Staten Island, the second-floor bedroom of the Lezinski house.
The desk lamp cast a dim yellow glow. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap Red Bull and the restless scratch of a ballpoint pen racing across paper.
"During the War of 1812, the main economic difficulty President Madison faced was... what was it again?"
Dave Lizewski dug both hands into his hair, clawing his already messy locks into a bird's nest.
He stared at the American history workbook in front of him, still more than half unfinished, and writhed in his swivel chair like a miserable maggot.
Cicadas chirped outside the window. An alarm clock sat on the desk. Only seventy-two hours remained before the fall semester began at Midtown High School.
Three days ago, he had stood amid the ruins of Metropolis, watching two Kryptonian gods who could swallow planet-killing cannon fire like bathwater smash a city into mush;
wearing the Redscale armor that had cost Wayne Enterprises millions of dollars, he had crippled a bioengineered monster capable of punching through a load-bearing wall with a sliding tackle; he had sat inside Yang Ming's pink door spanning the multiverse, listening to the world's richest man and Gotham's Dark Knight discuss racing.
And now he was trapped in a bedroom barely a dozen square meters in size, chewing his ballpoint pen until it creaked, all to keep his history teacher from giving him a D.
"Stay calm. Think using the profiling logic your mentor taught you." Dave took a deep breath, forcing himself into the cold detachment of a "Bat-apprentice," muttering under his breath.
"The essence of war is resource allocation and logistical support. Madison's trade embargo cut off customs revenue, and with the British navy's blockade..."
His pen flew across the page, filling half a sheet