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Oliver Harden was in actual hell. Somewhere along the line, he must have offended the gods, because how else did he end up here?
Here being classroom 309 — his physics laboratory.
He spends eight hours a day teaching Queens’ brightest and most hopeful.
What a load of bullshit.
He used to wear that title himself. Bright. Promising. A vision of the future. That’s what his principal and teachers told him when he graduated high school. Then he got to college, and everything shifted. High school had made him a big fish in a small pond. College corrected that illusion quickly. Suddenly, he was small, buried under assignments, paired with a nightmare of a roommate, and taught by professors who seemed to take personal issue with him. He swears they did.
Now he teaches. Not because he wanted to, but because it was one of the few jobs that opened up post-grad. And God, he hates it. He hates the building, the fluorescent lights, the way the students complain about workload while wasting class time whispering and laughing in the halls. They don’t understand how little time they have. How unforgiving the world actually is.
Every student who walks through this godforsaken science and technology school thinks they’re the next Tony Stark, Edward Witten, or Roger Penrose. If they wanted to follow in the footsteps of the greats, they certainly didn’t act like it. He was handing them a blueprint for surviving college, for thriving in it, and they treated it like busywork.
One day, they’d look back and regret not taking him seriously.
Just because his path landed him here didn’t mean he was any less intelligent than his peers. He hadn’t failed — he’d been sidelined. Redirected. Unfairly targeted in ways that set the trajectory of his adult life long before he had a say in it.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
Over the years, Harden learned how to survive the job. The most important lesson was efficiency — specifically, carving out stretches of time that required as little effort as possible. Student presentations were perfect for that. Three classes of “work time” while he sat at his desk playing Tetris. Another three cycling through presentations while he half-listened and graded on instinct.
No one ever earned higher than a B.
No project was that good. And effort mattered. Students who spent half the period talking forfeited their right to an A immediately. The few who didn’t still produced work that never justified the time they claimed to invest.
“Thank you for another riveting presentation on electromagnets, Betty.”
His pen taps the desk as he scans the list.
“Peter Parker. You’re up next.”
He doesn’t mind Peter. That’s the closest Harden comes to liking a student. Second in the class, if he remembers correctly — only behind Michelle Jones, who he absolutely loathes. Peter consistently scores high on tests and homework, usually losing points for one thing: not showing his work.
That part bothers him.
Harden can’t accuse him of cheating outright, not with the answers being correct, but the thought lingers. It always does.
“So,” Peter begins, pulling up his slides, “I did my presentation on energy loss, stabilization, and why seemingly perfect models fail in real-world applications.”
Harden straightens. This isn’t one of the five recycled topics. This isn’t safe. This isn’t familiar. More importantly — he hasn’t taught any of this. His stomach tightens. He recognizes the framework immediately. Too immediately. He wrote a paper on this exact subject senior year. Earned a C. Incomplete and inconsistent ideas, the professor had written.
As Peter continues, the unease sharpens. The language is polished. Too polished. He uses terminology Harden recognizes from academic journals — words you don’t pick up in high school, not unless you’re digging through databases you don’t belong in. The longer Peter talks, the less Harden understands. That’s the problem. His top student is standing at the front of the room, speaking confidently about material Harden himself never managed to get approved.
Cheating. That has to be it. He wouldn’t tolerate it.
Later, he would wish he’d sat with that thought a little longer.
“Alright. Good work to those who presented today. Peter Parker — stay after class.”
The room erupts instantly. A chorus of oooohs ripples through the lab, and Harden silences it with a sharp look just as the bell rings. Chairs scrape. Backpacks zip. Students funnel out in a rush, eager to escape. Within seconds, it’s just the two of them. They have maybe three minutes before the next class trickles in.
“Peter,” Harden says as the boy approaches, “you’re aware we have a zero-tolerance policy for cheating at Midtown, correct?”
“Yes,” Peter answers quickly, nodding. His brow creases — confusion, Harden assumes. Or performance.
Did he really think this would work?
“Then explain to me,” Harden continues, voice clipped, “why your presentation today was lifted almost entirely from collegiate-level material.”
Peter blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens, closes. The image that flashes through Harden’s mind is unflattering — a fish gasping, scrambling for oxygen.
“But, Mr. Harden,” Peter says finally, “I didn’t cheat.”
Harden exhales through his nose and rubs his temples. He’s already tired. Already annoyed. “Peter, you and I are both intelligent enough not to insult each other with that answer,” he says. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll serve after-school detention, and I’ll be calling home to schedule a meeting with the principal.”
Students begin filing in for the next period. Harden doesn’t look at them.
“B—but, Mr. Harden,” Peter stammers, face flushing, “I—I really didn’t cheat, and I have responsibilities after school that I can’t miss—”
Harden waves him off. Dismissive. Final.
“Get to class before you’re late,” he says. “We’ll talk again at the end of the day.”
His phone call with May Parker goes exactly as expected. Denial. Deflection. Insistence that her nephew wouldn’t do something like that. Harden has heard it all before. Every parent believes their kid is exceptional. Every parent thinks their child is the exception to the rule. It doesn’t make it true.
She informs him — not asks — that she’ll be coming down to the school that afternoon to dispute the accusation with him and Principal Morita. Harden hangs up feeling no better than he did before. If parents were more honest about their children’s limitations, maybe the next generation wouldn’t be so painfully unprepared for reality.
Peter sits at one of the lab tables now, quiet, focused on an assignment Harden barely registers. Michelle Jones occupies a table nearby, doodling instead of being anywhere else. She doesn't even have detention. Another prod from the universe, testing his patience. He returns to his game. He’s less than a thousand points from beating his high score.
The intercom crackles. “Mr. Harden,” Julian from the front office begins, voice hesitant, “just wanted to let you know that — um — Peter Parker’s guardian is on his way down—”
The announcement cuts off mid-sentence. The door opens. Tony Stark walks in.
Harden stares.
This is not May Parker — the petite, impeccably dressed woman from last year’s parent-teacher conference. No. This is something else entirely.
Principal Morita rushes in moments later, slightly out of breath.
For one wild, irrational second, Harden allows himself to imagine it. Tony Stark, here to recognize brilliance. To apologize. To offer him something better than classroom 309.
Finally. Right?
“Mr. Stark!” Peter blurts, unable to stop himself when he recognizes the engineer.
“No talking, Mr. Parker,” Harden snaps, sharper than he intends. The room feels suddenly too small. Principal Morita winces. Michelle Jones stills. Even Peter looks startled. Harden risks a glance at Stark. He doesn’t know the man well — not really — but he knows enough to recognize that expression. Not anger. Something much colder.
“That’s how you speak to your students?” Stark asks, one brow lifting.
“Well, they’re not supposed to talk during detention,” Harden says, the explanation landing weaker than he’d hoped.
Stark hums. “Great. That actually brings us to my next question.” He tilts his head. “Why is my kid in detention?”
His kid.
If Tony Stark had a child, Harden would know. He follows the man’s work. His life. His scandals. But Stark Industries has always been good at controlling narratives. And apparently, people.
“Well,” Harden begins, swallowing. “Peter presented his physics project today, and it was the most blatant case of plagiarism I’ve ever seen from a student.”
Stark’s attention shifts — not to Harden, but to Peter. “Did you cheat?” Stark asks him.
“No, Mr. Stark,” Peter says immediately, shaking his head.
Stark looks back at Harden and spreads his hands. “Kid says he didn’t cheat.”
Harden exhales sharply. “Mr. Parker seems content to maintain his lie. But with all due respect, sir, there is simply no way he arrived at those conclusions independently. This was graduate-level work.”
He gestures vaguely toward the SMARTboard. “We haven’t even touched on the concepts he referenced.”
Stark nods slowly. “FRIDAY, pull up Oliver Harden’s paper from 2003. Energy loss and stabilization.”
Harden opens his mouth to protest — there is no one named FRIDAY in the room — but the words die in his throat. His paper appears on the board. His name. His formatting. His citations.
“Now split-screen it with Peter’s presentation,” Stark adds. The display shifts. Their work now side by side. Harden feels heat crawl up his neck.
“So,” Stark says, leaning back against a lab table, arms crossed. “Since you’re the expert, why don’t you walk me through the differences here?”
“Mr. Stark—” Peter starts.
“Don’t,” Michelle mutters, not looking up from her notebook.
Harden’s fingers twist together. “My paper was deemed incomplete,” he says tightly. “But I understand the subject well enough to recognize when someone strings together terminology from academic sources without comprehension.”
Tony nods. “Funny thing about that.”
He smiles, and Harden feels his stomach drop. “I read your paper this afternoon after May called me. And I gotta say — how you got into Stanford is impressive. Confusing, but impressive.”
Harden stiffens.
“And since we’re on the subject,” Stark continues, almost conversational, “I sent Peter’s slides to your old professor — Professor Litzberg.”
Harden’s vision sharpens painfully. He hadn’t heard that name in at least a decade anywhere other than his thoughts.
“He got back to me pretty fast,” Stark continues. “Graded it on content alone. You know what he said?”
He pauses. Actually waits.
“No, I—”
“Rhetorical,” Stark cuts in. “He asked which one of my senior engineers put it together. Wanted to know if they’d be interested in guest-lecturing his class.”
“That doesn’t prove Peter didn’t cheat,” Harden says, grasping for ground that’s already crumbling beneath him. “Impressive work can still be stolen.”
Stark nods, like he’s humoring a child. “You’re right. It doesn’t.” He tilts his head. “But we moved past that part already. The kid didn’t cheat, and you know it.”
“With respect, sir, parents often struggle to see their children objectively. It’s understandable, but—”
“MJ,” Stark interrupts, not looking at Harden. “Quick check. Am I Tony Stark?”
MJ looks up from her notebook, unimpressed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Jim,” Stark continues. “If Peter were cheating, would I know?”
Principal Morita shifts, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. “I… believe you would.”
“Cool.” Stark exhales. “FRIDAY, help our friend out.”
The voice comes from Stark’s phone this time, smooth and infuriatingly cheerful. “Of course. Based on my records — corroborated by KAREN — Peter Parker logged just over twenty hours on this project across four days. Locations include this classroom, Mr. Stark’s lab, and his Queens residence. All materials used align with Mr. Harden’s rubric.”
Harden’s throat tightens.
“I also conducted plagiarism scans across graduate-level databases from twelve universities,” FRIDAY continues. “No matches. Similar conclusions appear because the methodology is sound.”
Silence. Harden opens his mouth. Closes it.
“Want me to email all that to you,” Stark asks lightly, “or has today already done enough damage?”
“No,” Harden says quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Great.” Stark claps once. “Then apologize to the kid so we can leave. We’re on a schedule.”
The words scrape on the way out. “I’m sorry, Peter. Your grade will be corrected.”
Peter nods, polite. Almost gentle. Somehow that makes it worse.
“Alright,” Stark says, slinging an arm around Peter. “Let’s go. MJ — no idea why you’re in here, but I’m guessing it’s dumb. Need a ride?”
“I’m not in trouble,” she says pleasantly. “I just like sketching people when they realize they’re wrong.”
She flips her notebook around.
Harden doesn’t need to see it to know it’s accurate.
“Oh that’s excellent,” Stark says. “Two hundred.”
MJ grins. “Sold.”
Peter pauses at the door, glancing back. “Thanks for apologizing, Mr. Harden.”
Then they’re gone.
“Hey, Jim,” Stark adds over his shoulder. “I sent you a list of physicists who might be a better fit here. Just something to consider.”
The door shuts. The room feels hollow.
Harden turns slowly to Morita. “I still have a job, right?”
Morita adjusts his tie. “We’ll discuss that later. I have emails to review.”
He leaves and Harden is alone. For the first time, the thought settles in fully formed and unavoidable:
Maybe he wasn’t unlucky.
Maybe he was just… wrong.