The Boeing 737 hit a pocket of turbulence, rattling the flimsy plastic tray tables and sending a ripple of nervous chatter through the cabin. Peter rested his chin against his palm, staring past Cindy Moon to watch the endless expanse of the azure Caribbean Sea rolling out below them.
He had spent the first two hours of the flight entirely bored, which meant he had read the Wikipedia page on their destination three times. Puerto Rico was a fascinating sociological paradox. It was an unincorporated U.S. territory, meaning its millions of residents were American citizens, yet they held absolutely no voting rights in federal presidential elections. They could elect a local governor and a non-voting resident commissioner to the House of Representatives, but that was where their political leverage stopped.
However, because of its unique equatorial position and complete isolation from mainland light pollution, the island possessed a massive strategic advantage. It was the absolute best place on Earth for deep-space astronomical observation. That was exactly why the United States government had carved a massive dish into the jungle mountainside: the Arecibo Observatory, the literal "eye in the sky."
"Alright, listen up, everyone!" Mr. Harrington shouted, gripping the back of an aisle seat to steady himself as the plane began its descent. "We will be touching down at San Juan International Airport in twenty minutes! Researchers from Stanford, the National Science Foundation, and Cornell University manage the Arecibo facility. Once we deplane, specialized staff will be taking over our itinerary. Please follow their instructions and try not to embarrass Midtown High!"
Peter closed his eyes, letting the low, monotonous drone of the twin jet engines wash over him. He needed this break. The last forty-eight hours in New York had been completely exhausting.
First, there was the brawl with Tombstone. The chalk-skinned mob boss was currently nursing a severe concussion in a maximum-security holding cell, his drug cartel temporarily decapitated. Then, there was the lingering anxiety of the symbiote's sudden violent streak. Peter's visit to the Xavier Institute hadn't entirely solved the Knull problem, but it gave him a clear psychological baseline to work from.
And finally, there was the Raft.
Before packing his duffel bag, Peter had swung out into the freezing Atlantic to inspect the supermax prison's containment protocols. He was probably the only Avenger who regularly checked in on the facility. In Peter's experience, the second a super-prison was built, the countdown to a catastrophic breakout immediately started ticking. He had spent an hour walking the cold, sterile corridors, checking the reinforced bulkheads. He had even ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing a half-hour game of blackjack with Wade Wilson through a wall of bulletproof Lexan. Deadpool had dealt the cards by pressing them flat against the glass, offering terrible life advice the entire time.
But the real problem at the Raft wasn't the inmates. It was the warden.
Hank Pym's artificial intelligence, Ultron II, had been compromised. Otto Octavius had somehow managed to hack the security mainframe from his cell using nothing but synthesized sub-frequencies emitted from his electronic vocal cords. As a result, Pym was currently rushing the development of Ultron IV. The underlying logic code had been completely rewritten. Instead of the terrifyingly vague directive to "help humanity achieve peace," the new parameters were strictly locked to "assist the Avengers in their operations."
Peter had watched enough sci-fi movies to know exactly how easily a highly advanced AI could twist that logic into a full-blown Omnic Crisis especially remembering his past life. But he forced the thought away. He was officially on vacation. There were no supervillains in Puerto Rico. No killer robots. Just white sand, clear water, and four days of federally funded relaxation.
"Earth to Peter," Gwen Stacy said, leaning across the right armrest. She tapped the screen of her phone, pulling up a color-coded spreadsheet. "The itinerary is almost entirely front-loaded in the afternoons. The mornings are completely free. Do you have any actual plans, or are you just going to sleep until noon?"
"That's the best part, Gwen," Peter smiled, stretching his legs out under the seat in front of him. "I have zero plans."
"Wait, didn't you say the Detective Club had mandatory team-building exercises?"
"At night," Peter corrected. "Jessica and the upperclassmen wrote a massive, four-hour homebrew tabletop RPG campaign. It's basically a murder-mystery deduction game. No Lovecraftian tentacle monsters, just logic puzzles and dice rolls. My daytime hours are completely off the clock."
Gwen raised an eyebrow, already swiping through a list of local cafes and historical sites on her phone. On Peter's left, sitting right against the window, Cindy casually flipped a page in her thick paperback novel. She hadn't spoken a word in hours, perfectly content to ignore the entire cabin.
The landing gear deployed with a heavy, mechanical clunk.
The Boeing 737 hit the runway with a screech of burning rubber, the reverse thrusters roaring as they rapidly decelerated. But instead of taxiing toward the bustling glass terminals of San Juan International, the plane hooked a sharp left. It rolled down a completely isolated stretch of concrete, finally coming to a halt in front of a private, chain-link hangar.
Peter leaned forward, squinting out the window over Cindy's shoulder.
Two massive, matte-black government transport buses idled on the tarmac. There were no airport logos. No civilian staff.
Instantly, a low murmur broke out across the cabin. The Detective Club made up a large percentage of the students on this trip, and a room full of hyper-observant teenagers immediately recognized a break in standard operating procedure. Wild conspiracy theories began flying over the seatbacks.
"Hey, Peter," Harry whispered, popping his head over the top of Peter's seat. "You got any inside info on the black-ops welcome wagon?"
"Nothing," Peter muttered, his brow furrowing.
He focused inward, checking the base of his skull. The familiar, cold hum of his Spider-Sense was completely silent. No immediate danger. He turned his head slightly, catching Cindy's eye. If S.H.I.E.L.D. was running an interception, she would know.
Cindy met his gaze, slowly blinking once. She gave a microscopic shake of her head. S.H.I.E.L.D. was completely out of the loop.
Outside, the heavy pneumatic doors of the lead bus hissed open.
A tall woman stepped out onto the sun-baked asphalt. She wore a crisp, impeccably tailored blue Air Force dress uniform. Her bright blonde hair was pulled back loosely, catching the ocean breeze. She wasn't wearing a military cover. She just stood there, hands clasped loosely behind her back, projecting an aura of absolute, unbreakable authority.
Half the boys in the cabin practically choked on their own saliva. She looked to be in her early twenties, and her sharp, striking features were far beyond the social league of anyone currently enrolled in Midtown High's science division.
A few minutes later, the students were ushered off the plane and corralled into a loose semi-circle near the buses. The smell of jet fuel and salt water hung thick in the humid air.
"Morning, kids," the officer said. Her voice was clear, sharp, and effortlessly commanded the space. "I know the isolated tarmac drop-off is a bit concerning. It's an irregular arrangement, but we have a very specific reason for doing it."
She paced a slow line in front of the crowd, her bright blue eyes scanning the students like a hawk analyzing a field of mice.
"This entire facility tour is a recruitment screening," she stated flatly. "The military is actively searching for the brightest high school minds in the country. Specifically, those with an aptitude for advanced astrophysics, cosmology, and spatial anomaly observation. If you demonstrate exceptional talent during the next four days, the United States Department of Defense will cover your full university tuition and wipe out any existing student debt your families hold."
Dead silence fell over the tarmac. The sheer financial weight of that promise hit the teenagers like a physical blow.
A brave sophomore raised his hand. "Uh, ma'am? If the military needs advanced researchers, why not just recruit from MIT or Caltech? Why pull high schoolers?"
"Because we are currently building a framework for the next century of American defense," the officer replied, smoothly sidestepping the core of the question. "The technological landscape is shifting at an unprecedented rate. We don't need established professors entrenched in old theories. We need young, highly malleable minds capable of lateral, innovative thinking."
She stopped pacing and offered a sharp, perfectly rehearsed smile.
"Welcome to Puerto Rico. I am Major Carol Danvers, Security Director for the United States Army's Project Pegasus and the Arecibo Observatory."
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