<hr/><em>Mark Milton, a drug against war.</em><br/><hr/><br/>Mark Milton felt no alarm at the chaos that broke out. He wondered, briefly, if some supervillain had perhaps tainted the school water supply, but it seemed entirely unlikely that on the first day it could have such effects, and that it could be so selective. It seemed simply the case that he was more right than he knew that humans could respond against all reason and out of all proportion to some mild slight. These young men and women were risking their futures with this reckless, pointless, and stupid display. If they could not play football, they had no hopes of getting full ride scholarships, and more than likely for some of them it would be the only means by which they could attend a post-secondary educational institute.<br/><br/>The young alien sighed. It was so distressing. He thought that he was beyond feeling such things, but humanity broke through the calcified, jaded outer layers to strike at his heart. Not for the first time, Mark looked up at the sky. He saw beyond the clouds and out into the blackness beyond, at the unknown wonders that the unexplored vastness offered, and not for the first time considered simply flying upwards at a speed exceeding escape velocity and never turning back.<br/><br/>The appearance of Spider-Man, as it was insufficient to quell the nascent violence, was a sobering one. If the masked menace was insufficient to cow the jocks into submission, and there really was nothing more at hand in this than base human nature, it made Mark wonder once again about what he was and what it meant that he accepted himself a piece in a system controlled by human beings with control and the illusion that their control over the system gave them power. It made him wonder how secure the control of agencies like SHIELD or the American military industrial complex or Stark Industries could truly be over the masses.<br/><br/>"Hey, faggot!" A football player called out, drawing Mark's attention back to Earth. A group of four had bypassed the trio of Logan, Clint, and Steve, wanting a target all their own. Mark slowly brought his eyes down, and along with his square chin. His brown eyes met those of the other men, and it was like staring into the eyes of hungry dogs. Mark had never liked dogs - they always seemed to sense that he was different.<br/><br/>"Ha ha ha! That got his attention! He must be a cock-sucking queer!" Another said, jeering and pointing a large, dark-skinned finger at Mark. The man had to be three hundred pounds, an immovable object upon the offensive line.<br/><br/>"Yeah, look at his sissy little gay shirt!" Said another with skin the colour of coffee with heavy cream and a lean build suited for running tens of yards without tiring with a swiftness to evade all who tried to intercept him.<br/><br/>Mark's lips became a thin, impatient line upon his face. He stood such that he was backlit to them, and none could see his face. The young alien closed his eyes, and wondered if they would pass him by if he remained passive. It seemed unlikely, but worth a shot. The sounds of their footfalls removed that narrow possibility. Mark kept himself relaxed. He was in no danger. Not physically. But how to respond and keep face? How to respond with being made a social persona non grata? Mark felt a frustration welling deep in his gut; his first day of school and he was going to be ostracized! His jaw tensed as that frustration grew. He berated himself for being social, for going towards a group that Logan had joined. The signs had all been there and if only he had followed them-<br/><br/>A hand grasped the front of Mark's shirt, and jerked, as if to pull Mark forward. Of course the alien did not budge. The hand belonged to a man of modest musculature, heavier than the normal person, but not as big as some members of his team. Not as big as Mark. Mark looked down at that hand with sad brown eyes. He could see the very atoms that made up those hands, if he chose to. It seemed so insignificant that he would never get to be part of the football team and have that experience of high school, but nevertheless it provided Mark with no emotional satisfaction. He was sad because he would never have a cadre of friends willing to engage in such foolish violence on his behalf.<br/><br/>Mark gave the young man holding him a half-hearted shove. His left hand rose, and extended outward as the large muscles of his arms expanded and contracted to do their work. The one holding Mark only had time for a surprised, "wha-?" before he was three feet away and on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The other three looked on with disbelief.<br/><br/>"Man, what's that? Some faggot-ass karate bullshit?" The heavyset one asked, incredulous and full of testosterone-fueled anger. His big hands curled into fists the size of footballs, black instruments of righteous vengeance for his team mate. "Well I mastered all 36 chambers of the Wu-Tang, motherfucker!" This statement presaged a blatantly telegraphed right haymaker aimed Mark's head. Time seemed to slow down as Mark imagined several different outcomes. Brown eyes turned slightly to watch as the hug black fist moved forward in fractions of millimeters. Mark imagined just standing there and letting the black man shattered every bone in his hand - it would be a fate common to the football players, and who was Mark to deprive him of that? There was also the possibility of moving with the blow and giving the<em>impression</em>that he went down, but Mark discarded it. The lesser part of it was not wanting to appear weak, but the greater part of it was a petty desire not to give such satisfaction to them. In perhaps the most quickly discarded scenario, Mark would dodge to the side, step in, and then lift the heavy black offensive lineman up with a single hand and then slam him down onto the ground in an overt display of superhuman strength. That one was funny. He imagined dodging, catching, countering . . . a thousand scenarios played out in his mind.<br/><br/>Just as the fist was about to make jaw-shattering, consciousness-robbing impact (well, if it were to hit a normal human), Mark stepped to the side so that fist kept on going. The black man it was attached to kept moving as well, unable to stop and unable to make sense of Mark stepping out the way. Mark placed a hand on the assailant's back, and gave him a small nudge. The football player surged forward five feet, and landed heavily and without grace. His weight was to his disadvantage, and there was a cry of pain that accompanied that landing. Maybe something was broken or popped out of place; Mark did not care enough to sort out the sounds he was hearing to parse that out, or to look for broken bones.<br/><br/>And then Steve tried to get the quarterback to call everyone off.<strong>"Hold on a second."</strong>Mark said as the other two raised their fists and made to start a coordinated charge.<strong>"The quarterback might just tell everyone to call it off."</strong>Mark was not hopeful. For the moment, the two left held off and waited to see how matters would resolve.