and the most potent blackmail material known to man all rolled into one perfect package. Beside him, Mr. Tucker stood, beaming, wiping a tear from his eye, clutching his clipboard like a precious artifact, looking like the proudest stage dad imaginable.
"Mr. Stark!" Mr. Tucker's voice, ringing with pride and a touch of star-struck awe, called out. "Oh, Mr. Stark! You came! What did you think? They were magnificent, weren't they? Such raw, uninhibited... expression!" He gestured enthusiastically towards the boys, a proud director presenting his stars. "Especially given their scientific backgrounds! A true fusion of disciplines! A modern masterpiece! A compelling narrative told through dynamic movement!"
"Mr. Stark!" Peter yelped, feeling another wave of heat rush to his face.
"Mr. Tucker!" Tony greeted him, a familiar glint in his eye. "Life-altering. Truly. I'll never look at these kids the same way again. The commitment! The sheer... dedication to the craft! Particularly Mr. Parker's interpretation of Troy Bolton. Riveting. And Mr. Keener's masterful command of prop hubcap manipulation. Mr. Tucker, you have a gift."
Mr. Tucker gasped, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Stark! That means the world! I knew they had it in them! They just needed a little... guidance! A little push towards their expressive potential! And perhaps a looming deadline! And knowing their academic future hinged on it!" He looked back at Tony, his eyes wide with hope. "And seeing such... inspiring potential... in your program has made me consider... potential future investments. The arts are so crucial, aren't they? Especially in a STEM school!"
Tony stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking from the flustered boys to the enthusiastic teacher. "Hmm. Potential future investments, you say? For the arts program? I might be persuaded. Especially if it means more... showcases. More opportunities for expressive potential. Perhaps we can discuss... sponsorship?"
Mr. Tucker gasped, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. "Mr. Stark! Are you saying...? Oh, Mr. Stark, that would be... that would be divine! The possibilities! We could expand the program! Hire more faculty! Invest in better lighting! A fog machine that actually works! Glitter cannons! A sprung floor!"
"Let's discuss it," Tony gestured vaguely. "Perhaps over coffee. And maybe a quick review of some other potential performance pieces. I might have a few suggestions. Something with more... dramatic jumps. And maybe a power ballad. And possibly robots. Mr. Tucker, have you considered interpretive dance performed by robots?"
"Oh, Mr. Stark, the mind reels!" Mr. Tucker looked like he might spontaneously burst into song. "The technological possibilities! The narrative! The sheer artistry of a robot finding its expressive core!"
"Mr. Stark!" Peter tried to interject before the situation escalated further into an artistic fever dream involving sentient dance bots.
"Mr. Parker, Mr. Keener!" Mr. Tucker turned to them, beaming, radiating pure, undiluted joy. "You were brilliant! A triumph! The judges awarded you a solid B, which exceeds our credit qualification threshold! You did it! You found your expressive selves! And now... the future of the arts program is looking brighter than ever! Thanks to these two! And Mr. Stark's incredible generosity and vision!" He looked back at Tony. "Such natural talent, Mr. Stark! They just needed a little... nurturing! And a deadline!"
"Don't thank us," Harley said flatly. "Thank sheer, unadulterated panic. And the terrifying potential of academic failure."
Mr. Tucker, however, was already swept into a conversation with Principal Morita about potential endowments and future showcase themes, gesturing grandly, talking about "narrative synergy" and "funding the creative spirit."
"So," Tony clapped his hands together, the sound echoing like a starter pistol for their humiliation marathon, "who's ready for a celebratory ride back to the Tower? I've got the car outside, and FRIDAY's preparing the main screen in the common area for a frame-by-frame analysis of your… technical execution. Rhodey insisted. He specifically requested a slow-motion replay of the hubcap toss. Said it had 'narrative intent' and 'surprising velocity'."
"I'd rather walk home," Peter muttered, the image of FRIDAY dissecting his movements already playing in his mind.
"Through active lava fields," Harley added flatly.
"Wearing lead boots," Peter continued.
"While being chased by whatever that thing was in Queens with the tentacles and the slime," Harley finished.
"Cute, but non-optional," Tony informed them cheerfully. "Happy's waiting. And so is everyone else—they're particularly excited to see what you've been hiding these past weeks. The betting pool was split between a secret robotics fight club and elaborate interpretive dance. Rhodey owes Happy fifty bucks."
The drive back to the Tower redefined excruciating. Tony hummed their performance song throughout the journey, occasionally breaking into poorly suppressed chuckles whenever he caught their mortified expressions in the rearview mirror. Happy kept glancing back from the driver's seat with a mix of confusion and amusement that suggested he'd been thoroughly briefed but couldn't quite believe it until he saw the inevitable video evidence.
"Incidentally," Tony commented casually as they pulled into the Tower's private garage, "when exactly were you planning to inform me about Operation: Avoid the Mockingbird?"
Peter choked on air, spluttering. "How did you—"
"Please," Tony scoffed, killing the engine with a flourish. "I maintain an artificial intelligence that monitors everything of note happening in my building, employ a head of security who reports directly to me, and—most crucially—mentors two chaos gremlins. You two are incapable of keeping secrets, or wiping your browser history related to 'High School Musical choreography tutorial'." He jerked his thumb toward Harley, who bristled with indignation despite the accuracy. "FRIDAY flagged the repeated viewings. And the school emailed me after you registered. Your teacher was... very excited. Sent me the performance schedule. And a request for fog machine fluid."
"That's invasive surveillance," Harley crossed his arms, but a faint smile touched his lips.
"That's effective parenting," Tony corrected automatically, then froze, looking momentarily panicked by his own wording. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean, that's good… mentoring. Obviously. Keeping an eye on the… mentees. And their questionable artistic choices. And ensuring they get the credits they desperately need, despite their best efforts to avoid the necessary coursework. And responding to enthusiastic emails from Mr. Tucker about your need for props. And possibly funding his interpretive dance ideas involving robots."
An uncomfortable silence filled the car as they collectively agreed to ignore the slip, though Peter caught Harley smiling slightly at the floorboard. The weird, complicated "Stark Family" dynamic, whether Tony admitted it or not, was firmly established.
"How much mockery should we anticipate?" Peter finally asked as they rode the elevator upward, steeling himself. "Just to prepare our mental defenses. On a scale of one to ten?"
Tony considered the question with theatrical gravitas. "On a scale from 'mild ribbing over breakfast' to 'this becomes your contact photo for the remainder of your natural existence,' I'd estimate somewhere around..."
The elevator doors opened directly into the common room, revealing the space transformed. A massive banner stretched across the ceiling proclaiming "CONGRATS ON THE SICK MOVES, NERDS! BRAVO! ENCORE!" surrounded by what appeared to be printed screenshots from their performance. There were balloons. And cake. And Rhodey wearing what looked suspiciously like a homemade High School Musical t-shirt, complete with unevenly ironed-on letters. And Pepper holding a small, enthusiastic placard that read "Team Parker-Keener!"
"Broadway's newest sensations arrive!" Rhodey called, raising his glass in mock toast.
"Kill me," Peter whispered.
"Only if you take me with you," Harley whispered back, already eyeing the cake with practiced efficiency.
Three hours, twenty-two video replays of their performance (slow-motion included), and one surprisingly detailed critique of their dance technique from Rhodey ("Your jazz hands lack proper extension, Parker. You've got to commit through the fingertips! Tony, back me up here—he's not getting full articulation through the metacarpals!"), Peter and Harley finally escaped to the relative sanctuary of the lab.
"Well," Harley spun idly in a desk chair, the lingering adrenaline finally starting to fade, "that could have gone worse."
Peter looked up from contemplating the feasibility of building a time machine solely to erase this day from existence. "Name one scenario where this could possibly have gone worse."
"We could have fallen mid-performance. Ripped our pants. Accidentally revealed your secret identity with a spontaneous ceiling-stick. Released an experimental web formula into the ventilation system during the finale. Triggered a school-wide evacuation." He paused, a dry look on his face. "Flash could have recorded it instead of Tony. MJ could have sold tickets and live-streamed it. The ventriloquist dummy could have achieved sentience and joined the number, possibly singing backup. Mr. Tucker could have burst onto stage mid-number for a dramatic interpretive dance segment about academic pressure. He seemed very close to doing that. And he could have been wearing tights." He counted off the possibilities on his fingers with grim logic. "Need I continue? The disaster potential was practically infinite, and we landed somewhere in the lower quartile. Call it a win. A deeply humiliating, but statistical win."
"Point acknowledged," Peter conceded, rubbing his temples. "And we did secure our credits."
"Exactly! Operation successful with minimal casualties! Only our dignity suffered permanent damage, and honestly, after the Christmas party karaoke incident and the drone unionizing, that was already on life support anyway."
Peter laughed reluctantly. The absurdity of it all, now that the immediate threat was past, was starting to feel less like a nightmare and more like… just another Tuesday in their lives. "I still can't believe Tony knew the entire time. And that Mr. Tucker was so... enthusiastic. He really is like... a happy tornado of creativity. And Tony funded it."
"Of course I knew," came Tony's voice as the lab doors slid open, startling them both. "I maintain awareness of everything happening in my Tower. And most activities outside it, especially when they involve my kids engaging in suspicious shenanigans. My surveillance network is robust, Parker. And I taught Keener half of what he knows. The school called me immediately after you registered. Also, Happy mentioned you guys smelled like quote mothballs and desperation unquote."
Peter and Harley exchanged glances at the casual "my kids" reference but strategically avoided commenting. Drawing attention to Tony's occasional parental slips was like poking a particularly grumpy bear—it led to either awkward backtracking or excessive compensation in the form of increased lab restrictions or, worse, mandatory "team-building exercises" that now could involve interpretive dance.
Tony dropped into a chair across from them, his expression softening from manic glee to something quieter, more genuine. "Serious question—why the elaborate secrecy? Did you genuinely think I'd judge you for needing school credits? After the robotics presentation drone incident? My standards for your academic disasters are pretty high. This barely registers. It's... charming, actually. And incredibly funny. And Mr. Tucker is genuinely thrilled. He thinks you're both going to be huge."
"Not judgment," Peter admitted, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "More like..."
"Relentless psychological torture via mockery? And potential enforced participation in future theatrical productions directed by Mr. Tucker?" Harley supplied, finishing Peter's sentence with practiced ease.
"Which I'm still providing," Tony confirmed cheerfully, "but that's entirely different from actual judgment. You understand the distinction, right? This is family bonding through shared humiliation. It builds character. Or at least, comedic timing. You're both developing excellent comedic timing, by the way."
The boys exchanged another communicative glance, the kind they'd perfected over months of lab disasters, superhero adjacent crises, and navigating Tony's unique brand of mentorship.
"I suppose," Peter conceded slowly, "it just seemed so... undignified. Especially compared to everything else we've accomplished. I mean, I've battled interdimensional threats! Harley helped save the world before he could legally drive!"
"Eleven and a half," Harley corrected automatically. "I was eleven and a half, and I mostly just let him crash in my garage and induced a panic attack. But I did throw a snowball at a terrorist, so I feel like that counts on my superhero resume. Somewhere near 'expert level snark'."
"And now we're performing High School Musical choreography for basic academic survival," Peter shook his head. "The cosmic irony approaches painful levels."
Tony remained uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, watching them, prompting both boys to study him with wary anticipation. Quiet Tony was either plotting something catastrophic or about to say something uncomfortably sincere.
"You know what's truly embarrassing?" he finally said, leaning back in the chair. "During my MIT years, I needed a humanities credit to graduate. Ended up in an interpretive dance class because it was the only thing that fit between advanced robotics and computational theory. Required syllabus reading included 'The Philosophical Implications of Modern Dance' and 'Rhythmic Expression as a Form of Social Commentary'. Mr. Tucker and I had a long chat about it."
Peter's eyes widened, utterly flabbergasted. "You are making this up."
"Full leotard," Tony nodded solemnly, completely straight-faced. "Complete with what can only be described as tragic leg warmers. Rhodey possesses photographic evidence, which explains why he's never complained about any blackmail material I might have accumulated over the years. Mutual destruction clause. A beautifully elegant solution."
"This is fabricated," Harley accused, though his grin suggested he desperately wanted it to be true. "You're just trying to make us feel better. Using advanced psychological manipulation tactics. Possibly involving gaslighting. And subtle references to academic theory. And dance terminology."
"Scout's honor," Tony raised his hand, momentarily breaking character. "Ask Pepper if you doubt me. She discovered the video footage once and nearly hospitalized herself laughing. Rhodey was selling tickets to the engineering department for private screenings until I threatened to reprogram DUM-E to follow him around with a fire extinguisher dispensing cold ravioli... or possibly glitter."
"There's video?" Peter practically levitated with delight.
"Absolutely not!" Tony backtracked hastily, suddenly remembering the potential consequences. "That video was contained, analyzed, and placed under maximum security lockdown in a facility that doesn't exist. It was... for my eyes only. For historical documentation. The point is—everyone does embarrassing things to survive school. The trick involves owning it." He leaned forward again, his tone suddenly serious. "And trusting your people not to weaponize it against you... excessively. Or at least knowing they'll only do it because they care. And because it's funny"
The lab settled into a comfortable silence—the kind that comes from shared absurdity and surprising vulnerability.
"So," Harley finally broke the quiet, a smirk returning to his face, "what you're saying is we should have just requested your choreographic expertise from the beginning? Saved ourselves the mothball trauma?"
"God no," Tony laughed, shaking his head. "I would have recorded every excruciating rehearsal second. This way I only captured the polished final product. Much better for the highlights reel. And the potential for future performances. Which, by the way, Mr. Tucker and I had a very productive conversation about. He has ideas. Many, many ideas. Some involving robots. And capes. And glitter."
Peter rolled his eyes, but a smile formed. "Thanks, Mr. Stark."
"For what? The lifetime of mockery you've now inherited? The therapy bills? The potential future starring roles? The funding for glitter cannons?"
"For showing up," Peter answered simply, genuinely meaning it. "Even if it was just for blackmail collection. And, I guess, helping us pass."
Tony looked momentarily blindsided by the genuine sentiment, as often happened when emotions ambushed him mid-snark. He cleared his throat, shifting in the chair. "Yes, well," he sniffed, "someone needed to document this historic event for posterity. And by posterity, I specifically mean the next company picnic slideshow. And maybe the mandatory team-building retreat presentation. And possibly a Super Bowl halftime show guest spot."
"I despise you," Harley informed him without heat, settling back in the desk chair.
"No, you don't," Tony replied easily, standing and ruffling both boys' hair despite their half-hearted protests. "Now come upstairs. I ordered pizza, and Pepper's setting up a High School Musical marathon. For essential research purposes, obviously. Need to study the source material for your next performance. Morita sounded very optimistic about the Fall Showcase."
"NEXT performance?" Peter sat bolt upright again.
"Absolutely," Tony called over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "I'm thinking 'Breaking Free' for the Christmas party. Full costumes this time! Rhodey's already volunteered to play Ms. Darbus. And Happy said he might consider playing the perpetually confused janitor. With a solo spotlight."
As the door closed behind him, Peter and Harley sat in horrified silence for approximately three seconds before dissolving into helpless laughter, the weight of the last two weeks lifting, replaced by the familiar, comfortable burden of being Tony Stark's protegés... and Mr. Tucker's unexpected artistic muses... in a universe determined to combine their superhero lives with the inherent drama of high school musical theatre, now with corporate sponsorship and glitter cannons.
"We're never escaping this, are we?" Peter gasped when he could finally speak again, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
"Not in this timeline," Harley confirmed, catching his breath. "But we secured our credits. And generated a significant amount of high-quality blackmail material. On ourselves. And we might have accidentally funded the school's arts program. And inspired Mr. Tucker's next season. And given Tony new ideas for team-building."
"And incontrovertible evidence that Tony Stark cares enough to attend a high school showcase specifically to embarrass us. And fund interpretive dance. And collaborate with a drama teacher. And order pizza afterwards."
"That too," Harley nodded, offering Peter a hand up from his slumped position. "Come on, Parker. Our adoring public awaits... in the common room, with pizza and incriminating video."
"And apparently a High School Musical marathon," Peter groaned, but he took the hand.
"Could be worse," Harley pointed out as they headed for the elevator, a dry smirk returning. "They could force us to watch interpretive dance videos on repeat. While explaining the philosophical implications. Without pizza. Or Tony's commentary."
"Stop giving him ideas! Both of you!"
Three weeks later, Peter's phone pinged during patrol. He landed on a rooftop overlooking Queens, expecting May's dinner inquiry or Tony's lab update.
Instead, a Midtown administration email appeared: "FALL SHOWCASE ANNOUNCEMENT - RETURNING PERFORMERS ENCOURAGED! (AND HEAVILY SPONSORED THANKS TO A GENEROUS ANONYMOUS DONOR... COUGH COUGH MR. STARK COUGH COUGH) - AN EXCITING SEASON OF ARTISTIC EXPRESSION AHEAD! MR. TUCKER IS THRILLED! GET READY FOR THE DRAMA!"
Below the official announcement, Mr. Tucker had added a small, hopeful personal note, brimming with enthusiasm and dramatic flair:
My Dearest Mr. Parker and Mr. Keener,!!!1!!
Given your remarkable success at the Spring Showcase (a true revelation!! A performance that resonated with profound emotional depth and surprising comedic timing!!), and thanks to the incredibly generous sponsorship from Mr. Stark (a true patron of the arts!! He has such vision!! And funding!), I'm absolutely thrilled to pre-approve you both for the Fall event!! Mr. Stark was particularly taken with your potential for dramatic storytelling through movement! He suggested "What is this feeling?" from Wicked might provide an appropriate, emotionally charged follow-up piece for a dynamic duo! He had such fascinating ideas about the staging and the use of dramatic light and shadow! And potential robot involvement!
This season will be our magnum opus!!! Our artistic journey continues!!! I've already penciled you in! Please confirm your participation at your earliest convenience!!! The sign-up sheet is already posted, and I've already begun preliminary blocking and prop acquisition!! Think glitter cannons, darlings!! Think... narrative velocity!! Think... robots in tutus!!! Mr. Stark is very excited about the robots in tutus!!!
With boundless artistic enthusiasm and glitter! Mr. Tucker!!!!! Director of Applied Physical Expression Midtown School of Science and Technology
Seconds later, his phone rang with Harley's incoming call.
"Did you see—" they began simultaneously, their voices tinged with identical horror.
"He wouldn't," Peter whispered, his enhanced metabolism suddenly feeling sluggish, horror mounting as he dangled his legs over the edge of the roof.
"He absolutely would," Harley's voice carried resignation, but underscored with that familiar dry amusement. "This is Tony 'Psychological Warfare and Philanthropy Via Public Humiliation' Stark we're discussing, collaborating with Mr. 'Dramatic Expression and Robotics Enthusiast' Tucker. He sees an opportunity for ongoing, scheduled humiliation, and he takes it. And monetizes it. And now he's partnered with Mr. Tucker to ensure maximum artistic impact. The theatrical potential is... exponential. And terrifying. And involves robots in tutus."
"But... but..."
"Consider the positive angle," Harley suggested, his voice crackling through the phone line with that particular blend of resignation and evil genius that only comes from spending too much time with Tony Stark and encountering Mr. Tucker. "Guaranteed credits for next semester. Possibly free pizza and better props courtesy of Stark Industries. And this time... this time we'll be prepared. We can lean into the absurdity. And we get to see robots in tutus."
"Harley!"
"Just thinking ahead, Parker. Just thinking ahead. It's the logical next step. The universe demands an encore. Mr. Tucker demands dramatic commitment and funding. And Tony... Tony demands a spectacle. Preferably involving us. And glitter cannons. And robots in tutus. Apparently."