The campus map crumples in my sweaty palm as I navigate the maze of Empire State University. First day of classes and I'm already lost, which feels like a perfect metaphor for my entire existence right now.
"Practical Self-Defense 101... Building C, Room 214," I mutter, squinting at the wrinkled paper. My teleportation abilities would make this so much easier, but after last night's rooftop encounter with Spider-Woman, I'm not risking it in broad daylight.
Since waking up in this gender-flipped Marvel universe, I've made exactly one decision I'm confident about, becoming a superhero. And step one on that journey? Learning how to fight. The business major version of me back home couldn't throw a proper punch to save his life.
I finally spot Building C, a brutalist concrete structure that looks more like a prison than a place of learning. Inside, the hallways echo with my footsteps as I search for Room 214. When I find it, the door is already open, revealing a large matted space with mirrored walls.
And standing in the center, arms crossed over her chest like she's physically restraining herself from committing violence, is a very intimidating woman.
"You're late," she barks, her eyes narrowing as I hesitate in the doorway.
"Sorry, I got lost," I say, stepping onto the mat. "I'm Shane Steele. I just added this class."
She doesn't respond, just looks me up and down with the kind of clinical assessment usually reserved for butchers inspecting questionable meat. Her military-style haircut and ramrod-straight posture scream "ex-special forces."
"I'm Professor Masters," she finally says.
Masters. The name tickles something in the back of my brain, but I can't quite place it. It sounds vaguely familiar, but the connection slips away before I can grasp it.
"It's an honor to meet you, Sensei," I say, bowing slightly at the waist. I'm wearing gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, the closest thing to workout clothes I found in my mysteriously empty dorm closet.
Professor Masters stares at me like I've just taken a dump on her pristine training mat. Her expression shifts from neutral intimidation to active disgust, her mouth twisting into a grimace.
"Please, kid, don't call me 'Sensei,'" she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This isn't a karate dojo in a strip mall."
"Of course, Sensei," I reply with another small bow, unable to stop myself. "I understand completely."
Her eye twitches. Actually twitches. I've never seen that happen to a real person before.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" she asks, her voice dangerously quiet.
"I heard you loud and clear, Sensei," I say with a grin, emphasizing the title. "It's just that I've always dreamed of having a real sensei. Not one of those frauds that gives out belts for free. A genuine badass like you."
Something flashes in her eyes, amusement? Homicidal rage? Hard to tell. I probably shouldn't be poking the bear, but there's something about her stern demeanor that makes me want to crack that professional exterior. Besides, if I'm going to be a superhero, I need a mentor with attitude, right? All the best heroes have one.
Professor Masters stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then her shoulders slump in defeat. She throws her hands up in exasperation.
"I fucking hate teaching," Masters says, shaking her head. "Especially when my students think this is some kung fu movie."
I burst out laughing, unable to help myself. There's something so refreshingly blunt about her complete disdain for this job.
While she glares at me, I bounce on my toes and start throwing random punches in the air, my fists slicing through nothing as I dance away from her.
"Sensei," I ask between jabs, "got any good moves to disable bad guys? You know, like pressure points or something? The kind where you just touch someone and they drop?"
Masters watches me with the deadest expression I've ever seen on a human face. "What's your fighting experience, Steele?"
I stop punching the air, dropping my hands to my sides. "Um... none?"
Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down. "Yeah, I can tell. You look like a complete clown throwing punches like that. Like a toddler having a tantrum in a grocery store."
I wince, feeling my face heat up. "Well, then there's nowhere to go but up, right?" I try for a grin, but it feels more like a nervous grimace under her withering stare.
Masters sighs deeply, the sound starting somewhere in her soul and working its way up through her chest. It goes on for so long I wonder if she's trying to expel every last molecule of oxygen from her lungs. Finally, she shakes her head.
"Alright," she says, resignation heavy in her voice. "Let's start with some stretches, kid. Then I'll show you some of the fundamentals."
"Thank you Sensei."
"First lesson," she says, dropping into a perfect split that makes my own groin muscles scream in sympathy. "Flexibility is the foundation of any fighting style. You can't throw a proper kick if your hamstrings are as tight as yours clearly are."
I try to mimic her stretch, lowering myself toward the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. My legs only spread about halfway before pain shoots up my inner thighs.
"Jesus Christ," I hiss through clenched teeth.
"Hold it," Masters commands, not a hint of sympathy in her voice. "Breathe through the discomfort."
I do as she says, focusing on my breathing while trying not to pass out from the pain. If I'm going to be a superhero, I need to learn how to handle physical challenges.
"So," I gasp, desperate for distraction, "what's your background? Military? Special forces? Seal Team 6?"
Masters' face hardens instantly, like I've hit some invisible tripwire. "Don't ask about my past," she snaps, her tone shifting to something that reminds me of an older sister dealing with an annoying little brother who's touched her stuff one too many times. "We're here to focus on your training, not my resume. Got it?"
"Sorry, I was just…"
"Lower," she interrupts, pushing down on my shoulders without warning. Pain shoots through my inner thighs as I drop another inch toward the mat. "You're way too tight everywhere. Breathe through it."
I gasp, sweat already beading on my forehead. "This is torture."
"This is the warm-up," Masters corrects with the ghost of a smile. "Now reach forward and touch your toes."
For the next fifteen minutes, she guides me through stretches I didn't even know existed, contorting my body into positions that make me question if human beings were meant to bend this way. Every time I think we're done, she introduces a new form of flexible hell.
"Now let's work on your stance," she says after I've collapsed onto the mat, breathing hard. "Get up."
She demonstrates a basic fighting stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands up to protect the face. I mirror her as best I can, but apparently even standing is something I've been doing wrong my entire life.
"Wider stance," Masters barks, nudging my foot with her own. "Center your weight. You're standing like you're waiting for a bus, not preparing to defend yourself."
I adjust, feeling awkward and self-conscious. "Like this?"
"Better." She circles me, adjusting my posture with quick, efficient touches. "Remember this feeling. This is your foundation."
What follows is a crash course in the absolute basics. How to make a proper fist, "Thumb outside, not tucked in unless you want to break it on the first punch." How to throw a jab, "Extend from the shoulder, not the elbow, and snap it back quickly." How to block a simple attack, "Redirect, don't just absorb the impact."
All stuff that will take forever to master.
By the time we move on to practicing simple combinations, my arms feel like overcooked noodles, and my shirt is soaked through with sweat. Masters demonstrates each move with effortless precision, her body a well-oiled machine of controlled violence.
"Jab, cross, step back," she commands, and I do my best to follow, throwing punches at an imaginary opponent.
"Your form is terrible," she observes after watching me struggle through the combination for the fifth time. But instead of the disgust I expect, there's something almost... thoughtful in her expression. "But you're persistent. I'll give you that."
"Thanks?" I manage between heavy breaths.
The bell rings, cutting through the gym like a mercy call. My muscles sag with relief, though I try not to show it.
Professor Masters steps back, giving me an appraising look. There's something different in her eyes now, not quite approval, but maybe a notch or two up from complete contempt.
"You're absolute shit," she says, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel. Then, surprisingly, her voice softens a fraction. "But you're not as much of a lost cause as I initially thought."
I straighten up a bit, oddly encouraged by what might be the most backhanded compliment I've ever received.
"For Wednesday, make sure you do all your stretches before class," she continues, hanging the towel around her neck. "That way we can focus on fundamentals and form right from the start."
I bow deeply at the waist, partly out of respect and partly because I know it annoys her. "Yes, Sensei."
Masters rolls her eyes. "And don't get caught doing shit like that in public," she says, gesturing at my bow. "Some might take it the wrong way."
"Yes, Sensei," I repeat, fighting to keep my face serious.
She makes a disgusted noise but there's the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes as she turns away.
I gather my things, my shirt plastered to my back with sweat, feeling like I've been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screams as I shuffle toward the exit, my vision focused on the blessed doorway to freedom.
Which is why I don't see the person entering until it's too late.
We collide hard, my momentum carrying us both backward a step. My hands instinctively shoot out to steady whoever I've just bulldozed, grabbing their shoulders.
"Sorry! I wasn't…" The words die in my throat as I find myself staring into startled hazel eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses.
It's her. The photographer. Spider-Woman. Piper Parker.