Chapter 226: Hell's Kitchen Community School's Distinctive Curriculum
"Why," Thor asked, with genuine bewilderment, "is this Ethan so famous here in Midgard?"
Darcy was already pulling up her phone. She found what she was looking for and slid it across the table.
"Is that him?"
Thor took the phone and studied the photo. A tall man, composed, dark features — but the hair was silver, which gave him pause. The Ethan he'd met had black hair.
"This is..." He frowned. "The face is the same. But his hair was black when I knew him."
"That's definitely him," Darcy said. "Lord of Hell's Kitchen. That photo's from when he stopped the whole city from going under. The silver hair is an ability thing, apparently." She retrieved the phone with the reverence of someone handling something precious. "So you actually know him."
"We have met," Thor said, with the simple dignity of a man for whom meeting people is a neutral fact. "He is capable."
"Capable," Darcy repeated flatly.
"I would offer you my own signature instead," Thor said, rallying. "As a gesture of goodwill. Few mortals have received—"
"I want Ethan's," Darcy said.
Thor frowned.
"Maybe we should just try to contact him," Jane said, in the tone of someone managing two different conversations simultaneously. She looked at Darcy. "You think Hell's Kitchen would actually let us in?"
"With him in tow?" Darcy jerked a thumb at Thor. "We'd get flagged at the perimeter. That neighborhood doesn't mess around, and showing up with a giant blond man who smashes cups and claims to be a god is not the vibe."
Before anyone could continue the negotiation, the diner door opened and two miners came in, still carrying the particular energy of men who've seen something they can't explain and need to tell someone about it.
"—just sitting there," one of them was saying. "Stuck in the ground. Fifty of us couldn't budge it an inch."
Thor was on his feet before the sentence finished.
"Where?" He put his hand on the nearer miner's shoulder.
"About fifty miles west."
Thor was out the door.
Hell's Kitchen. The community school's administrative office.
Ethan had a cup of tea. Magneto had a cup of tea. The afternoon light came through the window at an angle that made the whole scene look considerably more peaceful than it was about to be.
"I have to ask," Ethan said, "what possessed you to think any of this was appropriate."
He held up the curriculum sheet.
Magneto looked at it with the expression of a man who had prepared for this conversation and remained confident in his position.
Ethan started reading.
"'One Hundred Ways to Evade Federal Pursuit.'"
"Practical survival skills—"
"'Combining Martial Arts with Superpower Applications.'"
"Physical education—"
"'One Hundred Techniques for Integrating Weapons with Superpower Use.'"
Magneto said nothing. This one was harder to frame.
"'How to Become an Excellent Villain in Two and a Half Years.'"
"That's an elective—"
"'The Villain's Path to Self-Improvement.'"
"Character study—"
"'What Exactly Are Gambling, Drugs, and Prostitution?'"
A pause.
"Awareness curriculum," Magneto said. "Knowing the dangers—"
"'The Gang Leader's Guide to Personal Development.'"
Ethan put the paper down.
He looked at Magneto.
Magneto looked back with the serenity of a man who has genuinely thought this through and arrived at different conclusions.
"These children came from Hell's Kitchen," Magneto said. "They are going to live in Hell's Kitchen. The skills that keep people alive in Hell's Kitchen are not the same skills that keep people alive in Connecticut. I am preparing them for their actual environment."
"Their actual environment," Ethan said, "is a neighborhood I have been trying to improve. Which means they should not need to evade federal pursuit. Which means they should not need a syllabus on organized crime management."
"They're electives," Magneto said. "No student is required to—"
"The firearms courses are mandatory," Ethan said. "I'm looking at it right now. Handgun, rifle, sniper rifle — three required credits. That's not an elective. That's a graduation requirement."
Magneto's expression shifted toward something that was trying to be patient. "In Hell's Kitchen, knowing how to handle a weapon safely is a survival skill. We have the instructors, we have the equipment—"
"Why do we have the equipment?"
Magneto paused.
"How much equipment?"
"We are," Magneto said, with a certain pride that Ethan was already finding alarming, "currently the largest private arms supplier in the country."
Ethan stared at him.
"The mutants who relocated here brought existing supply chains. My particular abilities make acquisition and manufacturing considerably more efficient. The infrastructure was already present in the neighborhood from previous... administrations. It came together rather naturally."
"It came together," Ethan said.
"Organically," Magneto agreed.
"We are the largest arms supplier in America."
"Privately held. No government contracts. Fully within—"
"And you thought," Ethan said, "that the correct use of this information was to make firearms proficiency a high school graduation requirement."
"The students are well-supervised—"
"The wealthy families," Ethan said slowly, reading further down the document, "are paying five to ten times standard tuition."
"The curriculum is unique," Magneto said, with what could only be described as academic pride. "No other institution offers this range of—"
"They're paying extra," Ethan said, "to send their children to learn how to evade federal law enforcement."
"The course is theoretical—"
"I don't know whether this is a school or a feeder program for organized crime."
"Both, potentially," Magneto said, and seemed to mean it as a compliment to the curriculum's versatility. "The important thing is that none of them will go hungry. Whatever path they choose, they will have marketable skills."
"Marketable," Ethan said.
"The job market is competitive."
"The job market in prison is—" Ethan stopped. He pressed his fingers to his temples. "You know what, fine. The firearms courses stay. I'll accept that as a Hell's Kitchen reality. Everything else — the organized crime theory, the villain development track, the gang leadership seminar — those are going."
"They're electives—"
"Erik."
Magneto stopped.
"I spent years," Ethan said, with the quiet that was more effective than volume, "getting this neighborhood out from under exactly the kind of thinking those courses teach. I'm not putting it back in through the curriculum."
Magneto was quiet for a moment. Then, with the dignity of a man who has decided to accept partial defeat gracefully: "I'll move them to the continuing education catalog. For adult learners."
Ethan looked at him for a long time.
"And," Magneto added, "the dowry comment I made earlier stands. Everything the school has built financially should be considered Wanda's contribution to your household. I thought you should know."
Ethan set down his tea with great care.
"You," he said, "are going to be the end of me."
Magneto smiled into his cup. He did not look particularly troubled by this assessment.
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