Chapter 846 - 3

The soft echo of footsteps reverberated through the halls of a mansion. Once, this house had been home to the most brilliant mind the world had ever known.

Sebastian Nathaniel Montclair, innovator, visionary, a man who had reshaped the very foundation of human civilization, was gone. Medicine, mechanics, infrastructure, his intellect had touched every aspect of modern progress. And yet, despite his monumental achievements, he had succumbed to an affliction no science could cure.

Madness.

Once hailed as the architect of humanity's future, Sebastian had become a man lost in a labyrinth of his own mind, his genius unraveling into something incomprehensible. He had scrawled unintelligible equations on every surface, whispering to unseen forces as if deciphering a language beyond mortal comprehension. Physicians, neurologists, and even the greatest minds he had once called colleagues tried to diagnose him. Schizophrenia, dementia—an endless list of speculative disorders. None could explain the sudden and catastrophic collapse of the greatest intellect of the era.

Yet, if one were to believe his own words, the truth was far stranger.

"I saw everything. I saw it all. I am infinite. I am… we are? We are everything." He had once murmured to his son, his eyes unfocused, his hands shaking as he traced patterns into the air.

Alexander Sterling Montclair had never feared his father—not as a child, not even as he grew older and witnessed his slow descent into madness. But standing before the sealed door of his father's laboratory, a place once brimming with world-altering ideas, a chill crept up his spine.

Letting out a slow breath, he reached into his coat pocket, fishing out a ring of keys that jingled softly in the still air. A small biometric scanner flickered to life beside the reinforced door, casting a pale blue light against his face. Leaning in, he allowed the machine to scan his iris.

"Perhaps this was a sign." He muttered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Months before his father's mind had begun to fracture, he had undertaken one final project—an overhaul of the mansion's security systems. The locks on the house had always been impressive, but the lab… The lab had become an impenetrable vault to anyone who wasn't a "Montclair."

Even to him, his father had forbidden him from entering. For the months leading up to his father's internship in the mental hospital, the only one who entered the lab was his father.

With a series of metallic clicks, the mechanisms groaned in protest before finally conceding. The door swung open.

The sight that greeted Alexander was one of chaos.

The lab had been utterly destroyed. The sleek, meticulously maintained workspace of a world-renowned scientist was now a chamber of madness. Walls, floors, even the ceiling—every available surface was covered in equations, symbols, and intricate sketches that twisted and coiled in patterns too precise to be mere scribbles, yet too erratic to be logical.

He had tried before—hours spent staring at these markings, running them through algorithms, comparing them to known scientific principles. He was no Sebastian Montclair, but he was still his father's son. And yet… it was gibberish.

Something about it unsettled him.

His father had claimed to be working on a revolutionary form of transportation—one that would eliminate the barriers of distance, rendering borders obsolete. A method of travel that would allow humanity to cross entire continents in the blink of an eye.

Teleportation. But that project had never been completed, leaving only a massive chunk of metal behind as proof of it ever being a possibility.

The moment Alex flicked the switch, the dim emergency lights gave way to a cold, sterile white as the lab roared to life. Machines that had long been dormant shuddered back into operation, their internal mechanisms whirring back to life. The air filled with the subtle hum of electricity flowing through circuits.

Then, a familiar voice greeted him.

[Welcome, Alex.] A robotic chime echoed through the space, crisp yet artificial, lacking the warmth of human inflection.

"Aye, sorry for the delay." Alex muttered, his voice filled with exhaustion as he made his way to one of the desks. With a practiced hand, he swept aside the chaotic stacks of notes and blueprints, revealing a cluttered yet meticulously organized workstation. Rows of intricate tools lay where he had left them, untouched since the last time he had dared to enter this place.

Without hesitation, he picked up an omnitool and a micro-soldering pen, intent on losing himself in his work. Yet, the silence pressed in on him. Too thick. Too heavy.

His hands stilled. This lab felt lonelier than before.

Letting out a deep sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the small, unobtrusive camera in the corner of the room.

"N.O.V.A…" He hesitated, calling out to the artificial intelligence he had built to impress his father, the Neural Operative Virtual Assistant. He inhaled slowly before forcing the words out. "Dad's dead."

For a moment, there was no response. Then, a mechanical hum.

[Acknowledged.]

Alex clenched his jaw. His throat felt dry, his mind sluggish, as though the very act of saying it aloud had made the reality settle deeper into his bones. He had told others before—the doctors, the legal teams, even the press—but telling NOVA felt different.

"He took his life a few months ago…" Alex continued, his voice quieter now. He let out a hollow chuckle. "The voices in his head told him to do it. That… that it was the only way…"

A pause.

[Death of Sebastian Nathaniel Montclair has been registered. Initiating confirmation process…]

A faint beep.

[Notice of death confirmed.]

[Project: RH-UN activated.]

Before Alex could even process those words, one of the central monitors flickered to life. A series of codes ran across the screen, then—

His father's face appeared.

Not the broken man he had last seen, not the hollow-eyed scientist scribbling madness onto every surface, but him—Sebastian Nathaniel Montclair at his prime. Sharp-eyed, well-groomed, wearing one of his tailored suits with the easy confidence that had once inspired nations.

Alex's breath caught in his throat.

"Ah… is this thing working?"

The recorded version of his father fiddled with the camera, stepping back to adjust the angle before nodding in satisfaction.

"Well… here it goes. Son, I've done it!" His voice carried the same infectious excitement it always had when he was on the verge of a breakthrough. "You're not gonna believe it, but I have surpassed even my highest expectations. I was blind to the possibilities this world offered…"

Then, a grin—one that Alex hadn't seen in a long time.

"Or should I say, worlds?"

Alex stared, his mouth slightly open, but no words came.

Emotion swelled in his chest—grief, confusion, disbelief—but he didn't have the strength to process any of it. He was tired. Tired of mourning. Tired of feeling like his father had left behind nothing but fragments of an unfinished equation.

"Anyways." The recorded Sebastian continued. "I wanted to record this in case I got lost in one of those worlds. I'm still calibrating this thing, after all, hehe. Well, don't get angry at me for experimenting. Plus, I can't share this with the world yet—not before knowing exactly what it can do."

As he spoke, he moved toward a console, adjusting a set of dials and switches. Then, he reached for a small injector and, without hesitation, stabbed it into the side of his neck.

Alex flinched.

"Little nasty, but the neural implants have been working for a few years now." Sebastian rubbed the spot absentmindedly. "Honestly, I just don't like getting anything near my brain. Gotta keep the moneymaker safe, but, well, when going into places like this, it's probably for the best. I need to record everything and my mind can't keep up with the stuff on that side."

Then, as if sensing his own importance in this moment, he turned back to the camera, a twinkle of unfiltered excitement in his gaze.

The screen flickered, static crawling along its edges before stabilizing once more. When his father's image returned, the man who appeared was not the bright-eyed scientist from before. This Sebastian looked exhausted—hollowed out. Shadows clung to his face, his eyes sunken with the weight of something far beyond mere sleepless nights.

"Calibration was required. New safety procedures have been installed." He muttered, his voice lacking its former enthusiasm. Then, after a brief pause, he looked directly at the camera. His gaze was different now—haunted "I understand it now, son. I stared into the multiverse, and I felt it stare back at me. It's alive, Alex. And it wants me to understand it. I want…. myself to understand it? When I am in there, it's like I am every possible version of me, all at once. But… I am not?"

Alex swallowed, an uneasy chill creeping down his spine.

The screen flickered again.

The man who appeared next was nearly unrecognizable. His once carefully groomed appearance had deteriorated—his beard unkempt, his shirt wrinkled and stained. But it wasn't just his appearance that unsettled Alex. It was his expression. The frenzied, almost fearful glint in his father's eyes.

"Argo has been upgraded. It told me how. I told me how? I think it was me? Or is there something else in there?"

Sebastian grimaced, his hands pressing against his ears as though trying to block out something overwhelming. His breath hitched, his eyes unfocused before snapping back with a sudden, chilling clarity.

"Alex… I… I made a deal… But this is for you." His voice wavered..

"I hope you can forgive me. You were always the brightest one between us… What was it you called me? High Int, low Wis?" A hollow chuckle escaped his lips. "Maybe you were right. But you can't expect your father to find the multiverse and just… turn his back on it."

The screen flickered once more, and this time, Alex barely recognized the place his father stood in. The lab had been consumed by chaos. The once-pristine walls were covered in layers of scribbles, notes written with an increasingly frantic hand. Symbols that held no meaning to Alex, yet seemed deliberate. Methodical.

Sebastian sat in the center of the room, staring at the camera with a look that sent a shiver through Alex. He looked… at peace.

"I guess this is it… isn't it?"

His voice was softer now, almost tender.

"I used to say I would move the world for you. When your mother passed, I swore I would never let anything take you from me. Revolutionize medicine? Why should I care, if not to make sure you would never grow sick? Every breakthrough, every advancement… all of it, Alex, was for you."

His father stood, moving toward Argo before caressing it.

"I don't have the time I wish I had… and until I die, I cannot share this with you. I wish I could. If I do then… I will hurt you? Not me, but… me." His father sighed, his expression weary. "But I can offer you this—a chance to see beyond our world. To explore the infinite possibilities that exist beyond the veil. Or…" He hesitated, looking back at the machine. "The choice to stay here. To live in comfort, with the wealth I accumulated. Even after I'm gone, you will have more than enough to last a lifetime. Hell, even my great-grandchildren would never need to work a day in their lives. If you do this, then I won't… no, not me, but, well, anyways, I believe you would be safe."

A long silence followed. His father's grip tightened around the control panel.

"But… it's an empty life. You won't understand until you see it yourself."

Sebastian inhaled sharply, forcing a smile despite the exhaustion in his eyes.

"If you accept my last gift, then I will teach you how to operate the machine." He turned slightly before his eyes regained focus, slowly yet deliberately explaining each step of the activation sequence.

He exhaled, his expression growing somber.

"But… if you think I have lost my mind—if you believe that I have succumbed to madness—then enter the passcode into the terminal."

Sebastian met Alex's gaze one final time.

"It's your mother's name encrypted with a Caesar Cypher with a shift of 7."

His voice softened.

"If you choose that path, it will erase everything. No one else will ever be able to use it. The choice is yours, son."

The screen went black.

[Message Complete.]

"The hell?"

Alex muttered to himself, shaking his head. The entire thing was insane. His father—his brilliant, impossible, world-changing father—had spent his final days rambling about the multiverse like a man possessed. There was no rational explanation for it.

His fingers clenched into fists as he wrestled with the mess of emotions boiling beneath the surface. Anger, grief, confusion—what the hell was he even supposed to feel? His father had lost his mind, spiraling into delusions of grandeur and cryptic warnings, but through it all, he had still thought of him. Still left behind a choice.

And now, standing in the remnants of his father's obsession, that choice burned at the edges of his mind.

Alex approached the machine slowly, his heart thudding in his chest. He reached out, fingers brushing against coarse fabric. His breath trembled, hesitation stretching painfully. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, he pulled the tarp away.

The sight that greeted him was just as it had been the last time he had dared to examine it—a massive gateway, a structure so alien in design that it barely resembled anything humanity had ever built. He had tried before. He had spent hours analyzing its components, attempting to decipher its purpose, but had never managed to bring it to life.

But now, he had instructions.

Exhaling through his nose, he moved to the control panel, his fingers quickly pressing the required buttons to begin the activation sequence.

The effect was immediate.

Lights flickered overhead as the machine rumbled, its dormant circuits surging with newfound energy. Sparks flared across its surface, metal groaning under the sudden strain. Then, without warning—

A pulse of light.

In the center of the gateway, a small orb materialized, shifting and twisting as if refusing to settle on any single form.

Alex's breath caught in his throat.

The shape continued to shift, flickering between impossible geometries, an ever-changing mass of angles and colors that defied comprehension. It was wrong, yet mesmerizing—like staring into a kaleidoscope that refused to obey the rules of reality.

It was exactly as he had seen in his father's video.

He took an unconscious step back.

This wasn't just a madman's delusion.

It was real.

But then, another realization struck him. His father had done this to himself.

Had he damaged his own mind trying to "upgrade" Argo? Had he willingly subjected himself to a process that left him scribbling on walls, muttering about voices and staring into the abyss?

And now—now—he expected Alex to do the same?

His hands trembled as he exhaled, his breath uneven.

It would be so simple.

He could just shut it all down.

Deactivate the machine. Enter the passcode. Destroy it all.

Live out the rest of his days in comfort, honoring his father's legacy while avoiding the madness that had consumed him.

That was the rational choice.

And yet.

"When has my father ever been wrong?"

Sebastian Montclair was a genius. A man whose brilliance had reshaped the world a dozen times over.

Could he have truly been wrong this time?

"Am I stupid?"

The thought rang hollow in his mind.

He already knew the answer.

Slowly, reluctantly, his gaze drifted back to the gateway—to the swirling, ever-shifting anomaly hovering within its frame.

He could feel it.

Something waiting.

Something watching.

Deep down, he could feel himself drawn to it.

"NOVA…" His voice was quiet now, but firm. "What do you think?"

There was a brief pause.

[Answer: According to my programming, I am not allowed to weigh in on this decision.]

A humorless chuckle escaped Alex's lips.

"Of course you can't…"

He stared at the machine—at the path his father had left for him.

And he made his choice.

Deep down, he wanted to think it over. To rationalize what the best step forward would be. But he knew that if he did that, he would simply destroy the machine. Every rational part of him told him that this was too dangerous. But deep inside, he couldn't help but want to trust his father.

"Dad, if this kills me…. Well, I bet mom is gonna be pissed off at you." Alex muttered to himself.

He stared at the floating orb for a few moments before reaching for the control panel and hovering his finger over the final activation. The moment his finger pressed down, he saw the machine in front of him explode. The small floating orb destabilized before growing large enough to engulf him.

Darkness.

No, not darkness. Something else.

Alex could still see—his eyes were open, and yet his mind refused to process the information it was receiving. Shapes blurred and twisted at the edges of his vision, shifting between the recognizable and the impossible. Light and shadow bled together in ways that defied logic, warping into geometric patterns that refused to stay still.

For a brief moment, he was convinced he was falling. But there was no floor, no sky, no sense of up or down. The world—or what remained of it—had shattered into fragments of color, spiraling around him in a vortex of incomprehensible depth.

A pressure built behind his eyes, something vast and unknowable pressing against his mind, demanding to be understood.

Then, like a floodgate breaking, his consciousness expanded.

He felt everything.

The weight of infinity pressed into him, an overwhelming cascade of knowledge, of existence, of things he had no words for. He could see beyond the lab, beyond the city, beyond even the planet. His perception stretched outward, touching countless other places, other realities, each one flickering in and out of focus like distant stars in an endless sea.

He saw all of existence all at once, and the only thing that kept him sane was the fact that his mind could not physically comprehend it. He saw everything, yet at the same time, he saw nothing.

This was what his father had meant.

This was what had driven him mad.

Alex gasped, or at least, he thought he did. His body—did he still have a body?—felt distant, weightless. He wasn't just seeing the multiverse; he was experiencing it.

Endless worlds. Endless selves.

A thousand versions of himself, a million, no, infinite? Each is standing at the precipice of a different choice, a different fate. Some had turned away from the machine, living ordinary lives, never knowing what lay beyond. Others had stepped forward, taken the leap as he had… but they had not returned. Their bodies consumed, perhaps shredded apart by forces beyond comprehension. Or maybe… maybe they were like him now.

Was this what death felt like?

Strangely, he saw himself in situations that should have been impossible. There were versions of him that never had a secret lab hidden in their home. Some who had never even been born into the Montclair family. Others who had taken entirely different paths, lives so foreign to his own, yet undeniably him.

He was all of them at once. He was every Alex Sterling Montclair, every possibility, every branch of existence collapsed into a singular awareness.

And deep down, he regretted it.

He wished he were just another version of himself—one who had never made this choice, one who had never inherited the burden of his father's genius, one who had never watched him fall into madness.

It would have been nice.

Ah… his thoughts were wandering now. His mind unraveling, slipping away into the vast ether of existence.

Perhaps… he didn't have much time left.

So much for living.

No.

Maybe this was simply the curse of his bloodline, of its insatiable curiosity.

But then—

A thought. A desperate, irrational thought.

'How nice would it be to hijack another version of myself?'

He was connected to them all.

'Could I?'

His existence was already dissolving into the void. His sense of self fracturing. What was one more impossibility?

'No, no, what am I thinking? That's ridiculous.'

Yet…

Despite it all, he felt calm.

Even as the last fragments of his consciousness slipped away—

And then—

Cold.

A chill rushed up his spine, sharp and biting, cutting through his clothes as though he had been plunged into ice water. Snow crunched beneath his feet, a stark contrast to the sterile lab floor he had been standing on just moments before. His breath came out in short, rapid bursts, visible in the freezing air.

'Where am I?'

Before he could even process the thought, smoke invaded his senses—thick, acrid, suffocating. He turned sharply, his gaze snapping toward the source. But he didn't even manage to see the source of the flames before he found himself crashing hard against hot concrete.

"Raugharah!"

The guttural, inhuman screech snapped him out of his daze. Instinct took over, and he scrambled backward just in time to see a rotting corpse lunging toward him, its decayed fingers reaching, its sunken eyes locked onto him with a hunger beyond comprehension.

'A zombie?'

His heart pounded—he braced himself—

And then, the world shifted.

Everything collapsed inward, folding around him, and in the next instant, he was somewhere else.

It was dark, the air was humid, and he could feel the cold, hard rocks underneath him. Was he in a cave?

His breathing hitched as he pushed himself upright, his surroundings momentarily obscured by shadows. Then, a glow—dim, golden light reflecting off massive, obsidian-black scales.

A dragon.

Its piercing eyes locked onto him, studying him with an unreadable expression. Was that… curiosity? He hoped it was curiosity and not hunger.

Alex took a slow, steady breath, his mind racing. He should have been terrified—was terrified—but what caught his attention wasn't the creature itself, but the shimmering construct encasing it.

A barrier.

The dragon was trapped.

Hard-light technology? No, it was too intricate, too precise—almost mystical in nature.

Before he could analyze it further, before he could even think to react—

Another shift.

The cave blinked out of existence, replaced by the sensation of weightlessness.

Water.

The icy grip of the ocean swallowed him whole, salt stinging his eyes as the pressure threatened to crush his lungs. He kicked, arms flailing as he tried to surface—

But before he could drown—

Another shift.

Scorching heat burned his skin.

A desert?

The sand beneath him was blistering hot, the air dry enough to crack his lips. He gasped, but the moment he did—

Shift.

He was in a classroom, rows of desks neatly aligned before a chalkboard. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound so ordinary it sent a fresh wave of panic through him.

Another shift.

A castle, its towering spires clawing at a stormy sky.

Then a ship, its massive engines rumbling beneath his feet.

Space. Stars stretched endlessly around him, the infinite void swallowing him whole.

Each time he blinked, the world changed. Experiencing the life of another version of himself for only a moment.

No control. No stability. No way to stop it.

Then—

Then he was home.

His bedroom.

Familiar walls, a familiar ceiling. The soft hum of his room's central cooling system. His desk, cluttered with the same papers he had left there. His bed, sheets slightly wrinkled from where he had last sat.

For a moment, the sheer normalcy of it nearly broke him.

But something was wrong. Terribly, subtly wrong.

His eyes landed on his chair, the one he had used almost every day for the past few years. It was red. His chair was always—

Red?

No, no. It was black. His chair was definitely green.

Wait, no?

Then, there was the framed photograph on his desk. The one of him with his father after he had won a science competition.

No, no. It was from when he had built his first robot.

What was he thinking? He never had a photo. It had always been— a lamp?

As he tried to rationalize everything around him, he was assaulted by a massive wave of nausea.

It started as a dull pressure in his gut before twisting into something worse. A deep, rolling sickness that crawled up his throat. He barely had time to react before he doubled over, the contents of his stomach spilling onto the floor.

Not glamorous, but he had bigger concerns.

Because even as his body rebelled against him, his vision blurred, his muscles failed, and his mind, his mind, slipped further into exhaustion.

The last thing he saw before the world fell dark was his own bed, just out of reach.

Then—

Nothing.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Yup…" Alex stared at his reflection, his expression blank, his mind still trying to grasp the weight of it all.

"I'm cooked." The words left his mouth flatly, void of real emotion.

He was seventeen. He had spent his entire life resembling his mother, blonde hair, blue eyes, the same sharp facial structure that had always made people say he took after her.

But now?

The boy staring back at him was his father's son. Brown hair and brown eyes.

There were also some subtle differences, but ones that made all the difference. His skin was paler than it should have been, but not in the way that came from a lack of sun, it was sickly, like he hadn't been taking care of himself. His frame was thinner, more wiry than he remembered, as though this version of him had neglected to eat properly for years.

Perhaps it was just due to the condition of his body, but he also felt a nagging feeling in his heart. The same feeling he had felt when his father had taken his life. It was heavy; it was uncomfortable. But the best he could do was ignore it for now. He had bigger problems than simply feeling sadness verging on numbness.

Alex glanced around the room.

No signs of life. No discarded clothes from someone else, no second toothbrush by the sink, no casual mess that hinted at a shared space.

He was alone.

Maybe that was just how this version of him lived, left to rot in a mansion, a ghost haunting an empty house long before his body gave out.

'This is my tomb.' He thought, almost naturally accepting the thought before realizing it wasn't coming from him. Well, it was, but, he really didn't want to deal with the implications right now. At least the headache he had felt when he had first arrived in this world was mostly gone.

Where was he? A yes, the tomb. Though he had to give some credit to himself, there were worse ways to die.

He exhaled, his breath fogging the mirror for the briefest second before fading away.

'At least my face didn't change…'

That would have been too much. If he had woken up looking like a completely different person, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle it. Some minor cosmetic differences? Manageable. He could dye his hair and wear contacts if he felt that desperate to become his old self.

So, it could be worse.

A deep breath in. A sigh out.

There was no point stalling anymore.

Alex turned away from the mirror, the movement sluggish, reluctant. Some part of him still clung to the hope that he was dreaming, that at any second he would wake up in his world, in his body, and laugh about this whole thing over coffee and a headache.

But the proof was there, standing in front of him, staring right back at him with the same calculating expression he'd seen on his father so many times before.

There were a thousand rational explanations for this.

Sudden onset madness, like his father.

A hallucination.

Maybe he was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, his body mangled beyond repair after his father's machine tore him apart.

But he knew better.

He had experienced himself.

He had felt the pull of infinity, seen glimpses of who he could have been, who he never would be, and now, now he was here.

"I am thou, and thou art I…"

The words slipped out, a quiet mutter as he dragged a hand down his face.

He would never compare to his father in terms of sheer intellect, but he was still his son. And now that the shock was starting to fade, he could make sense of his situation.

This was another universe.

That wild, fleeting thought he'd had right before he should have died, it had saved him. He had merged with another version of himself, his existence overriding, or maybe assimilating, this body's former owner.

No, not overriding.

The memories were there, just at the edge of his mind, like words on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be recalled. If he gave himself time, they would come to him. Judging by the nagging feeling on his chest, so were the emotions.

And before he landed here, before this version of him had taken root, he had been flashing through worlds, trying to force himself into them, only to be rejected.

This version of himself had lost.

Or had he?

For all Alex knew, he was the one who had lost. Maybe this version of himself had been stronger, and instead of taking over, the multiversal traveler had been the one who got absorbed.

It was impossible to tell.

But in the end, did it even matter?

"I am me." He whispered, voice barely audible, trying to convince himself. But the words felt hollow. His chest tightened, a wave of nausea rising as reality settled deeper into his bones. "I am me… right?"

It didn't matter if he was the intruder or the victor. He was still Alexander Sterling Montclair. All of them. One of them. Himself. Or at least, that's what he was telling himself to stop himself from having a panic attack.

Maybe this was what had driven his father insane, too many possibilities, too much awareness, the weight of infinite selves crushing in on him all at once.

Alex could only wonder what the other versions of his father were like to have broken his mind so thoroughly.

"Hm…" A quiet hum left his lips. He had realized something that had snapped him out of his inner ramblings.

It was strange. Thinking was easier.

His thoughts were sharper, clearer. He could feel the gears of his mind turning at a speed they hadn't before. He wasn't sure how, but he could process things better, could analyze faster.

Maybe this version of himself had inherited better brain genetics?

Or maybe he was still in shock and this was just a side effect. After all, he had just traveled the multiverse.

Alex exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his now-brown hair before turning on his heels and marching straight to his desk. There was no point in standing around questioning his existence, not when there were far bigger concerns. He could have a meltdown later.

If this was a new world, then he needed to know exactly what kind of world he had landed in.

For all he knew, he could've woken up in a timeline where the Cold War never ended or where sentient toasters had taken over.

"..."

Alex's hands froze over the keyboard, his eyes locking onto the home screen.

He sighed. Deeply.

"Yeah… that explains it."

Every single no-life game imaginable was installed on this thing. Strategy games, MMOs, roguelikes, gacha trash, the sheer dedication to wasting time was almost impressive.

Apparently, this version of him had gone full no-life mode. He was a bum.

Great. Just great.

He could only wonder how much time this body had sunk into them. And for what? What were the odds that in this universe, Alex Montclair, the supposed son of a technological genius, had wasted his time grinding levels instead of using his brain?

Maybe that's why he was so pale.

Ignoring the distractions, he opened up a browser and started digging through the biggest news stories of the past few years. If this world was different, then the headlines would tell him how much.

And oh boy, did they.

His eyes scanned the screen, flicking through articles that made his stomach drop further with each word.

"Stark Industries… The Baxter Building… Oscorp…"

And then, just to make everything worse, he glanced at the site logo.

The Daily Bugle.

"Hell naw."

His back hit the chair as he stared at the screen, mind racing.

This was Marvel.

He was in Marvel.

What the hell was he supposed to do in Marvel?

For all he knew, he could wake up tomorrow and have some random alien invasion tear through the city.

He swallowed, glancing around his room like some interdimensional police force was about to break through his window for simply existing here. Actually, for all he knew, there was definitely an interdimensional police.

He waited for a few seconds, but nothing…. He was probably safe. They were probably busy with some Isekai protagonist who lewded lolis.

'Wait, aren't there already aliens living among humans? The Skull? No, the Skrall? Skrulls? Or is that not happening in this universe?'

Hell, how was he supposed to check?

It wasn't like there was a handy "Are Skrulls Among Us?" search bar on Google. And looking it up might actually put him on a list.

What if S.H.I.E.L.D. had some insane surveillance algorithm that flagged keywords? What if Nick Fury had already read his search history before he even finished typing?

What if he woke up tomorrow in a S.H.I.E.L.D. black site because someone decided he was "too informed" for an average civilian?

God. Damn. It.

He did not sign up for this.

The worst part? He should have known better. He should have spent every waking moment in his previous life memorizing Marvel lore, just in case something like this happened.

But nooo.

He had wasted his years reading about boring things like engineering, AI development, and real-world geopolitics instead of studying every single Marvel comic like a religious text.

'Thanks dad, you are a real one, taught me all I would need… sorry, I didn't mean that.'

Shaking his head, he focused back on the issue at hand.

Now? Now he was screwed.

And then, just to twist the knife deeper.

"Of course… Mutants are a freaking thing in this world…"

He skimmed through a few more headlines, each one making him more and more paranoid.

Mutants were real here, but their presence wasn't well-documented. The headlines barely mentioned them. The only reason he managed to discover that the people he was reading about were in fact, mutants, was because he already knew of them. That was either really good… or really, really bad. Either there weren't many mutants, or their existence was being buried.

Alex rubbed his temples, his paranoia getting the better of him.

"Maybe there's a mutant with the power to make people forget things? Maybe they erased all the major mutant-related incidents from history…"

That didn't sound impossible.

"Wait. Can't Xavier do that?"

He exhaled, leaning back into his chair as the horrifying thought settled in.

"He could totally mind-wipe everyone… not that he would but…"

But what if he did? What if he had already done it countless times? What if, somewhere in this world, mutants had already revealed themselves, and no one remembered? Attributing every Magneto terror attack to a random natural accident.

His head fell into his hands.

Marvel. Fucking Marvel.

The heaviness in his chest began to press him down once again. But before it could fully envelop him, he took a deep breath before slapping his face a few times, trying to regain focus.

"Alright. It could be worse. I'm alive, which means I can still improve. Even if this world is a mess, maybe I can buy myself an island. Get away from all the bullshit the heroes and villains pull on the daily…"

It was a solid plan. Or it would have been.

But then, like a glass shattering inside his skull, memories that weren't his, but also were, came flooding in.

Ah. So much for that dream.

He was broke.

Not homeless, no, technically, he lived in what could be considered a small mansion. But compared to what he had in his original world? Compared to the limitless potential and generational wealth he should have had?

Yeah. This version of him was basically poor. Or maybe his standards were all out of whack.

"Yeah…" He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the fragmented memories slotted into place.

Instead of changing the world, this version of Sebastian Montclair had spent a few years working under Stark Industries, specializing in weapons development. His contributions had been substantial, sure, enough to earn a few million dollars in compensation, but before he could make any real breakthroughs, he had been killed.

An accident.

A stupid, preventable accident.

Some idiot in his department hadn't followed proper safety procedures, leading to an explosion that wiped out the entire building. Everyone inside, gone.

And just like that, Alex had been left alone.

No close relatives. No one to take him in.

The only reason he hadn't been tossed into the foster system was because his father, as paranoid as he was brilliant, had prepared for the worst years in advance. A legal safety net had been put in place, ensuring Alex had a guardian and a steady financial cushion until he grew old enough to manage himself.

But what had he done with it?

He had fired his caretaker, a lovely woman who had tried her best to help him heal.

Technically, he shouldn't have been able to until he turned eighteen. But this version of him? He had figured out how to game the system.

A few strategic calls to lawyers, a little bureaucratic manipulation by giving a few "donations", and suddenly—

Boom.

He was left to rot in his oversized house, completely alone, just like he had wanted.

And apparently, he had taken his isolation seriously.

This version of Alex had graduated early, not because of ambition, but simply to avoid people altogether. No more school. No social obligations. Nothing.

Just him, his computer, and a downward spiral of terrible life choices.

And then…

The money.

Oh, God. The money.

He should have been so rich right now.

Tony Stark had given him so much money as compensation for the accident. He had gone out of his way to pay the families of every single person who died generously, even if they were just a simple janitor.

Tony had even tried to reach out to him to help him now that he was alone, offering his hand in help should he ever need it. Perhaps he saw a little bit of himself on Alex. Both being wealthy orphans with genius fathers and all that jazz.

But his old self had rejected the offer for help, donating practically all he had gotten to random charities chosen from a roulette.

And then he simply began to throw away the rest of his money.

He hadn't saved it. Hadn't invested it.

Just by glancing across his room, he could see what must have been worth a fortune. And that wasn't even accounting for the rest of the crap he had around the house. There was a pile of unopened collector's editions littered on the floor. But that was nothing compared to the countless amount of garbage his old self had bought.

If he became interested in sculpting, he would turn a room into an entire room dedicated to it. Spending tens of thousands, if not more, on hobbies he would do for a few days before moving on to the next.

There was an entire recording studio in his house, and he didn't even know how to play an instrument. He had given up after a week.

Jesus Christ, how much had he wasted?

Part of him already knew the answer. Part of him didn't want to know.

It wasn't hard to guess where it was all leading.

The guilt. The numbness. The slow, creeping acceptance that once the money ran out… well, let's just say he wasn't planning on sticking around much longer.

The faster he spent the money, the faster he could end his subscription to life.

Alex let out a long, shaky exhale.

"..."

For a brief moment, he could feel it, the old emotions clawing at the edges of his mind, trying to drag him down into the same hopeless abyss this version of him had been drowning in for years.

But that wasn't him. Not anymore.

Or, he hoped it wasn't.

Alex ran a hand through his hair and let out another sigh.

How many times had he sighed today?

Didn't matter. Not anymore.

He had shit to do.

Sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn't an option. Not when he was living in a world where gods, aliens, demons, and superhumans were very real threats.

Not when his future depended on how fast he could adapt.

It was time to prepare.

— –Charles Xavier– —

Rolling steadily through the immaculately polished halls of his mansion, Charles Xavier made his way toward Cerebro, the most powerful tool in his lifelong mission to help mutants.

A daily ritual. A necessary one.

Some would live their entire lives with a dormant X-gene, never knowing the potential locked inside them. That was how it had always been.

But now? Something was changing.

The rate of mutation was accelerating. More and more, he was finding individuals whose gifts awakened far too easily. The pattern was undeniable.

Puberty. Trauma. Extreme stress.

The human body, pushed to its limit, triggering something primordial buried deep within their DNA. And in that moment, the most terrifying, most vulnerable moment of their lives, he would be there.

Every day, without fail, he spent at least an hour combing through the vast network of minds, searching for those who had awakened, for the lost, the frightened, the desperate.

Because mutation was unpredictable.

It came in all shapes and forms, some more dangerous than others. Some mutations barely altered one's life at all, enhanced reflexes, heightened intellect, a simple resistance to disease. Others? Others could crumble entire cities with a wave of their hand.

Perhaps, today, a young girl would wake to find that her touch drained the life force of anyone she held dear. With a simple kiss she would put a boy in a coma for months, causing her to fear her own body.

Perhaps a boy, sitting in a classroom, would sneeze and reduce the building to ash.

He had seen it all. Disaster, fear, confusion.

It left a mess, one that had to be cleaned up before the world could take notice.

Because the world had proven itself unready.

For all his dreams of unity, Charles knew the cold reality of their existence. The fear, the prejudice, the sheer violence waiting for those who were different. And while he refused to give up hope, he also understood his limitations.

He understood that bringing too much attention to them could be catastrophic. It was something his old friend Erik hadn't yet accepted, at least for now.

Someday, Xavier believed, the tides would turn. Humanity and Mutants could stand together, but that was a battle for another time.

Right now, his task was simpler, to reach out to those mutants who needed him.

He would find them.

He would offer them sanctuary, a place to learn, to grow. And when they were ready, they would have a choice.

To leave and live among humanity. Or to stand with him and forge a new future.

Reaching the secured chamber, Xavier pressed a button, sealing the doors behind him as he approached the sleek, domed machine at the room's center.

Cerebro. A device that amplified his abilities to a degree even he could hardly fathom. It strengthened his reach, allowing him to detect mutant minds across the entire planet.

With careful precision, he lifted the helmet, settling it onto his head.

Then, he closed his eyes.

And listened.

For nearly an hour and a half, Xavier let his mind drift across the world, brushing against the countless unique signatures that marked the presence of mutants. Some were subtle, barely registering against the sea of human thoughts. Others were more distinct, flashes of potential, of power, of evolution unfolding in real time.

He committed each one to memory, making mental notes of where they were and how their mutations were developing. Some he would reach out to, others would need time before intervention became necessary.

And just as he was preparing to withdraw for the day, he felt it.

Like a roaring inferno against the vast darkness, a presence so bright it nearly blinded his psychic senses.

An Omega Class mutant.

Newly awakened. But even in its infancy, the sheer magnitude of its power burned as fiercely as the sun.

Xavier's breath caught in his throat for a moment.

According to the classification system he had developed, mutants were divided into six levels, each denoting their power and the stability of their abilities.

Epsilon Class. The lowest tier, encompassing those whose mutations were riddled with debilitating flaws. Some lacked any combat viability, while others had abilities so unstable that their own powers could kill them.

Delta Class. The most common type of mutant. Their abilities were functional but limited, with little real risk of catastrophic consequences. Useful, but they lacked the strength to match those of a higher class.

Gamma Class. A step above Delta, often boasting greater strength, but at a price. Many suffered physical mutations, making them stand out in a world that rejected their kind. Others had uncontrollable drawbacks, making their powers as much a curse as they were a gift.

Beta Class. On the same level as Alpha, but with minor imperfections. The difference between Beta Mutants and Alpha Mutants is that the Beta Mutants have flaws, albeit very small flaws.

Alpha Class. The pinnacle of controlled, highly evolved mutations. No significant drawbacks, no inherent weaknesses. One of the rarest of the stable classifications. Xavier himself was considered an Alpha, a telepath with few, if any, limitations.

Finally, there was Omega. The rarest, most dangerous classification. Mutants with power without foreseeable limits.

He had spent his entire life seeking out these individuals to guide them. Power of that magnitude came with an equally vast burden, and not everyone could bear the weight of it alone.

Ideally, he would be able to do as he had with Jean and contain their powers until they were ready to wield such a responsibility.

He had to find them before their own power destroyed them. Before they could be led astray.

Before the world could hurt them.

Without a moment of hesitation, he put all of his attention on finding them. The same power that gave them unlimited potential also turned them into a psychic beacon. A beacon his consciousness was racing toward.

But before he could reach it, it turned to darkness.

The brilliant, burning sun that had flared so intensely vanished as though something had snuffed it out.

Xavier's eyes snapped open, his hands tightening against the arms of his wheelchair.

"They are near New York…" The words were quiet, muttered only to himself as he sat there, motionless.

For nearly half an hour, he waited, his psychic presence hovering over the location, prepared to act at the slightest flicker of power.

But the presence never returned.

"Their mutation was unable to awaken…"

This… wasn't the first time something like this had happened. But never before on this scale.

Normally, when an X-gene stirred, it was like an inevitable awakening. A change, an event, something that acted as the final trigger to bring forth the mutation. Stress, fear, trauma, whatever it was, it would push them past the point of no return.

Yet this one had come so close, closer than any other before being forced back into dormancy.

It was like an egg that had cracked but hadn't yet shattered. The tiny chick still attempting to leave their shell.

The process had started. And once started, it could not be undone.

They would awaken. It was only a matter of time.

Reaching up, Xavier removed Cerebro, exhaling as he set the helmet back onto its pedestal.

He would have to remain vigilant over the coming weeks. That meant adjusting his schedule and rearranging responsibilities. It would be difficult.

But such was the way of things.

— –Alex Montclair– —

Using a hand to shield his eyes from the relentless sun, Alex trudged through the streets of New York, somewhat regretting his decision to step outside.

"It's too bright…" The words left his mouth as little more than a grumble, spoken only to himself, but that didn't make them any less true.

His body was not built for this, not anymore. His pale skin was struggling against the "deadly laser" in the sky, already felt like it was burning. His muscles, weak from years of neglect, protested every step he took.

But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. The more pathetic he looked, the more sympathy he could draw from people.

People liked underdogs. They rooted for them. They offered them help, guidance, connections, resources.

However, there was a fine line between looking pitiful and looking like a lost cause. Too much, and people would simply give up on him. He at least needed to spark a bit of hope. And well, if he was being honest, he wasn't sure about guilt-tripping people to get his way. The thought alone left a bad taste in his mouth.

Before heading out, he had scavenged through the absolute mess that was his home.

Piles of random junk, some of it useful, some of it just pure garbage. Old projects, impulsive purchases, half-finished builds. Some of it could be recycled into new inventions, while the rest would have to be dealt with later.

His diet? Even worse.

His metabolism had to be some kind of miracle, because with how much garbage food he had been eating, he should have been twice his weight, not a damn skeleton.

Though… after a bit of self-reflection, the answer became obvious. He hadn't been eating much at all.

Yeah. That tracked.

That was going to change.

He had already placed a massive order of actual, decent food, enough to start fixing the nutritional disaster that was his body. It would take time, but it was better to start now before his body just straight-up gave out on him.

Thankfully, his house had a gym. Not that past him ever used it. That was going to change, too. He wasn't looking to become a bodybuilder, but he needed to not feel like his legs were about to give out after thirty minutes of walking.

Did he mention that he had to take breaks while sorting through his house?

Yeah. He couldn't even handle thirty minutes of walking in his own home without his legs burning.

That was pathetic.

'I gotta at least be able to run a few miles.'

Because, seriously, what if some random villain of the week decided to start some shit nearby? Was he really about to die because his lazy ass couldn't even run a mile?

Nah. Absolutely not.

He had to be able to run. If nothing else, he had to run faster than the next guy.

Wait. That was for bears, wasn't it? Whatever. It probably applied to Doctor Bong and his bestie Big Wheel, too.

Shaking his head, Alex snapped out of it.

Enough mind-wandering, he needed to be at least somewhat alert while walking outside in the hellhole that was this world. And besides, he had arrived.

Stark Tower.

Towering. Monolithic. A symbol of wealth, power, and sheer ego. It was the heart of Tony Stark's empire, the very thing that separated a billionaire genius from a regular genius.

Alex exhaled slowly, his hand reaching into his pocket, fingers brushing against a small handwritten note and a business card.

"It's not too late to cash in that helping hand… right?" He asked himself.

In the worst-case scenario, he could recreate some of the inventions from his original world and introduce them here. That should give him enough funds to actually begin working on what he needed to.

He still remembered how to build some of them. And for the gaps in his memory? Well, experimentation would fill in the rest.

This was it. The first step.

There was still a lot missing if he wanted to set himself up for the future, such as the massive gaps in his resume. But he could always ask Stark Industries for help. At least, that was his current goal.

His first project in this world.

Project 1: Legacy Admission.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

— –Virginia "Pepper" Potts– —

Walking through the pristine, modern halls of Stark Tower was a woman who was, quite frankly, too qualified for her job. Pepper Potts.

Being the personal assistant to one of the richest men in the world wasn't easy—especially when that man was a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel.

For all her capabilities, a third of her time was spent kicking out whatever woman Tony had brought home the night before. Another third was spent dragging Tony to his own meetings, making sure he actually did his damn job.

And the last third? Keeping Stark Industries from running itself into the ground.

Well… okay, maybe that last one was an exaggeration.

The company was thriving, actually. More than ever, really. But she liked to think that at least part of that success was from her efforts.

At least she got paid well. Otherwise, she might have left Stark Industries a long time ago.

Well, who was she kidding? She enjoyed her job. As infuriating as it could be, she wouldn't trade it for the world. At least not yet, Tony hadn't pissed her off that badly so far.

She was just about to step into an elevator, using the tablet in her hands to go over her presentation once again, when one of her assistants caught up to her.

"Miss Potts, there is someone waiting to meet with Mr. Stark."

Pepper barely glanced up as she pressed the elevator button, already moving on autopilot.

"A meeting? There's nothing scheduled today. Tony's not even here—he should still be in Malibu. He's not flying in until tonight."

Pepper raised an eyebrow, shifting the tablet in her hands so she could check her watch. She was still at a good pace when it came time to arrive at the meeting with their investors. Military people always fussed about being on time.

"Did they have an appointment?"

"No, Miss Potts."

That was strike one.

"Are they important?"

"No, Miss Potts. But—" The assistant answered, fumbling through the folders in her hands, her expression growing unsure.

That was strike two.

"Then tell them to schedule an appointment. I'll manage the meeting once I'm done."

The elevator doors began to close, and she thought that was the end of it. It wasn't. Before the doors could fully close, the assistant darted inside, nearly fumbling the stack of folders she was holding.

Pepper's eye twitched.

"What now?"

The assistant hesitated, then pulled out a small, tattered piece of paper.

"Umm… they had this."

Pepper frowned, reaching for the crumpled note and unfolding it. She read it once. Then again. The handwriting was unmistakable. Sloppy, rushed, but undeniably Stark.

"Hey kid, I know it's rough losing a father, let alone after having already lost your mother. Montclair was a great, bright man, and I personally spent some nights working on projects with him. If you ever need a helping hand, you can reach me through Stark Tower, just hand them this note.

— Tony Stark.

P.S. Don't do drugs… Also, wear a condom.

P.P.S. Sorry, not used to writing this sort of stuff. I'm sorry for your loss."

Closing her eyes for a moment, Pepper let out a slow breath. She had read the name and immediately remembered.

Montclair. One of the families affected by the explosion.

She had visited Alexander and his lawyers personally, gone through all the legal work, and ensured that Stark Industries had paid their reparations. Then, once she had confirmed the kid had someone taking care of him, she had forgotten about him, as just another name in a long list.

She should have checked sooner. Should've followed up. The boy had lost everything, and here he was now, standing at their doorstep, clutching Tony's hastily scrawled promise like a lifeline. She sighed, eyes softening. She couldn't change the past, but perhaps, just perhaps, she could make things right.

Her fingers tightened around the worn paper.

"How old is this kid again?"

The assistant hesitated before answering.

"Seventeen. Just turned recently."

The elevator dinged, reaching the garage floor. Her driver was already waiting, holding the door open to the sleek black company car.

She didn't move. Didn't step out.

The doors started to close again, and Pepper let them.

Pepper closed her eyes briefly, the image of the boy, alone, grieving, flashing through her mind again. He deserved better. She glanced at the folders, then at her tablet, her packed schedule suddenly seeming less important. With a quiet sigh, she handed everything to her assistant.

"I'll schedule someone else to go instead of me. They'll be here shortly. Please pass them my tablet; they'll know what to do."

A second later, she pressed a different button on the elevator panel.

— –Alex Montclair– —

He hadn't gotten a meeting with Tony Stark, but he had secured the next best thing, a meeting with Pepper Potts.

Which, honestly? It might've been the better option anyway.

She was beautiful, sharp, and competent as hell. He could see how Tony ended up marrying her in the end. And she was… kind, too.

Or at least, that's what the look she had given him suggested.

The moment she had walked into the office, she had given him this… look. A mix of pity and concern, the kind of expression people wore when they saw someone who had been through too much.

In hindsight, dressing up nicely had been a good call.

At least he looked somewhat put together, rather than the half-dead mess he had been when he first woke up in this world. If Pepper had seen him before, he wasn't sure what she would have done.

The meeting started off simple enough.

Some idle chit-chat, Pepper apologizing for Stark's absence, and a few questions about how he had been doing since the… incident.

And Alex? He had been honest.

"I gotta admit… I was a bit of a mess after the incident. Forced my caretaker to leave, finished school early, and just… stopped caring for myself."

It wasn't like he was making things up to manipulate her, but it still felt weird to say it out loud, especially when he saw the way her brows knit together in genuine concern.

It felt wrong to use the truth like this. Like he was betraying his own pain and treating it like just another tool. But he had convinced himself that he had no other choice, at least not yet. He had to get a foothold if he wanted to have any chance for the future, if using some of his real experiences to pull at the heartstrings of someone who could help him enormously was an option, then so be it.

It still didn't mean that he didn't feel guilty. Though, to be fair, that guilt probably just sold his story even more.

"But, you know… one day, I woke up and realized I couldn't spend my whole life like this." He added, looking at Pepper directly in the eyes. "So I wanted to try to take a step in the right direction. That's why I reached out. I'm not asking for any handouts, I just want an opportunity. I'd like to work for Stark Industries. I'm willing to go through the proper channels, apply on the website, and everything, I just thought it would be best to hear the opinion of someone who is qualified as well."

Nepotism and networking were one of the best ways to obtain jobs in the real world. Sure hard work mattered as well, but networking was king.

His request wasn't too much in his opinion, but still one he knew would likely be rejected. Still, it was probably better that they rejected him as long as they gave him what he was looking for.

If he was being completely honest, Stark Industries wasn't his first choice. No, that privilege went to Oscorp.

Because if the timeline was lining up, then the famous Radioactive Spider should be there soon, or it might very well be there already.

And Alex wouldn't mind stealing Peter Parker's destiny.

The guy was a beast, always holding back, even against enemies who deserved to be erased from existence. If he had powers like that, he could live a far more comfortable life. At least he wouldn't have to be scared.

And beyond that, Oscorp had way too many fun toys.

A symbiote might already be lurking somewhere in the labs. Curt Connors was still working on his serum, the one that would eventually turn him into the Lizard. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Half of Spidey's worst villains came straight out of Oscorp's reckless experimentation. There was potential there.

But there were downsides, too.

For one, there was no guarantee he'd even get hired. Sure, he had graduated early, but that wasn't exactly unheard of in this world, and it was only high school too, people who excelled and went beyond expectations in high school were a dime a dozen. Not to mention, after graduating, he had vanished.

The most he could expect if he applied was probably a janitor job. Maybe, if he got lucky, he'd get some low-tier research position. But even then, he'd be buried at the bottom of the corporate ladder.

He would need to go to college and excel in his classes in order to catch their eye and get a meaningful job. Any college Alex could successfully enroll in at the moment would either be too far or not prestigious enough to earn their attention.

All that had led him to here, to Stark Industries. To cash in his favor with Tony.

Then there was the other problem. Oscorp had way too many fun toys.

Yeah, ironically, the thing that drew him in was the same thing that made him turn away from it. Oscorp was dangerous as hell.

He could wake up one day, go to work as usual, and end up getting slammed through a wall by a giant, mutated lizard doctor.

Or worse.

What if he tried to get bitten by a spider, but oh no, he accidentally got bitten by the wrong one? Instead of super strength and wall-crawling, he'd get flesh-melting venom or some horrific mutation that turned him into a human-sludge hybrid.

Not ideal.

Hell, for all he knew, Octavius could snap mid-day and decide it was tentacle time. And well, even though he wouldn't kink shame the doctor, he would prefer staying away from any and all tentacles.

Too dangerous. Too risky.

Though he wouldn't be opposed to the occasional visit to the totally not evil corporation in the future, it would probably be smarter to delay that until he was ready.

But Stark Industries was different.

Once again, he had a connection here. And tech was what he knew. It was the safer, smarter choice, for now, at least. Who knows, maybe he could build his own Iron Man suit in the future?

"A job?" Pepper asked, her expression grimacing for a moment before she became thoughtful, weighing his words before she finally spoke. "That is… I could use another assistant."

Good. She was open to the possibility. Now, it was time to secure his goal.

"No, no…" He quickly shook his head, leaning forward slightly. "I mean a job as a researcher. I know on paper I don't have the qualifications, but I would like to follow in my father's footsteps. Well… if I am being honest, I would much rather work on a project like the arc reactor, since I see a lot of possibilities in it. But I think honoring my father's legacy would be for the best."

"Alexander…" Pepper's voice cut through his argument, firm but not unkind.

For a moment, her expression softened, her brows furrowing slightly as if she was conflicted.

"I am glad you made this choice." Her tone was genuine, though Alex couldn't help but feel somewhat uncomfortable by it. "I'm glad you want to work with us. But there are steps to this. It's one thing to work on another division of Stark Industries, but to work in the same department as your father…"

She leaned back slightly, hands folding neatly in front of her.

"For one, Stark Industries only hires researchers who have a degree. Even for those who show exceptional potential, we sponsor their education before bringing them in. It's a standard practice for corporations like ours."

Good.

Alex couldn't help but hold his breath with anticipation as he heard Pepper. He was so close to reaching his goal, he could almost grasp it.

"And that's not even accounting for the certifications, licenses, and safety courses employees must acquire. Especially those working to produce military-grade technology. We can't just let anyone walk into a lab and start working, you know?"

Unknowingly, Alex's emotions were showing on his face. The anticipation, the worry, the fear, and the sadness hidden deep down in his body. Emotions Pepper couldn't help but notice.

She hesitated for a moment, almost as if she was choosing her next words carefully. Then, in a softer tone, she continued.

"I don't doubt that you're bright. I can see it in your eyes. You've got potential, but there's still a lot you need to learn before diving into something like this." Her fingers drummed once against the desk, as if making a final decision.

Then, finally, she looked back at him.

"Alex." Pepper started gently, her tone cautious. "Normally, we'd require entrance exams, recent grades, academic records..." She paused, carefully choosing her next words. "Frankly, your resume is empty, and Stark Industries can't afford mistakes, especially now." She leaned forward, sympathy clear in her eyes. "However," she added softly, "Tony vouched for you. I'll take a chance, but only if you prove you deserve it."

She tilted her head slightly, offering him a small, knowing smile.

"Stark Industries is a major sponsor of Empire State University, so we can pull some strings. I can call and get you a full-ride scholarship and a guaranteed spot. But I want you to remember, this is a chance most don't get, so promise me you won't waste it. If you do well, I can offer you a spot on Stark Industries."

For a moment, Alex just stared at her.

Then, his lips curled into a bright, grateful smile. This was all he had wanted and more.

"Thank you, Miss Potts. I promise I won't let you down."

— — —

The next few days blurred together. All the planning, adjusting, and begrudging reality checks made him reconsider his plans for the near future.

There was too much to do and too little time. And the more he observed, the more he realized just how unprepared he actually was. Sure, he had expected this world to be less advanced, he had known it wouldn't have even half of what his father had pioneered in his old world.

But knowing it and experiencing it were two entirely different things.

Everything felt archaic. It wasn't just the hardware, it was everything.

Half the tools Alex intended to use didn't even exist yet. He spent hours fruitlessly scouring online stores for parts that were commonplace back home, only to discover they'd never been invented. Programming languages he knew like the back of his hand, languages he'd been fluent in since childhood, were entirely absent, replaced by clumsy predecessors whose syntax felt nearly prehistoric

It was frustrating.

He had been raised learning how to build, program, and invent using the technology his father had already perfected. Even when he started small, he could feel the glaring limitations of this world everywhere.

He had rushed his meeting with Stark, hoping to kickstart his plans early. But now? Now he was grateful Pepper hadn't asked him to demonstrate his skills.

Because if she had he would've looked like an absolute dumbass, sitting there, staring blankly at a computer screen, trying to figure out a programming language he had never used before.

Lesson learned.

And at least, this time, he had gotten away with it.

On the brighter side, he had several months before college started, and the once-ambitious plans he'd laid out to revolutionize technology overnight had shifted toward the more immediate goal of catching up.

At least, he mused, once his memories fully integrated with his current body, he'd have a better grasp of this reality's quirks and shortcomings. However, the assimilation process was throwing him off more than he would like to admit.

He was two people at once. Both were him equally, which made it awkward when he tried to recall a memory from his childhood only to be met with two different answers. It wasn't until now that he was beginning to fully experience the emotions of this version of himself. And they were taking a toll on him.

He could rationalize a good portion of them, and though it wasn't the healthiest thing, he could also push them down for now, focusing instead on the work that lay ahead of him.

Originally, he had hoped to swiftly develop a simplified AI similar to N.O.V.A. to sift through the internet and map out historical divergences. But now, that seemed laughably naive. Without the foundational tech his father created, even a rudimentary copy of J.A.R.V.I.S. would have to wait.

Alex briefly entertained the notion of brute-forcing his way into recreating his father's groundbreaking programming system from memory, but quickly dismissed it. It was impossible with the limited resources available. Attempting it now would be like trying to build an engine in the Iron Age.

Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but the point still stood.

Realistically, it would take anywhere from six months to two years to cobble together even a basic imitation of his father's programming language. Maybe Stark or Richards could do it quicker, but Alex wasn't going to pretend he had their genius-level intellect. He was smart, but he wasn't arrogant enough to overestimate his current abilities.

"This is so much harder than I hoped." He muttered with a sigh, idly dismantling a cheap robot vacuum he'd found tucked away in the hall closet. As one of the pieces he was holding broke, he couldn't help but toss the robot to the side before taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"I'm seventeen. I shouldn't be beating myself up for not reinventing technology before adulthood."

Still, the thought was humbling.

Perhaps one day he would be able to stand amongst Stark, Pym, and Richards, but for now, he would be satisfied with not falling too far behind.

He let out a humorless laugh as he set aside the half-dissected vacuum and stretched.

"Who am I kidding? Richards was probably busy building interdimensional portals before hitting puberty."

Shaking off his self-deprecating mood, Alex approached the massive whiteboard he'd recently installed on the wall. He stared at it contemplatively before addressing it directly.

"Alright, partner." He joked dryly, tapping the board lightly. "Looks like we're going to get to know each other pretty well over the next few months."

Picking up a marker, he scribbled down his immediate objectives. By the time he'd finished, a solid week's plan had formed. Satisfied, he moved toward his computer to start ordering necessary components. Yet, the tiny flicker of confidence he'd mustered vanished instantly when an urgent headline flashed across the news page.

"Billionaire Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, was kidnapped earlier today during an attack in Afghanistan. Stark, demonstrating new weapons technology, was ambushed by a terrorist group identified as the Ten Rings.

Stark Industries confirmed Stark's kidnapping and stated rescue operations are ongoing. His condition remains unknown. Company stocks have fallen sharply following the news. Obadiah Stane, spokesperson for Stark Industries, assured the public that every effort is being made to secure Stark's safe return.

More details to follow as the story develops."

"Well…" Alex muttered, trailing off as his eyes remained glued to the headline flashing across his screen. "Clock's ticking."

Tony Stark had been kidnapped. That meant the dominoes were beginning to fall.

The exact timeline of events was unclear.

He didn't know if things would happen exactly as they did in the movies or if this world had its own twists waiting to unfold. Maybe they would follow the comics, though that would complicate things since he wasn't anywhere as familiar with them. Or perhaps, it would be its own thing. After all, he was here, and the butterfly effect was one hell of a force.

For now, he would assume that this was the moment that would kickstart everything.

If things followed the general trajectory, then this would lead to the creation of Iron Man, and from there, The Avengers.

But how fast would it all come together?

Thor, Hulk, they were next in line, but were their stories already in motion, or were they still years away?

The X-Men were off to who knows what and where. There was basically no news about them in the world, so at the moment, he didn't have a clear picture of their situation. But, there was a chance Magneto would wake up one day and decide to do a "public demonstration." How would their existence disturb the plotlines he was familiar with?

And then there was the Fantastic Four, or more accurately, the lack thereof.

Reed was still in his early twenties, which meant they were probably at least a decade away from their big debut, assuming things played out the same way he remembered.

There had to be some version of reality where they got their powers earlier. Maybe the right conditions just hadn't been met yet. Maybe they were already experimenting and just hadn't had their fateful space trip.

Or maybe none of this was going to follow the script at all.

With a sharp shake of his head, Alex shoved the thought aside.

He couldn't afford to assume anything. For all he knew, this world didn't even have a Thor. Or Hulk could be rotting in some secret SHIELD lab instead of running loose in the desert.

Or Tony Stark might not make it out of that cave.

To be honest, that thought made him uncomfortable. Not just for the plain fact that it would throw the timeline all out of whack but because he knew Tony. Maybe not personally, but he had seen the man go from a weapons merchant to a hero who would give his own life to save the world. Not even just once, but multiple times.

And well, even if he didn't account for his meta knowledge, Stark had also been surprisingly nice to him in this world. He had personally written him an apology note for the incident and had offered him a hand should he ever need it. Hell, he had given him a boatload of money to try to make up for the accident.

A boatload he had thrown away, but that was on him, not Stark.

Still, he had to account for the possibility.

The moment he started believing he knew what was going to happen, he'd be setting himself up for failure. Being prepared never hurts.

If Tony didn't come back in the next few months, then Alex would have proof that the timeline had gone completely off the rails.

If that happened, he'd have to start planning accordingly.

Either way, the universe wasn't going to wait for him to catch up. Stark's fate was out of his control, but his own certainly wasn't. He had work to do and a ticking clock urging him forward.

— — —

A month passed in a whirlwind of caffeine, sleepless nights, and relentless frustration.

Collapsing onto his bed, he couldn't help but relax momentarily. His muscles ached, and his shirt was covered in sweat. He was starting to become burnt out, and it was just one month in.

The house was suffocating him. He really felt like he was going to die in it, and the absolute lack of anyone to talk to was starting to drive him crazy. But it wasn't like he could communicate with anyone and tell them what happened to him.

For one, they would think him crazy, and then there was also the random chance he would get kidnapped by a random villain to get experimented on. He could vaguely remember someone like Mr. Spooky, or whatever his name was, hiding in plain sight and messing with whoever he found interesting. If he remembered properly, Cyclops, or another one of the X-men had been practically groomed by him.

Perhaps it was just an overreaction. Or maybe it was the house, his tomb, that was making him paranoid.

He should move as soon as he could. Get away from this place. That would do wonders for his mental health.

But just like most of his problems, he would have to leave that for another day.

He had to simply focus on the progress he was making, that would keep him focused.

The first time he tried jogging around the block, he barely made it halfway before nearly vomiting on the sidewalk. Now, weeks later, at least he could make it around the neighborhood without collapsing. Progress, however slight, was still progress.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Alex forced himself upright and headed into his cramped workspace. Papers, scribbled notes, and half-built gadgets littered the surface of every available table. The pristine whiteboard he'd bought a month earlier was now completely covered in markers of multiple colors, crammed with notes on programming languages, historical dates, theoretical formulas, and dozens of frustrated corrections crossed out in angry, jagged lines.

Well, that was just one of them. In the end, he bought another five whiteboards, but all of them were in similar states.

Learning the technology of this world had proved more challenging than he'd anticipated. For every step forward, he stumbled backward twice. Programming had become a constant, headache-inducing cycle of trial and error. This world's systems were simultaneously simpler yet maddeningly counterintuitive compared to the advanced languages he had grown up with. More than once, he'd lost hours of work to stupid mistakes that his old self would have effortlessly avoided.

"Damn it!" He snapped one night, slamming a fist onto the desk after his latest attempt at coding crashed spectacularly, wiping out hours of painstaking progress. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to take slow, steady breaths. Frustration was becoming a daily visitor, but losing his temper wouldn't fix a damn thing. Instead he would simply grab one of his many notebooks and write down everything that went wrong, building his own reference system to work from.

But coding wasn't his only struggle. Every morning had become a painful battle of wills against himself. His arms trembled embarrassingly during push-ups, and jogging left his lungs on fire. The simple act of preparing balanced meals instead of subsisting on instant noodles and microwave pizza, the food this body of his craved the most, tested his patience almost as much as his skills.

Still, he pushed forward. He had to… or at least he kept telling himself he had to. Because if he allowed himself to falter, he knew he would give up. He knew he would.

It wasn't something he had considered at first, but simply following this daily routine left him both mentally and physically drained, in a prime condition to give up and simply coast with what he had.

Some days were easier, though. When he managed his first successful program, simple, unimpressive, but undeniably working, he practically shouted with relief. A crude prototype of a data-sorting algorithm blinked at him from his monitor, and he found himself grinning stupidly at the tiny victory.

Other times, it was the small things that kept him motivated, like noticing subtle muscles beginning to form, or realizing he no longer felt like fainting after thirty minutes of cardio. He wasn't exactly Captain America, but at least he didn't look like he'd crumble under a stiff breeze anymore.

In between workouts and hours spent wrestling with stubborn lines of code, Alex absorbed as much information as he could about this world's history and culture. He meticulously read articles, news reports, and books, mapping out the discrepancies between what he remembered and the reality around him. Every new fact felt like adding another piece to an endlessly complicated puzzle.

Throughout all of this, Alex had kept an eye on Stark's situation. He had sent a few letters to Pepper to share his worries and hope that Tony would return safe. But just from watching the news, he knew she was probably swamped with countless issues from the different investors and the search for Tony. Probably too busy to see a note like it.

Needless to say, Tony still hadn't resurfaced. From his memories, Alex could estimate that he had about two more months before he would return, or before he would be declared dead. This uncertainty served as a relentless reminder that his knowledge from the past was increasingly unreliable.

And yet, despite everything, the failures, setbacks, and aching muscles, he was finally starting to find his footing. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Rubbing at the persistent soreness in his shoulder, Alex glanced at the messy whiteboard and sighed deeply. He still had a long way to go, months, perhaps years of work stretched ahead. But when he looked back at how far he'd come in just one month, a small spark of determination burned brighter.

"One step at a time." He murmured to himself, picking up the marker again.

Then, taking a deep breath, he erased a small corner of the whiteboard and started fresh.