Rogue Replacement: A Marvel Story

Date: Wednesday, December 15, 2010.

Location: Chikara Dojo, Manhattan, New York

Tyson shifted fluidly into another fighting stance, the long wooden shaft of the spear gliding smoothly through the air with a swoosh as he moved. With no beginner class today, he had been thrust into intense training under the watchful eye of Sensei Colleen who was assisted by the relentless drilling of Natalie.

When he'd started practicing with the spear, the weapon felt foreign in his hands. Its length and balance dictated a different rhythm of movement than what Tyson was accustomed to. Yet he could not deny the advantage it granted with its extended reach and long shaft, allowing both defense and attack simultaneously.

"And...relax," Colleen finally announced, signaling the conclusion of that day's training session. Tyson exhaled deeply as he returned the spear to the rack on the wall.

"You're getting the hang of it," Natalie noted approvingly. Her tone was friendly but with an undertone of challenge that perpetually lingered between them.

"Thanks," Tyson replied appreciatively, wiping the sweat from his face. "Not sure when I'd ever use a spear, but it's good to learn."

As they walked out of the training area, Natalie casually threw a slender arm around his shoulder. "So, hungry? We could grab a bite together. Unless," she added teasingly with a grin, "your phone-girlfriend might have objections? Or maybe you're saving your appetite for another 'research session' with Felicia?"

He chuckled while shaking his head in amusement. "First, the girl on the phone still isn't my girlfriend. Second, even if we did go on a date, Felicia and I aren't exactly exclusive. She's more of a free spirit, it's not really her style."

"Ah, lucky you," Natalie joked, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "So, want to get some food then?"

"Yeah, food sounds great," Tyson agreed readily.

Rather than walking to a nearby restaurant as he had anticipated, she led him instead to his own motorcycle, coming to a stop beside the sleek black bike. Tyson's eyebrow arched upwards as a grin spread across his face, realizing Natalie's true intention. This was an unexpected turn of events. She stood confidently next to the motorcycle, one hand extended demandingly for the keys, an excited gleam in her emerald eyes. Her lips curved into a daring smile as she asked, "Do you mind if we go back to your place first to freshen up?"

Amusement colored Tyson's tone as he dropped the keys into her waiting palm, the metal warm from being in his pocket. "Alright, I'm staying at the Four Seasons Downtown."

With athletic grace that spoke of familiarity, Natalie swung her leg over the motorcycle, the movement fluid and practiced. She settled onto the leather seat, posture shifting as she leaned forward enticingly, back arching in a subtle but alluring display of confidence that did not go unnoticed by Tyson.

Taking a steadying breath, he moved to join her on the bike, the machine rumbling idly beneath them. As he swung his leg over the seat, he became acutely aware of their close proximity, of how he had to lean into her slender frame. His chest pressed gently against her back, his arms coming around her waist in an intimate embrace. The engine roared to life with a low, thrilling rumble. Natalie revved it eagerly, the throaty growl a clear signal she had no intentions of taking it slow. Her hair, just inches from Tyson's face, held that same sweet scent of exotic spices from when they had first met, though the traces of gunpowder had faded slightly. And as the motorcycle lurched forward, he had no choice but to hold on even tighter.

The city lights streaked past in a blur as Natalie expertly navigated the motorcycle through the streets. The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from Tyson's chest pressed against her back. Every tilt and turn of the bike pushed their bodies closer together, the position far more intimate than what would normally occur between a "teacher" and "student".

Tyson could feel the steady beat of her heart against his chest over the throaty rumble of the engine. The thrill of the ride and the allure of the woman in control of the motorcycle, coupled with the lingering sweet scent of exotic spices in her hair, left him intoxicated. As they rode, the rest of the world faded away until it was reduced to just the space between their forms.

The rumbling engine died down as Natalie turned the key and brought them to a stop. Tyson felt a mix of exhilaration from the ride warring with a growing sense of apprehension now that they had arrived at his apartment building. Natalie's confident strides as she led them unerringly through the opulent lobby and straight to the elevator did nothing to ease his caution. Her casual comment about the extravagance of the place only heightened his concern. They ascended in the elevator, and Tyson mentally noted that he hadn't told Natalie which floor he lived on, yet she had pressed the button for the top floor without hesitation. The sleek doors slid open to reveal the familiar hallway leading to the Empire suite where he was staying. Natalie's casual ease and familiarity with the building did little to calm the worry brewing in Tyson's chest.

"Top floor, fancy," Natalie remarked as she sauntered into the expansive Empire suite, her gaze sweeping appreciatively over the luxurious furnishings. A small smile played on her lips. "This has to be one of the nicest rooms in Manhattan. It's bigger than most of the apartments I've seen...at least double the size of mine."

Though her words were innocuous, Tyson knew better than to let down his guard. Natalie's true motives were obscured beneath layers of casual charm. When she leaned in, her breath a whisper against his skin as she boldly took in his scent, Tyson felt the temperature in the room rise several degrees. Her proximity invaded his personal space, but her approach was nonchalant as she observed, "All that work with the spear and you didn’t seem to sweat much... Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you work up a sweat in the dojo or during class." A playful challenge crossed her eyes. "But still, it's your place, you should shower first."

"If you insist," Tyson replied evenly, betraying none of the whirlwind of suspicions swirling through his mind. "Do you have a clean set of clothes? If not you can call the concierge and ask for some from the boutique downstairs. Just charge it to the room, it's fine."

Tyson conjured an illusion of himself heading to the bathroom, but remained invisible himself, as he watched Natalie, waiting for her next move. But to his surprise, she simply picked up the phone and dialed the hotel concierge. She made dinner reservations and gave her measurements for a dress... so normal, yet nothing about this situation was normal.

His illusion continued in the shower, but Tyson's real focus was on Natalie. He half-expected her to start a thorough search of his place or plant hidden bugs to gain intel the moment his 'shower' began. Yet, she didn’t. She simply waited on the couch with a relaxed but alert posture.

Curious but reassured by her lack of overt snooping, Tyson under the veil of illusion, went to the bathroom and let his illusion fade as he genuinely started to rinse off in the shower. The warm water was a welcome sensation, grounding him as he tried to figure out Natalie’s angle.

Why was she here? What was the purpose? Tyson mulled over the possibilities as the water cascaded over his muscular frame. Nat was an enigma, her motivations unclear despite their growing rapport over the past weeks.

Tyson emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, wisps of steam curling out behind him. His muscles still glistened from the shower as he stepped into the living room. Natasha was perched on the sofa, a box containing a black dress had already arrived and was sitting beside her. She looked up at him with a sly smile playing on her full lips.

"My turn," she purred, rising gracefully from the couch and sauntering past Tyson towards the bathroom. Her hips swayed enticingly as she walked. Tyson watched her disappear into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

Alone again, Tyson's mind raced as he quickly dressed. What game was the Black Widow playing? Her motivations were as inscrutable as ever despite their growing rapport over the past few weeks. He found himself inexplicably drawn to the enigmatic spy, wondering if this was some kind of test. The rules of whatever game she was playing were unclear, but Tyson knew better than to underestimate Natasha. She was as dangerous as she was alluring. He would have to stay alert if he wanted to keep up with the unpredictable woman currently using his shower. Tyson straightened his shirt, steeling his nerves for whatever curveball Natasha would throw at him next.

— Rogue Replacement —

Natasha was an undeniable presence as she and Tyson entered the restaurant. The elegantly understated interior was an enclave nestled in the lower level of the five-star hotel, its sophisticated ambiance whispered between those seated at shadowed booths and intimately lit corners. Low conversation and the occasional chime of utensils orchestrated the mood.

Fresh from her shower, Natasha's hair cascaded in soft waves that caught the ambient light, framing her face in a gentle halo. The black dress she wore traced her form with subtle allure, promising everything and nothing all at once. It was the embodiment of elegance. Tantalizing yet tasteful. Her only adornment was a pair of glinting silver earrings that played peek-a-boo amidst the tresses at her neck.

Tyson's world narrowed to the vision before him. "You look...incredible," he breathed, the truth of it laid bare in each word.

"And you, Tyson, clean up very nicely," Natasha returned. There was an unspoken mystery in her words that Tyson found himself aching to unravel.

Their table was a secluded alcove, a world unto itself. As they were seated, the outside world seemed to blur at the edges, the murmurs of other diners fading into meaningless background noise.

The waitress glided up to their table, her movements smooth and practiced. "May I see some identification?" she asked pleasantly, though her eyes were sharp as they flicked between Tyson and Natasha.

With a slight flexing of his will, Tyson exerted his power, his ID shifted, the numbers rearranging themselves to an age appropriate for the wine list. He handed it over with a polite smile.

The waitress glanced it over briefly before nodding and heading for the cellar. Natasha's eyebrows ticked up as she caught sight of the altered ID. "Is that a fake?" she murmured under the pretense of adjusting her napkin.

"Yeah, of course," Tyson muttered back.

The waitress returned hefting a bottle in a bucket of ice. Deft fingers freed the cork with a soft pop, releasing the rich, earthy scent of an aged red. She poured them each a generous glass, the wine as dark and vibrant as living blood.

Natasha lifted her glass, closing her eyes as she inhaled the wine's complexity. She took an appreciative sip, holding it on her tongue before swallowing slowly.

Tyson followed suit. Hints of dark cherry and oak mingled with notes of spice and chocolate. "Wow," he managed after a moment, unable to find more eloquent words.

Natasha's voice was low and thrilling. "It tells a story, doesn't it?"

Tyson and Natasha waded through the preamble of their meal, trading words in a delicate verbal dance of feints and parries. An electric undercurrent of anticipation hummed beneath their mundane small talk, building with each smile and shared glance. Natasha's eyes sparkled with curiosity, "So, spill the beans," she urged. "Your date with Felicia. I basically played matchmaker between you two. You owe me all the juicy details!"

Tyson raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a crooked grin. "Usually talking about other girls isn't my go-to move on a...well, on an outing like this one."

Natasha waved a hand dismissively, her grin unwavering. "Oh, please. This is an exception to the rule, remember? I'm dying to know what happened."

A full grin spread across Tyson's face as he leaned back in his chair. "Well, it's not the blockbuster you're probably hoping for. We hit up a comedy club, shared some laughs over drinks, then just hung out at my place afterwards to talk."

Natasha blinked, leaning back in surprise with a playful roll of her eyes. "Talked?" she echoed, her tone rich with skepticism. "That's it?!"

Tyson nodded affirmatively, an innocent expression painted across his features. "Yep, just talked. Got to know each other better."

Natasha let out an exaggerated sigh. "Ugh, you're no fun. Here I was hoping for some juicy details." She winked at him, taking a sip of her wine.

Tyson chuckled, shaking his head. "Sorry to disappoint."

The waitress returned to the edge of their isolated table, a discreet presence hovering just outside the sphere of their charged focus. "Are you ready to order?" she inquired, momentarily tugging their attention back to reality.

Natasha's emerald eyes remained locked on Tyson's as she responded, "The seared scallops to start, please. And the filet mignon, medium-rare, for the main course."

Tyson found himself placing his order without thought, his attention firmly snared by woman seated before him. "I'll have the wild mushroom risotto," he heard himself say distantly.

As the waitress retreated, Natasha's smile widened, deepening the alluring dimples in her cheeks. Tyson was surprised to find himself feeling completely at ease despite the charged energy arcing between them. Laughter bubbled up unbidden between the two of them, as natural as if they had known each other for years instead of mere weeks. Her smile was infectious, her vivacious energy captivating in a way he found difficult to define.

As they chatted, the waitress refilled their glasses with the rich, red wine Natasha had been praising since the first sip. "Isn't it fantastic?" she exclaimed, taking a generous sip. "Full-bodied, perfect finish...It's rich, complex... like a good man."

Tyson snorted at her comment but wondered if it had a deeper meaning. Though the alcohol had no effect thanks to his supernatural metabolism, Tyson played along, sipping his wine and complimenting its flavor. He noticed, however, the subtle shift in Natasha's demeanor as she drank. Her laughter came more frequently, her movements more fluid and relaxed, and her casual touches lingered a heartbeat longer than before.

The conversation drifted from light teasing to shared stories, with Natasha artfully guiding their verbal dance. She leaned in closer, her voice a touch softer as she asked, "So, Tyson, ever done something utterly wild?"

He laughed heartily at that, the sound rumbling up from his broad chest. "Does riding through the city while holding onto a beautiful woman on a motorcycle count?"

"Maybe for the opening scene," she retorted with a tipsy giggle, her eyes bright with mirth.

Tyson felt himself getting pulled deeper into Natasha's irresistible orbit. She, in turn, seemed genuinely interested in learning more about him. Her insightful questions pushed him to reveal more than he usually would.

As the evening progressed, an unexpected connection grew between them. Tyson found an ease in her company that surprised him. The charged energy arcing between them was undeniable, and Tyson wondered what the rest of the night might bring.

Tyson watched as the waitress cleared the dinner plates from their table. As they stood, Natasha laughed again, the sound was light yet tinged with tipsiness. "We can't end this lovely evening just yet," she declared, hooking her arm through his with casual intimacy. "In fact, I have an idea for some after-dinner entertainment."

Intrigued, Tyson raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Let's take this party back to your suite. But I have one request." She turned to the waitress, her voice steady and clear despite the wine flowing through her veins. "Could you please have another bottle of this excellent vintage sent up to the Empire suite?"

"Of course, ma'am," the waitress responded professionally, scribbling down the order on her pad as Tyson left a generous tip on the table.

Natasha sauntered into the lavish hotel suite, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. In her hands, she carried a bottle of wine and two glasses, the deep red liquid swirling gently as she walked. She paused in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silhouette against the dazzling lights of the city sprawled out beneath them. With a graceful twist, she turned to face Tyson.

"Ever played 'Truth or Strip,' Tyson?" she asked, her tone light, but her eyes held a challenge that sent a thrill through him.

He laughed, the sound coming out more nervous than he had intended. "Can't say I have. How does it, uh, work?"

"It's simple," she purred, her grin spreading. "I ask you a question. If you refuse to answer, you remove an article of clothing. Then it's your turn to ask me one." She took a few steps closer, her hips swaying. "But beware. I've never lost."

Tyson swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I believe it," he said. The game was a minefield, and they both knew it. Every question was a potential trap, each answer a tantalizing clue. But the thrill was irresistible. "Deal," he heard himself say.

Natasha's smile widened as she poured the wine with sure, deliberate motions, as if performing on a stage. She handed Tyson a glass and raised her own in a silent toast before taking a sip. The rich flavor was a familiar anchor in the unpredictable tide of the night ahead.

"So, Tyson. First question," she purred, leaning back casually in her chair. "Can you speak any other languages?" Though her tone was light, there was an unmistakable edge of curiosity in it.

He tilted his head, considering his response. "Russian, French, and German," he replied after a moment, trying to sound nonchalant.

Natasha's eyebrows arched appreciatively, a hint of intrigue seeping into her voice. "Interesting choices. And quite impressive for someone your age."

He accepted the compliment with a nod. "Your turn then. Same question."

"I'm fluent in several," she answered, giving him a playful wink. "French, Italian, Russian, and Latin."

Tyson raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself.

The game was on.

Natasha's gaze was unwavering as she continued the game, "Have you ever traveled outside of the United States?" Though her tone was light, there was an unmistakable edge of curiosity in it.

Tyson met her eyes, finding something there he couldn't quite read. Instead of answering, he untied his tie and set it on the arm of the sofa. Natasha smiled triumphantly. Tyson raised an eyebrow and said, "Same question."

"Yes, many times. I've visited almost every continent," she confessed, an array of unspoken adventures dancing in her eyes.

She leaned in closer, the scent of her perfume mingling with the rich aroma of wine. "Ever skipped school, Tyson?" she asked with a playful lilt in her voice.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, at my last school. Took a little jaunt off campus during PE. Caused a...lot of problems."

"Tsk, tsk," Natasha scolded playfully, wagging her finger. "Good thing you didn't try that in my class."

He grinned, "Wouldn't have dreamed of it. Now, do you have any siblings?"

"I'm an only child," she answered softly, "But I had a girl that was like a sister to me," a shadow flickering across her face. "You seem to get the gist of the game," she said, shifting the mood with a challenging smile. "Ready to really dive in?"

Tyson straightened, energized by her competitiveness. "Bring it on."

Natasha leaned forward on the plush leather couch, her green eyes glinting with curiosity as she looked across the polished mahogany coffee table at Tyson. Gesturing around at the luxurious penthouse suite with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city lights below, she asked, "How can you afford a place like this?"

Tyson's mouth quirked into a half-smile, the corner tilted up in amusement. Instead of answering her question directly, he removed his tailored Armani suit jacket, the dark material sliding smoothly off his broad shoulders. He draped it carefully over the curved back of a nearby armchair.

"Why did you suggest this 'date' tonight rather than previously?" he inquired, deflecting her question with one of his own.

"The college semester is over," Natasha explained, tucking a strand of her long auburn hair behind one ear. "I'm officially not your student-teacher anymore."

Realization dawned on Tyson, her timing and rationale making perfect sense. Quickly regaining her composure, she fired back, "Why did you transfer to Midtown?"

"I had a... disagreement with the headmaster at my previous boarding school," Tyson admitted after a brief pause, his jaw tightening. "Did you choose Midtown for your student teaching assignment or were you assigned it?" He emphasized the word 'assigned', his sharp eyes studying her intently as he asked.

"It was assigned to me," Natasha replied with a casual shrug, her fingers playing idly with a strand of hair. "Why are you so invested in learning martial arts skills at the dojo?" she continued, deftly redirecting the conversation.

"I lost several fights before moving to the city," he confessed plainly, a hard edge creeping into his voice at the memory. "I don't want to have to rely solely on my strength anymore. I need to be skilled too." Her understanding nod urged him to continue. His next unexpected question, however, caught her off guard.

"Where did you learn to fight?" Tyson asked.

Rather than answer, Natasha reached up and delicately unhooked the earrings from her ears, placing them on the polished end table with a soft clink. Tyson raised an eyebrow at her evasion.

She smirked in response, pointing to his silk tie. "Accessories count in this game. You started it!"

Natasha leaned forward, an evil smirk playing on her full lips. "Okay, Tyson, let's spice things up. Fuck, Marry, Kill. Your choices are me, Felicia, and the mystery girl on the phone."

Tyson took a sharp breath, his hazel eyes widening for a moment before he let out a laugh, his broad shoulders relaxing. "Going right for it, huh? Alright," he said, accepting the challenge. "Marry the girl on the phone because she’s sweet, cool, fun, and beautiful. Fuck Felicia because... well, she’s sexy and flexible." He pointed a finger at Natasha. "And kill you because you asked a question like that."

Natasha threw her head back, her long red hair cascading down her back as she laughed genuinely, the sound light and musical. "That's a good answer," she admitted, taking a sip of the deep red wine in her glass, the tension from their earlier conversation dissipating as the game took a lighter turn.

"Okay, you wanna play like that?" Tyson retorted, a satisfied grin spreading across his rugged face. "Fuck, Marry, Kill. Your choices are our resident supers. Green Goblin, Mirage, and Spider-Man."

"Well, kill Green Goblin, that one’s easy," Natasha said with a dismissive wave of her manicured hand. She paused, her expression thoughtful as she bit her lower lip. "The other two are kind of tough," she mused, then decided, "Fuck Spider-Man, and marry Mirage." Her emerald eyes met Tyson's, a daring glint in them. "Who knows what Mirage could do with his power over illusions? It’d probably make a life together more interesting. And bedding Spider-Man might be fun with those webs of his."

Tyson chuckled, intrigued by her choices. "Kinky," he commented, referring to her Spider-Man reasoning.

Tyson leaned back in his chair, regarding the red-haired woman across from him with amusement. Natasha's emerald eyes sparkled with mischief as she smirked, clearly enjoying their game of questions.

"Have you ever committed a crime?" she asked, her voice low and sultry.

"Yup," Tyson admitted without hesitation, taking a sip of his drink.

Natasha's sculpted eyebrows rose delicately. "Oooh, a rule-breaker. What'd you do? Steal?"

Tyson set his glass down with a thunk, his expression wry. "That's another question. It's my turn now."

Seeing her genuine curiosity, he relented with a chuckle. "Okay, yeah, I stole some stuff."

Natasha leaned forward, her lithe body coiled with anticipation. "What'd you steal?"

"A bunch of gold," Tyson confessed. He held up a hand before she could pepper him with more questions. "Alright, that's a three-part question. I get to ask three now."

"Fair is fair," Natasha agreed, settling back into her seat.

"Where were you born?" Tyson asked first, watching her intently.

"Stalingrad, Soviet Union," she answered evenly, her accent coloring the words.

Tyson squinted, murmuring under his breath, "Soviet Union, not Russia." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers together. "What is your date of birth?"

"December 3rd, 1984," came the prompt reply, accompanied by a small, secretive smile.

"Happy 26th birthday," Tyson said after some quick mental calculation, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. "I didn't realize it was so recent."

Natasha inclined her head in thanks, raising her glass. "Must have been a late-life career change," he commented.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Late-life?" She pointed at him in a warning.

Tyson held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I take it back, I take it back." He paused, considering his last question carefully. "What's your full name?"

Natasha hesitated, conflict played across her delicate features. Tyson could see her weighing whether to answer or to strip and obscure her identity. At last, she seemed to come to a decision. "Natalia Alianovna Romanoff," she confessed quietly. "But I usually go by Natasha."

Tyson's eyebrows rose. "Well, it's nice to make your acquaintance, Natasha."

He could sense the subtle shift between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of trust. Their lighthearted banter continued, but beneath it lay new depths of intrigue and connection.

The warmth from the wine spread through Natasha, seemingly loosening her tongue and untying inhibitions. "So," she started, her voice low, eyes gleaming with a challenge, "you've stolen a lot of gold, and you've lost fights. Ever killed anyone?"

A dark echo of his past reverberated through Tyson. He didn’t want to say it, not outright. Instead, he leaned down, slid off his shoes, and set them aside. "Just trying to maintain a bad boy aura of mystery," Tyson jested in an attempt to lighten the heaviness that settled in his chest.

She snorted into her glass, amusement lighting her features. "Yeah, sure," she drawled, not entirely buying it but letting it slide.

Grasping at control, Tyson fired back, "Since you seemed hesitant to say your real name...exactly how many aliases have you used?"

In response, Natasha reached down and slipped off her heels, placing them neatly beside her chair. She shrugged gracefully, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. "I’ve lost count," she confessed.

Her gaze locked with his, the challenge reinstated. "When we were in the weight room, you easily lifted near-Olympic level weight. How strong are you exactly?" she asked, her eyes dissecting him over the rim of her glass.

The question hit a little closer to home than Tyson expected. He paused, his hands finding the edge of his shirt. With a calculated nonchalance, he unbuttoned it, revealing the form-fitting undershirt beneath, muscles outlined against the fabric. "I don’t know the exact answer, I could only guess," he replied truthfully.

Their eyes met and a silent understanding passed between them. They both had secrets, only some that they were willing to disclose. Tyson's next question was unexpected in its simplicity yet profound in its implication. "Do you trust me?"

It was a direct hit. Natasha felt the query like a physical blow. Trust wasn't a commodity she traded in freely. The room felt warmer, the walls a tad closer. She reached back, unclasping the necklace she wore, and placed it gently on the end table next to her.

"Not ready to answer that," she said, her voice steady but softer, betraying a hint of vulnerability she hadn't intended to show.

Their game, veiled in jest and playful banter, had delved into an intricate dance around their defenses, each question and avoided answer revealing more than just the facts of their lives. It was a chess match of wits and resilience, where each piece removed shed light on who they were beneath the facades they presented to the world.

The game had changed, shedding the skin of casual playfulness to reveal a core of raw, unspoken truths. Each question was a probe, delicately pushing boundaries, and each item of clothing removed symbolized a layer of defense melting away.

"Do you actually have a contagious skin condition?" Natasha asked, an echo of humor in her voice, referencing an earlier jest.

"Skin condition… yes. Contagious, no," Tyson responded with a half-smile.

Tyson leaned forward, the glint in his eyes betraying a mix of mischief and curiosity that was poorly concealed. "Sorry, but I'm going to step it up a little bit," he said. "I really like your dress, and it looks great on you, but I think it'd look better on the floor." A slight pause, and he asked, “How much of this is an act?"

Natasha rose gracefully from her seat, the motion fluid like water flowing over smooth stones. She pulled up the hem of her dress just enough to grasp the lacy top of her stockings, her fingers skimming across her own skin as she slowly rolled one stocking down the length of her leg. She repeated the sensual action with the other leg, her eyes locked on Tyson the entire time to ensure he didn't miss a single moment of the show. "I'm good at blending roles and reality," she practically purred, her voice a sultry hum. "But sometimes separating them isn’t so easy."

Having discarded her stockings, Natasha went on the offensive. "How did you steal all that gold?" she asked casually as if inquiring about weekend plans rather than interrogating him about a heist. Tyson just shrugged, seeing where this line of questioning was headed. No words were spoken as he simply bent down to remove his socks, adding them to the growing pile of shed defenses between them.

Tyson watched Natasha intently as she continued sipping her wine, her gaze steady upon him. "Are you aware of what I can do?" he asked, his question hanging in the air between them, charged with unspoken implications.

"Yes," Natasha replied simply, her voice smooth and confident.

Tyson leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Ambiguous answer," he pointed out, his eyes narrowing.

Natasha's mouth ticked up in a half-smirk, the firelight catching her eyes and turning them molten gold. "Ambiguous question," she retorted, her tone coy yet challenging.

Tyson nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "Fine. Redo?" he offered, a glint of excitement in his gaze at the thrill of this verbal sparring.

Natasha inclined her head in assent, knowing that further specification would only aid her objectives. Tyson squared his shoulders, his expression growing more serious. "Are you aware of my superpowers?" he asked plainly.

Meeting his intense stare, Natasha lifted her wine glass and downed the remaining ruby liquid in one smooth motion. She set the empty glass on the table between them with a soft clink, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Raising her hand, she began counting off on her fingers as she listed in an even tone, "Life Absorbing Touch, Superhuman attributes, Adamantium skeleton, Regeneration, Illusions."

Each point seemed to punctuate the air between them with finality. Tyson shifted slightly, a shiver of vulnerability running through him as he realized they knew everything. It wasn’t completely unexpected, but it was still slightly unwelcome, making him feel exposed.

"Why doesn't anyone remember mutants?" she asked, her voice sharp.

Tyson shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Natasha's question hung in the air between them. The weight of forgotten histories and erased truths pressed down on him. He reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion, the defined muscles of his chest and abs rippling in the dim light. Tyson saw Natasha's eyes flick down briefly, a hint of appreciation in her gaze before she quirked one sculpted eyebrow upward.

"Really?" she said, a note of dry amusement in her tone.

"It's a long story," Tyson rumbled, his deep voice echoing slightly in the quiet room. "Maybe another time."

Their eyes locked, green on green and blue. An unspoken understanding passed between the two spies; this was more than just a game. Their verbal sparring, the give and take of revelations and evasions, was an intricate dance. Each step brought them closer to...something. What, exactly, Tyson wasn't sure, but the potential thrilled and unnerved him.

Tyson shifted again under Natasha's steady gaze, feeling exposed in more ways than one. "I've been careful about the life absorption," he said slowly. "But the adamantium skeleton is pretty specific info. Either you got your hands on some classified documents, or..." He let the sentence trail off meaningfully. Natasha's smile widened fractionally, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. Tyson pressed on, "Since Alkali Lake is underwater… Yeah, that's a freebie for you… I'm guessing you've been monitoring me somehow. I want to know how you're tracking me and what your setup is."

Natasha said nothing, merely rising from her seat with a sinuous grace. Tyson's eyes widened slightly in anticipation, but she did not remove her dress as expected. Instead, her fingers deftly unclasped her bra, the motion smooth with practice. She slid the straps down one at a time, holding Tyson's gaze all the while, challenging him, teasing him. With agonizing slowness, she pulled the bra up through the front of her dress and let it fall forgotten to the floor.

The temperature of the room seemed to climb several degrees. Natasha's allure was not just in what she had revealed, but in what remained hidden. The outline of her nipples was visible through the thin fabric of her dress, and Tyson could not tear his eyes away.

Natasha fixed Tyson with an intense gaze, her voice steady but probing as she asked, "You coordinated with Spider-Man to fight Green Goblin and save civilians during the Parade incident. Are you willing to work with others to stop threats beyond what the normal authorities can handle?"

Tyson did not hesitate. His conviction was clear as he answered simply, "Yes, within reason." The response was straightforward, but it conveyed the depth of his commitment, a willingness to stand for more than just himself.

Tyson quirked an eyebrow, his tone playful yet underlaid with seriousness as he questioned, "Is this your recruitment pitch? Or is this?" He gestured at her alluring appearance, the thin fabric of her dress outlining her nipples, barely concealing her assets. Tyson found it hard to tear his eyes away.

"Yes," Natasha replied lightly, not indicating which of Tyson's questions she referred to. "Is it working?"

Tyson looked beyond the teacher, the spy, the seductress, and saw a woman who understood the weight of the world, the shades of gray in their roles.

"Yes," Tyson said. It was more than just accepting a pitch. It was acknowledging the connection they forged in a game that started as pretense but ended with the promise of something greater.

The husky timbre of Natasha's voice pulled Tyson abruptly from the depths of their intense connection. Her sudden shift back into her pseudo-drunken facade was jarring, and Tyson realized with some disappointment that the intriguing game between them had come to an end. Though he couldn't recall exactly when she had dropped the act, now that it was back in place, the difference was obvious. An unexpected pang of longing caught him off guard, an urge for their dance of pretense and promise to continue.

"Wow, it's starting to get late, and I'm a bit tired. I think I might have had too much to drink; I should head home," Natasha announced breezily, her words not quite lining up with the sharp intellect Tyson glimpsed behind her smoky gaze.

Concern creased Tyson's brow as he played along, masking his reluctance to end their evening. "Hey, you don't have to leave right away. You can stay the night. I'll take the couch, or I could drive you back if you prefer?" he offered politely.

Natasha shook her head, the motion setting her silken locks swaying gently across her shoulders. A small, distant smile curved her full lips as she declined his offer. "Don't worry about me. The hotel has security, and I'll just catch a cab."

She turned toward the door, hips swaying with casual grace, her movement showing no signs of the intoxication she claimed. But halfway across the room, she paused, gaze caught by the terrarium in the corner. A puzzled expression flickered across her fine features.

"Okay, one more before I go," she declared, manicured finger pointing at the glass enclosure. "Why do you have an empty terrarium?"

Tyson's lips curved into a sly grin, unable to resist the opportunity to intrigue her further. "It isn't empty."

Curiosity piqued, Natasha stepped closer, keen eyes peering into the glass. Amidst the artfully arranged terrain was a web, and upon it resided a single vivid spider. Its colors flashed like jewels against the stark background, bright splashes of sapphire and ruby, in what first appeared a desolate container.

"Huh," she murmured, more to herself than Tyson, a small furrow of concentration denting her smooth brow as she studied the arachnid.

Natasha halted in her tracks toward the door when Tyson called out, "Wait, it's only fair that I get one back." Considering her last question had been innocuous, he mirrored her lightness, though his voice still held remnants of their earlier playful banter. "Was this just work for you, or did you enjoy the date?"

She stood motionless for a heartbeat, two, the tension in the room rising. Then, in one fluid, seductive movement that spoke volumes of her confidence and control, Natasha reached under her dress and shimmied out of her panties, letting the lacy garment drop and pool around her heels. She stepped out of them with the grace of a dancer. Tyson swore the outline of her nipples pressed even more evidently against the silky fabric of her dress. He couldn't deny the deliberate sensuality in her actions. Her movements weren't just sexy; they were a statement, a challenge, and an invitation all at once.

Turning to face Tyson, her emerald eyes locked with his. His gaze smoldered with desire as it raked over her body. The air between them grew thick and charged with the weight of the unspoken words and shared experiences of their evening together.

Without breaking eye contact, Natasha reached for Tyson's suit jacket draped over a chair and slipped it over her bare shoulders. She held his gaze a moment longer, the lingering look full of promise that this was not the end. Then she turned and left the suite, the door closing softly behind her.

Tyson stood alone in the quiet hotel suite, his thoughts swirling as the lingering scent of Natasha's perfume teased his senses. Her lacy undergarments lying discarded on the floor were evidence of the passion that had ignited between them and still smoldered within him, but the sharp trill of his cell phone shattered those thoughts. Glancing at the caller ID, Tyson arched an eyebrow in mild surprise to see Peter's name. Considering the late hour, he knew it had to be important.

"Hey, Peter. What's up?" Tyson aimed for a casual tone, but the residual energy from the evening tinged his words.

"Tyson! Oh man, it's bad. Real bad," Peter's panicked words tumbled out in a frantic rush. Even through the phone, the fear in his voice was palpable.

"Whoa, breathe Pete. Slow down and tell me what happened," Tyson said steadily, hoping to calm Peter's frenzied state.

"It's the Green Goblin! He attacked Aunt May at home, then took MJ, took Mary Jane!" Peter's words seemed to cause him physical pain, his voice cracking with emotion.

A cold dread pierced through the lingering heat of Tyson's earlier passions. "Where are they now? Do you know?"

"The Queensboro Bridge. He took her to the Queensboro Bridge," desperation tinged Peter's words, the location spilling out like a plea.

Tyson considered it for a moment. The Queensboro Bridge sat halfway up Manhattan's East Side. Even speeding, it would take a good twenty minutes to get there from the hotel.

But Tyson also knew the broader context from his meta-knowledge. This was the battle where Spider-Man tried to save both Mary Jane and the civilians on the bridge, nearly losing both in the process. With Tyson's help, the outcome could be different.

"I'm on my way. Meet me in the park by the Queens side of the bridge in half an hour," Tyson said decisively. "And Pete?" he added before his friend could hang up.

"Yeah?" Peter's faint response was nearly lost in a strangled breath.

"We'll get her back and stop the Goblin once and for all. Trust me." Tyson's words were more than just a promise. They were a declaration.

The call ended and Tyson sprang into action. There was no time for doubt or hesitation now. His friend needed him and innocent lives were at stake. As he donned his gear, his mind raced, strategizing, calculating every possibility they might face against the Green Goblin. The villain was unpredictable and dangerous and now he'd made it personal for Peter. Tyson's heart pounded in his chest, no longer from the lingering excitement of his encounter with Natasha, but from the rush of the impending confrontation...

Natasha.

She was probably just leaving the building now. But he could use her help. This was more than just a call to action; it was a call to protect, to right a wrong, to be a hero. He rushed to the balcony to see her standing on the sidewalk below...

The icy air nipped at Natasha's skin as she stepped outside, the New York winter showing no mercy. The impulsive decision back in the suite, leaving her undergarments behind, now manifested as a shiver that danced down her spine. Tyson's jacket barely served as a barrier against the cold. Yet the thought of Tyson, possibly pondering the meaning behind her bold move, sparked a warm smile on her lips.

However, her amusement was short-lived, as she heard her name being called. Turning, she saw Tyson emerging from the building, urgency had replaced the playfulness on his face.

"Miss me already?" she asked lightly, though her teasing tone did not fully mask the surprise in her voice.

Tyson's smile was brief, not reaching his eyes. "You know it," he replied, "I don't mean to ruin the appeal of your exit, but I've got an important question for you."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. "You asked the last one. If you want another, it's going to cost you." Their banter flowed easily between them, though she sensed the gravity behind his mood.

He chuckled, "You can have my pants, but this is serious."

Reading the tension in his stance, Natasha nodded. "Go ahead then," she prompted, steel entering her voice in response to his urgency.

"Hypothetically," he began, his words piercing the frosty winter air, "if I could capture the Green Goblin, would you have access to a cell that could hold him?"

Natasha's mind raced, considering the problem. The Green Goblin was no ordinary criminal. With his strength and technology, holding him would require more than just a reinforced cell. It would need to be an off-the-grid facility, secure and impenetrable.

"We have places designed for enhanced individuals," she replied carefully, "Not public, but as secure as they come."

Tyson's taut jaw softened slightly as he nodded. "Good. I need to know he won't just end up back on the streets."

Understanding lit Natasha's eyes. This was not hypothetical. "He won't," she stated firmly, steel sheathed in velvet. "We'll make sure of it."

The briefest moment of relief washed over Tyson's features before the mask of determination resettled across his face. With a grateful nod to Natasha, he removed his pants and casually tossed them in her direction. Natasha reflexively raised her hands to catch the garment, but instead of fabric her fingers closed around a bouquet of brightly colored flowers. Looking up in surprise, she saw no sign of Tyson.

Natasha heard the sounds of a motorcycle behind the hotel roaring to life before fading into the distance.

She gazed down at the flowers cupped gently in her hands. She brushed her fingertips across the soft petals, noting their vibrant colors and inhaling their sweet scent.

But even as she admired their beauty, the bouquet began to fade, petals withering and stems dissolving into sparkling motes of light. Soon nothing remained except the memory of their fragrance and Tyson's retreating motorcycle, carrying him off into the night.

— Rogue Replacement —

The distant lights of the city cast long shadows across Queensbridge Park, mingling with the oscillating reds and blues of the police closing the bridge. Tyson glanced at the missed call from Jubilee on his phone before pocketing it, his focus solely on the crisis unfolding before him. The news of the Green Goblin's latest antics had clearly spread, but talking to Jubes would have to wait. Right now, lives hung precariously in the balance.

A sudden whoosh announced the arrival of another as Spider-Man descended from the darkness above, landing with feline grace beside Tyson. "Mirage, thanks for coming," he said, his voice taut but steady.

"Spider-Man," Tyson replied solemnly, his gaze intent. "Good to see you. What's the situation?"

Spider-Man took a deep breath before gesturing toward the apex of the bridge. "Green Goblin's got MJ up there. He's holding a cable car loaded with people in one hand and Mary Jane in the other," he explained, frustration seeping into his words. Tyson could see the tension in Spider-Man's posture, and could hear the carefully controlled anger simmering beneath the surface. This was personal for the webslinger.

Before he could continue briefing Tyson on the situation, Spider-Man's head suddenly snapped to the side, preternaturally quick reflexes propelling his body away from the path of an oncoming spear. Caught off guard by the abrupt motion, Tyson did not have time to react. The spear sliced through the air, narrowly missing Spider-Man and burying itself into Tyson's torso with a meaty thunk instead. Tyson grunted more in surprise than pain as the spear failed to penetrate his adamantium skeleton, clattering uselessly to the pavement.

As Tyson's skin knit itself back together, healing the superficial wound in seconds, Spider-Man turned to him, concern evident in his voice despite the concealing mask. "Are you okay?"

Tyson laughed, "A goddamned spear... what are the odds?"

His laughter died as his eyes locked onto the figure emerging from the shadows. He was well over six feet tall, his body carved from slabs of muscle that rippled and flexed with each movement. His very presence radiated danger, primal and unchecked. His garish outfit was a chaotic blend of animal prints and bones that clinked softly as he moved. A mane of lion fur billowed around his shoulders despite the stillness of the night air. Skin-tight leopard print pants clung to his powerful legs. He twirled the spear casually in one hand, a twin to the one that had nearly skewered Tyson. Dark eyes, black as night, watched them with the steady focus of a predator gauging its prey.

Tyson's meta-knowledge identified their assailant. But it provided no insight as to why he was here. What did he want with them? The man looked at them with the smug arrogance of a hunter who had never known defeat. His lips twisted into a cruel smirk. Tyson tensed, ready to face whatever came next. Beside him, Spider-Man's hands slowly curled into fists.

"Ahh, Spider-Man, always a pleasure to disrupt your little heroics," Kraven sneered, his thick Slavic accent adding a sinister melody to his words that spoke of distant lands and untamed wilderness. "And you brought a friend," the hunter's contemptuous gaze slid over Tyson, taking in the hero's costume and stance. "Mirage, yes? I've heard tales of you. I admit, I'm intrigued to see if you live up to the stories."

Spider-Man shifted into a defensive stance, his muscles coiled and ready for action. "Kraven. To what do we owe the displeasure?" he bit out tersely.

"I'm here for the ultimate hunt, of course," Kraven replied, his smirk widening with anticipation. "You've proven a worthy prey before, Spider-Man, but now, I'm interested in your friend." He gestured with his spear towards Mirage. "To see you heal from such a wound so quickly, makes me wonder if you'll be the greater challenge. A man who cannot die is a prize any hunter would covet."

Tyson bristled, irritation flashing through him. He couldn't believe Spider-Man had failed to mention he'd crossed paths with Kraven the Hunter. Keeping his voice low and dangerous, Mirage focused on Kraven. "You think you can hunt me?"

"Oh, I don't think, my friend," Kraven purred in response, clearly relishing the confrontation. "I know. The hunt," he paused, savoring the word, "is everything."

Behind his mask, Tyson rolled his eyes. He said to Spider-Man, "We don't have time for this."

With startling speed, the hunter lunged forward, his spear leading the way in a deadly arc toward Mirage. Mirage reached down, snatching up the discarded spear from the ground, in an action that was almost instinctual, and batted away the hunter's first stab.

Kraven rose to his full imposing height, a wild grin stretching his features as he too gripped his spear in anticipation. "The thrill of the hunt is time itself, my friend!" he declared. Like that, the two spears met with a resounding crack, and the duel began in earnest.

The spears collided with a ringing clash of metal that echoed through the empty park. Kraven attacked first, lunging forward in a stabbing thrust, but Tyson parried it with ease and countered with a swipe that forced the hunter to jerk back out of the way. The spears wove patterns through the air as the two fighters circled and struck. Kraven was good. His movements had the oiled smoothness of long practice. He had honed his skills hunting prey far more dangerous than the average human. But Tyson was something else entirely. His motions spoke of intense training under masters like Colleen and Natasha. Tyson was a whirlwind, his attacks coming from unexpected angles, his defense as solid and unyielding as the adamantium lacing his bones.

Kraven panted, giving ground before Tyson's onslaught. "You fight well," he conceded. "But I have brought down far mightier prey than you, my friend!"

"I'm not your prey," Tyson growled, voice low and deadly. He feinted left, then struck right like a thunderbolt.

Kraven laughed, but the sound died in his throat as Tyson's spear suddenly slashed toward him. Kraven tried to dodge, but the weapon still grazed his side, tearing his tunic and eliciting a pained grunt. The hunter did not falter, however. If anything, the wound only widened Kraven's grin, putting a mad light in his eyes. He attacked with renewed vigor, his movements a blur of motion that Tyson matched perfectly.

But then Tyson stopped holding back.

His speed increased drastically, driven by the need to end this fight quickly. He deflected an overhead strike from Kraven and pivoted faster than the eye could follow, driving his foot into the hunter's chest. Kraven flew backward, the air exploding from his lungs as he crashed heavily to the ground.

In the space of a heartbeat, Tyson stood over the downed hunter, Kraven's own spear now in his hand. Without hesitation, he plunged it downward. The spear tip split Kraven's leg bone with a nauseating crunch. Kraven howled in agony, his body spasming, but Tyson held him pinned with preternatural strength, meeting Kraven's pain-filled gaze with pitiless eyes.

"Enough of this," Tyson growled. "We're done here."

Kraven laughed, a grating, pain-laced sound. "You've bested me, Mirage. Not many can claim that feat."

Tyson crouched beside his fallen foe, the exposed half of his face set in hard lines. "End your hunt, Kraven. Or I'll stuff you and mount you on my wall as a trophy."

The threat only made Kraven laugh again, defiance blazing in his eyes despite the agony wracking his body. "I'll hunt you, Mirage. I'll hunt the Spider-Man. I'll hunt you all," he gasped.

Jaw tightening, Tyson hefted the second spear, testing its weight. With a fluid motion, he plunged it through Kraven's other leg, pinning him fully to the earth. Kraven's scream echoed through the silent park. His body thrashed in agony, effectively crucified.

Leaning in close, Tyson's whisper was dangerous. "Come after me again, and I'll kill you. Go after Spider-Man, and I'll end you for that too. The Lizard..." He smirked cruelly. "I don't really care about him. Knock yourself out there. But if you've got a death wish, I'll see you in four to six months, after you finish physical therapy."

Leaving Kraven pinned and howling, Tyson strode back to where Spider-Man stood tense, concern, and wariness etched in every line of his body.

"Was that necessary?" Peter asked. His voice was tinged with worry for the brutalized hunter and Tyson's ruthlessness.

Tyson met Spider-Man's gaze unflinchingly. "Kraven aimed to kill. If I was normal, I'd be dead. He's lucky I didn't do the same." The air between them was charged, a moment of understanding passed between them, yet a subtle divide formed. They were on the same side in this fight, but their methods were worlds apart. "We've got bigger problems," Tyson finally said, breaking the tension as he nodded towards the top of the bridge where the Green Goblin's maniacal laughter could still be heard, a haunting reminder of the madness they were up against.

"Yeah," Spider-Man agreed, the word heavy with unspoken emotion as they both set their sights on the chaos above.

Turning to Spider-Man, Mirage quickly outlined a strategy. "Okay, Spidey, here's the plan. I'll distract the Green Goblin. Once I have his attention, wait for my signal. Then you swing up and grab the people from the cable car. After that, we take the bad guy down."

Peter's posture radiated disbelief. "Wait. That's it? That's the whole plan?"

Tyson met his skepticism with a level gaze, his face set with determination. "We already know my illusions work on him. So assuming nothing has changed, yeah, no problem. The fight's over before it begins. But," he continued, the gravity of the situation settling around them like a heavy cloak, "if that's not the case, you'll have to save the cable car, and I'll have to save MJ. We can't do it the other way around. I don't have your aerial skills, and if my guess is right, you're probably stronger than me, which makes you better suited to handle the weight of the cable car. This is our best play, either way."

Spider-Man seemed to mull this over, the fabric around his eyes crinkling in thought. Tyson reassured, "Just give me a few minutes to draw him into an illusion. Watch for the signal, then head for the cable car," he said, injecting more assurance into his voice than he actually felt.

Spider-Man nodded. "Got it, Mirage. Just...be careful, okay?"

Tyson couldn't help but smile slightly, despite the dire circumstances. "You too, bud." With no more time for discussion, they sprang into action.

— Rogue Replacement —

The mad, twisted figure of the Green Goblin stood atop the Queensboro Bridge, his crazed laughter ringing out across the night like a discordant melody. Below him, Mary Jane Watson squirmed helplessly in his iron grip, her face a mask of pure terror. In his other hand, the Goblin held the suspending cable of a passenger-filled cable car, leaving it to sway perilously over the dark waters below.

"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout," the Goblin sang out in his haunting, deranged voice. "Down came the goblin and wiped the spider out!" His chilling cackle sliced through the air, a testament to his fractured mind.

Unseen by the Goblin, Tyson had scaled the bridge's metal skeleton, weaving an illusion to shield himself from detection. He moved in utter silence, no sound betraying his presence. No scent drifted on the wind, no image revealed his form to any watching eyes. Tyson was a ghost, stealthily climbing with purpose toward the supervillain above.

Reaching a position just behind Mary Jane and the Green Goblin, Tyson sparked a brilliant firework high in the night sky with his powers, a blooming flower of radiant light. His illusion ensured its flare remained hidden from the Goblin's view, the flashing colors serving as a silent signal through the darkness to Spider-Man.

With the precision and grace that had captured New York's heart, Spider-Man swung into action. His lithe form was a red and blue blur against the city lights as he darted toward the dangling cable car. One by one, with reassuring whispers and steady hands, he ferried the passengers from their aerial prison to the safety of the bridge below. All the while, Tyson's illusions were meticulous, ensuring the Goblin perceived no change, no flicker of movement, no lightening of his load. The passengers could only stare in stunned relief as the masked hero deposited them gently onto solid ground before disappearing once more into the night sky.

As soon as the last of the cable car's occupants were safe, Spider-Man catapulted himself upwards, a thin line of silk trailing behind him. He ascended the bridge with effortless agility to face the cackling menace waiting atop the towers.

The moment he began his approach, Tyson let a portion of the veil of illusion fall away. The Green Goblin's maniacal grin twisted further as he bellowed, "Spider-Man! This is why only fools are heroes. Because you never know when some lunatic will come along with a sadistic choice!" Spider-Man's stance was resolute, even as the Goblin's madness swirled around them like a malevolent storm. "The woman you love." The Green Goblin lifted Mary Jane higher and she screamed and kicked, causing her slippers to fall off her feet in an eerie preview of her fate. "Or suffer the little children."

The Green Goblin looked at the cable car and could see the struggling citizens inside. Their screams of "Spider-Man, help us!" and "Save us!" were music to his ears. The maniac continued, "Make your choice, Spider-Man, and see how a hero is rewarded."

Still invisible, Tyson crept forward until he was immediately behind the Green Goblin.

"Don't do it, Goblin," Spider-Man retorted, the determination in his voice a stark contrast to the villain's insanity.

The Green Goblin stood triumphantly, the madness in his eyes blazing like wildfire. "We are who we choose to be," he proclaimed, his voice a twisted symphony of chaos and delight. And then, he did the unthinkable. He released both the cable and Mary Jane, his maniacal laughter booming, "Now, choose!"

Time seemed to stand still as Mary Jane and the cable car, one a symbol of Peter's life and the other representing his responsibilities, plummeted towards the river below. The Goblin, consumed by his insanity, rushed to the edge, his eyes gleaming with anticipation of Spider-Man's despair. He watched as Spider-Man's figure dove with incredible speed, snatching Mary Jane from the air in a heroic rescue before swinging in a heart-stopping arc toward the free-falling cable car. The Goblin's laughter echoed into the night, certain of his victory and Spider-Man's impending loss.

The wind whipped past Spider-Man's ears as he pushed his body to its limits, desperate to save both Mary Jane and the innocent people in the cable car. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her tightly against him as he swung them around the underside of the bridge. With split-second timing, he shot a web and changed direction, arcing towards the plummeting cable car. Screams echoed up from below as it rapidly approached the unforgiving river. Calling on every ounce of strength, Spider-Man shot a web and snagged the car, using all his strength to hold it. The sudden stop wrenched his shoulders, but he held on, dangling with one arm on a webline attached to the bridge, the other holding the cable car, and MJ clinging to his neck.

The Goblin watched in disbelief as Spider-Man somehow managed to save them both.

But it was all an illusion, a trick conjured by Mirage. Spider-Man had woven the car in spider silk before the Goblin ever released the line. The car hung suspended and safe.

With the Goblin's attention on the illusion of the plummeting car, the real Spider-Man moved. He burst into motion, swinging toward the Goblin, Mirage, and Mary Jane high on the bridge. At the same moment, Mirage reached out, snatching Mary Jane around the waist and pulling her from gravity's grasp just as the Goblin released her.

Instead of falling to her death, Tyson held Mary Jane securely in his arms.

Spider-Man reached them just as the Green Goblin cackled triumphantly over the edge, watching as the illusion of the hero tried to save the girl. Spider-Man ignored the villain, rushing instead to Tyson's side. Tyson passed the shaken Mary Jane into Spider-Man's arms. The costumed Peter gathered her close and leaped, firing a webline that whisked them away from the bridge and the Green Goblin.

Tyson turned his focus back to the Goblin, who was still engrossed in the illusory scene playing out below the bridge. Tyson studied him closely, taking in every detail of the villain's bizarre, armored suit and the insane delight on his grotesque features. This was Norman Osborn, twisted by science into something dark and unhinged.

Tyson knew he had to act fast, before the Goblin realized his ploy. The sinister whine of the Goblin's glider cut through the air as it rose to its master's command. Spider-Man swung on, Mary Jane secure in his arms. He aimed for the police barricade at the end of the bridge, carrying her to safety far from the coming battle. Her wide eyes were fixed on Spider-Man's masked face, filled with breathless gratitude.

The Green Goblin, still riding high on the delusions of his imagined triumph, prepared to mount his glider once more. "Ahhhh! Look out, Spider-Man!" he cackled into the wind, oblivious to the fact that his true adversary lurked not precariously below, but directly behind.

Like a vengeful ghost, Tyson dropped his illusion and materialized in the Green Goblin's shadow. Without warning, his adamantium claws plunged deep into the Goblin's leg. The indestructible metal met no resistance as it sliced through armor, muscle, and bone as easily as if they were made of paper. The Goblin's triumphant laughter morphed into screams of pure agony as he collapsed, his leg now completely useless.

"You little insect!" the Goblin shrieked, blaming Spider-Man for his pain as his face contorting in agony. But Tyson remained unfazed, repeating the crippling action on the villain's other leg. Now hamstrung, the Goblin's glider was useless with both legs destroyed. The once fearsome villain now pitifully writhed upon the ground, his crazed eyes meeting Tyson's calm, mismatched gaze. Those heterochromatic eyes were the last thing the Goblin saw before darkness consumed his vision entirely.

"My eyes! I can't see!" the Goblin bellowed. "You'll pay for this, you... you monster!" But his threats were empty. Tyson removed the Goblin's helmet, revealing the unmasked face of Norman Osborn, contorted in insane fury. Raising his adamantium-reinforced fist, Tyson struck. The Goblin's curses faded to mumbles, and then to silence, his consciousness slipping away under the mutant's merciless blows.

— Rogue Replacement —

The night air was still and silent around the police barricade where Natasha stood with uniformed officers flanking her and backup nearby. All eyes were fixed on the bridge overhead, where Spider-Man had vanished minutes earlier after rescuing the last civilian, a red-haired woman that Natasha recognized as having attended Tyson's Thanksgiving dinner. The redhead teen now sat off to the side, wrapped in a shock blanket, sipping from a water bottle as EMTs fussed over her.

Coming from the bridge, there was nothing. No sounds of battle, no maniacal cackling from the Green Goblin, no screams of terror. Only tense anticipation hung in the air.

Then the familiar whir of a jet engine cut through the uneasy quiet as the Green Goblin's signature glider descended from the bridge. Its appearance stirred a wave of dread among the onlookers below. Had the maniacal Green Goblin emerged victorious after all?

But confusion quickly replaced the spike of panic. Instead of swooping down for a menacing attack, the glider approached at a leisurely, almost casual pace, no faster than a jog. As it drew nearer, the figure perched atop it came into focus through the dark night.

It wasn't the Green Goblin at all, but rather Mirage, clad in the Goblin's helmet. A cocooned figure was slung over his shoulder, bound tightly in webbing. Relief flooded through the crowd as they recognized the captive as the Green Goblin himself, his signature helmet gone to reveal the unmasked face of Norman Osborn twisted in unconscious fury. The onlookers erupted into cheers at the realization that Spider-Man and Mirage had triumphed, with Mirage bringing the defeated villain in for justice.

As he drew near, Mirage's voice rang out, muffled somewhat by the helmet's faceplate. "The controls on this thing are not intuitive at all," he commented wryly. "I'll bet Iron Man's suit is much more user-friendly."

Before Natasha could respond, a uniformed officer stepped forward, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Where's Spider-Man?" he demanded brusquely.

Mirage's amusement was evident even through the helmet as he replied nonchalantly, "He had a previous engagement, but he sends his regards."

The officer's face tightened, his jaw clenching. "Mirage, you're under arrest," he declared, his words quieting the buzz of the crowd.

But Natasha quickly intervened, her voice clear and authoritative. "You don't have the jurisdiction to arrest him," she stated firmly, standing tall.

The officer squared his shoulders, "Isn't this New York City? NYPD has jurisdiction."

Natasha stepped closer, her badge glinting under the city lights. "This man is working as a contracted agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said, gesturing toward Mirage.

Bewilderment clouded the officer's face. "What in the hell is S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," Natasha responded crisply, straightening with pride.

Before the argument could escalate further, Mirage waved his fingers in a mystical pass and called out, "No need to argue ladies and gentlemen. I'm not actually here anyway." With a wink and a puff of smoke, his form dissipated, leaving behind only the bound Norman Osborn.