Whether Tony Stark's "genius" call was swayed by the Mind Stone's whispers, Ronan didn't care.
He'd stop it either way.
It was his only shot at swapping the Mind Stone out.
Grabbing it now? Forget the others—Thor'd never sign off.
It's Loki's, and while no one knows where Loki snagged it, hauling it back to Asgard's his gig.
The rest of the Avengers? They'd balk at Ronan taking their hard-won prize too.
They barely knew him.
So, Ronan's play was simple.
Wait for Tony Stark to screw up. Once the Mind Stone's in motion, Ronan's got room to maneuver.
If memory served, Ultron snatches the scepter, aiming to craft a perfect body.
Vibranium-built, Mind Stone-powered—near-unbeatable in the cosmos.
That sparked a thought Ronan'd chewed on forever.
Vision's body and Steve Rogers' shield—both vibranium.
Yet Thanos crushed Vision's head with a few fingers, yoinking the Mind Stone.
Steve's shield? Took Thanos' full-on hacks to split.
Logic's off.
Did Ultron "forget" to vibranium-up Vision's head?
Or was Thanos' grip stronger than his big-ass blade?
Tsk.
Another Marvel mystery for the ages.
Whatever—Ronan kept Tony Stark's little scheme under wraps.
Just waiting for him and Bruce Banner to dive in—then he'd move.
Post-lecture, Tony politely asked if Ronan'd hit their victory party in a few days.
Answer? A blank stare and a sneaky middle finger.
He couldn't unmask with them—drink through a helmet?
Plus, he's underage—no booze!
To dodge prying eyes, Ronan didn't bounce back to his desk. Sling Ring portal—straight home.
These Avengers showing up? Killed his work grind *and* swapped it for gaming.
Outrageous!
Ronan fiddled with his controller, cursing them to strike it rich next year.
Bunch of big bads!
---
Time zipped to the next afternoon.
Morning hit, and Peter Parker's first move was beelining to Ronan's desk, asking if he'd scored the day off.
A yes lit him up.
If the teacher hadn't walked in, he'd have spilled his book picks right then.
Finally, Peter slogged through a brutal morning.
Even at lunch, he was distracted—eyes glued to the chat app, "Martha" window on repeat.
Not that he had a thing for Martha—just jonesing for her meet-up ping.
He thought he was slick, but to Ronan and Gwen Stacy? Obvious as hell.
Ronan nearly cracked up a few times—Gwen Stacy's cover saved him.
Earned him a warning glare too!
Laughing's rude, apparently.
Ronan shrugged, peering at the afternoon's rundown.
Bus, venue, headcount—plan was airtight.
Martha nailed it.
All built on cash, though.
Events like this had a "sponsor"—covering the gig, even the night's party.
Today's sugar mama? Martha.
Yup.
Rich, classmate-serving student leader.
Bet she'd rock college student council too.
Years down? This classmate might hit local rep—or climb higher.
Aristocrats groom kids' résumés from the cradle.
Way fuller than Ronan's future bum life.
After another half-hour wait, Peter's phone buzzed with Martha's mass text.
"Classmates, bus is at the gate."
"Get there in 30—ride's on."
"Plate: XXXX."
Peter bolted—first out.
Two steps, he froze.
Ronan hadn't finished lunch.
So, he trudged back, plopping down.
"Peter, you're done—go ahead."
"We'll catch up."
Ronan caught his awkward vibe, tossing a lifeline.
Peter grinned, shaking his head. "Nah, let's roll together."
Ronan smirked.
Peter Parker—masked chatterbox, unmasked wallflower.
Mute around strangers.
"Fine, hang on."
Ronan didn't push, but shoveled food faster.
His "godson" smelled spring—he'd nudge him toward bliss.
Soon, Ronan wolfed the rest down.
Trio packed up, hit the bus.
It was half-full already.
Ronan nabbed a back seat; Peter slid in beside him.
Gwen Stacy parked up front with Martha.
Stashing his bag, Peter scoped the scene—then locked on.
Cindy Moon, right front, not far.
His gaze hit her—and somehow, she turned, meeting his eyes.
Cindy smiled; Peter flailed, whipping his head away.
Ronan caught the fumble.
Sitting, he flicked a glance her way.
That glance—and Cindy turned again, locking onto *him*.
No smile this time—just a hint of gravity.
Ronan blinked, surprised.
Most folks don't clock being watched.
Sometimes you feel it—someone's staring—but it's hit-or-miss.
Not Cindy Moon.
Peter's look? She turned—maybe luck.
Ronan's? She turned again.
That's off.
Twice in a row, sensing eyes—even Ronan's sneak peeks never tipped folks off.
But Cindy caught it.
"Interesting."
Ronan grinned, settling in.
His gaze ain't normal.
Bus filled fast—headcount checked, it rolled out.
Only bummer? Driver wasn't his usual old-timer—just some middle-aged dude.
"Ronan, you reading today?"
Not long after takeoff, Peter whispered.
"Nah, just chilling as a listener."
"You look ready, though?"
Ronan eyed Peter's nervous tic, smirking.
Book club? Barely anyone cared.
Real goal: tonight's party.
Yup—no spice, maybe some booze.
Post-party spice? Who knows.
"I prepped a bit—check it out."
"Gonna read this part—thoughts?"
Peter didn't wait, yanking a book from his bag.
Ronan saw the cover and nearly yeeted him.
History of Western Philosophy?
What the hell?
Not that Ronan's a slacker—he'd read it, even a school "rec."
But here? Who needs that?
Peter didn't get it—he wasn't here to read, he was here to—
Cough cough cough.
Win a girl's heart!
This dry drivel—won't everyone doze off?
"I picked two bits—Plato's Utopia and Plato's Cosmology."
"Both killer—I can't wait to share."
"But which one? Help me pick."
Peter flipped to Chapter 14, "Plato's Utopia," plopping it in Ronan's lap.
Ronan sighed hard.
Yeah, killer stuff.
Plato's Utopia—words failed him.
Not the book—Peter's whacked-out brain.
"Hi, can we switch seats?"
As Ronan prepped a reply, a voice cut in beside Peter.
Peter froze, spinning—and jolted.
Cindy Moon.
"M-Me?"
He stammered.
"Nope—me."
Ronan slapped Peter's shoulder, using the shove to stand.
"No complaints—have a blast."
He grabbed his stuff, bolting to the empty back row.
Time to dip.
Let Cindy soak up Peter's philosophy rant.
Ronan'd rather slum it—phone out, game on.
High-brow vibes? Leave 'em to those two.
Back-row gaming, he still caught Peter and Cindy's giggles.
What were they on about?
Some weirdo laughing over philosophy?
Ronan didn't get it.
After a crisp 31-1-0 stomp, the host booted and blacklisted him.
Guy'd screamed "cheater" plenty.
Ronan scoffed.
Physical hacks count?
Even if they did, so what?
Pity the dude blocked him—Ronan'd show him *real* physical hacks.
Mental meltdown guaranteed.
Mid-room hunt for the next slaughter, a prying gaze pinged from above.
Ronan flicked up—with his senses, he spotted a tiny spider crawling a web in the corner.
That stare? From it.
Yo?
Ronan's brow ticked, perception fanning across the bus.
Out for a chill student day—and he stumbles on powers?
Three spiders like that one on board.
Not random—someone's doing it.
Using them to scope everyone—but why?
Peter Parker?
Ronan?
Or someone else?
Ronan squinted, subtly locking his senses on everyone.
He shifted, dodging the spider's line of sight.
A clone's head popped from his back, then vanished—guarding Gwen Stacy.
His real self? Hunting the culprit.
Spiders.
Not just any—spiders.
And one big spider's already on this ride.
Was their power just spider control—or birds, beasts, anything?
Not critical, but telling.
If the first, target's easy.
If the second—trouble's brewing.