No rain. No blood. No stink of burned meat.
Just warmth. Soft light coming through curtains. The clean smell of fabric softener.
"Look at this little one." A woman's voice — gentle, warm, the kind of voice that made you feel like nothing bad could ever happen. "His eyes are so much like yours, Ben."
Then hands. Big, rough hands, calluses scratching against his cheek as they picked him up. Engine oil and Old Spice.
"Like me? Then this kid's gonna be a heartbreaker."
The laugh rumbled through his chest. Baby Leon felt it in his ribs.
Fourteen years ago. Queens.
Two-year-old Leon sat on the living room carpet, holding a plastic army man with a broken leg. He turned it over in his fat little fingers, examining the damage with eyes that didn't belong to a toddler.
The data was already there. Pale green text hovering at the edges of his vision, scrolling and updating whether he wanted it to or not.
[Target: Low-quality polyethylene toy. Status: Damaged. Left leg connecting shaft snapped. Repair: Apply heat at 130°C to fuse joint.]
His eyes drifted to May in the kitchen. She was humming, rolling out cookie dough.
[Target: Human female. Status: Mild fatigue. Lumbar vertebra L4 — early-stage strain. Recommendation: Massage or hot compress.]
Two years old and he could diagnose a back problem he couldn't even pronounce.
The Creator's parting gift. Strategic Analysis. See through anything, break down anything, solve anything.
"Shit," the toddler muttered.
He tried to stand up. Lost his balance halfway and toppled sideways into the toy pile.
CRASH.
Blocks scattered everywhere. A stuffed bear bounced off the coffee table. And something heavy rolled out of the pile and bumped against his foot.
Not a toy.
Leon stared at it.
A watch. Way too big for a toddler's wrist, but it was already clasped there — he hadn't even noticed it. Black and green. Smooth metallic housing, heavier than any toy he'd ever held. And in the center of the dial, an hourglass symbol in bright green, catching the afternoon sun, throwing a tiny emerald reflection onto the ceiling.
He knew what it was before the data told him.
The Omnitrix.
A million alien DNA samples. The most powerful weapon in the Ben 10 universe. The thing that turned a ten-year-old kid into a one-man army.
On his wrist.
The boy's pudgy hands grabbed the dial and twisted.
Nothing.
He smacked it with his palm.
Nothing.
He dug his fingernails into the seam between the faceplate and the housing, trying to pry the core up the way Ben Tennyson did it on TV.
Didn't budge.
He leaned forward and bit the green button with his two front teeth.
Crunch.
Pain shot through his gums. He reared back, eyes watering, a string of drool hanging from the watch face.
The dial didn't care.
[Warning: Host bio-energy level insufficient. Unable to bear transformation load. Forced activation will result in genetic collapse.]
Red text. Blinking. Final.
Leon sat there on the carpet. Scattered toys everywhere. A broken soldier in one hand and the most powerful weapon in the universe on his wrist, and he couldn't do a single thing with either of them.
A fighter jet he couldn't reach the pedals of.
Just a decoration.
"Leon? What's wrong, honey? Don't you like the watch?"
Ben Parker's face appeared — close, huge, grinning. He'd just gotten home from the shop. Grease under his fingernails, oil stains on his collar, that engine-work smell baked into his flannel. He scooped Leon off the floor with one hand and swung him up onto his shoulders.
"Look! Flying!"
He spread his arms and ran laps around the living room, making airplane noises with his mouth. The ceiling fan whooshed past Leon's head. May yelled from the kitchen about not running in the house. Ben ignored her and banked hard around the coffee table.
Leon grabbed fistfuls of his father's hair and held on.
From up there he could see the top of Ben's head. The bald spot he tried to comb over. The white hairs spreading from his temples. The crow's feet around eyes that were always, always smiling.
The data floated next to his father's ear. Quiet. Patient. Like it had all the time in the world.
[Target: Ben Parker] [Status: Healthy] [Hidden Entry: Death by unnatural causes — Fate Weight: Extremely High]
Leon pressed his face into the top of Ben's head and squeezed his eyes shut. The prickly gray hair scratched his cheek. He could feel his father's pulse through his scalp. Steady. Strong. Alive.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Ben slowed down and tilted his head to look up at his son. "Hungry, little lion? Come on — let's go steal some cookies. Don't tell Peter though. That kid's on a diet."
The boy on his shoulders didn't answer. He just held on tighter.
Powerlessness.
For fourteen years.
Until last night's rain.
Until the crack of a .38 revolver.
Until a sixteen-year-old boy watched his father stare down the barrel and accept it.
My eyes snapped open and I shot upright, gasping.
Cold air hit my lungs. My hands grabbed the sheets — just grabbing, just checking, making sure something was solid and real underneath me. My heart was pounding. My shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Dark.
Heavy curtains blocking the windows. No morning light. Just the faint orange glow of the space heater in the corner and the green digits of my alarm clock. 3:47 AM.
Not the sunny living room. Not fourteen years ago.
My bedroom. Now.
Everything came back at once. The alley. The rain. The gunshot. The fire. Dad's face — bright and empty and streaked with things that weren't rain.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the mattress.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
A sound next to me. Soft. Rhythmic. Breathing.
I turned my head.
Mom was slumped in the chair beside my bed. Her head had fallen sideways against the headboard. Her hair — usually pinned up tight — was hanging loose across her face in tangled strands. A wet towel was balled up in her right hand. Her left hand had a death grip on the hem of my sleeve, knuckles white, tendons standing out.
Even asleep, her jaw was clenched. Her brow was furrowed. The muscles in her neck were pulled tight.
She hasn't let go once. Not even unconscious.
[Target: May Parker. Status: Post-traumatic acute stress. Adrenaline abnormal. Resting heart rate: 95 bpm.]
I reached over and peeled her fingers off my sleeve. One at a time. Careful. She didn't wake up. I pulled the blanket off my bed and draped it over her shoulders. Her hand twitched — found the edge of the blanket — and held on.
Good. Hold onto that instead.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at my left wrist.
The Omnitrix looked different. The dull plasticky finish I'd lived with for sixteen years was gone. The housing had depth to it now — dark, smooth, a sheen like polished obsidian. And the hourglass in the center was glowing. Faint green. Pulsing slow — dim, bright, dim, bright.
I could still feel it. Faintly. The ghost of last night — magma moving through stone veins, the heat of a body that melted bullets on contact.
Not a dream.
I'd been Heatblast. I'd killed two people. And then the world went black.
I tapped the dial with my index finger.
The faceplate lit up. Green text scrolled across the surface — not the usual retinal overlay, but projected directly from the watch, holographic characters rotating slowly above the dial.
[Omnitrix System — Self-Check Complete] [Bio-Energy Level: Qualified] [Current Status: Cooling Down — Remaining: 04:12] [Unlocked Sequences: 1/10 — Initial Playlist]
I flicked my finger across the display. Scrolled.
[Sequence 01: Pyronite — Heatblast] ✓ [Sequence 02: LOCKED] [Sequence 03: LOCKED] [Sequence 04: LOCKED] [...]
One out of ten. Nine empty slots. The Omnitrix had cracked open just enough to save my life, and now it was sitting there waiting to be fed.
I kept scrolling. Past the locked sequences, past technical readouts, past lines of alien script I couldn't read. Then a block of text at the bottom stopped me cold.
Bold. Red. Couldn't miss it.
[— BATTLE SETTLEMENT REPORT —]
[Kill Count: 2] [Method: Carbonization / Kinetic trauma]
My finger hovered over the display. Kinetic trauma? I only killed two — both with fire. What was—
I pushed the thought aside and kept reading.
[Fate Node Analysis:] [Original Trajectory — Ben Parker dies. His death catalyzes the birth of a hero.] [Current Trajectory — Ben Parker survives. Ben Parker kills key NPC.]
[WARNING: Fate line has deviated.]
I stared at the first line.
Original Trajectory — Ben Parker dies.
I read it again. And again.
This wasn't a prediction. This wasn't a warning. This was a script. The system wasn't telling me my father might have died — it was telling me his death had been written. Planned. Built into the code of this universe like a plot beat in a TV show. Uncle Ben dies, hero is born, story begins.
They scripted you to die, Dad. And I ripped the page out.
[Plot Points Earned: 2/10]
[Evaluation:]
The text changed. The clean, clinical formatting loosened up — got casual, almost conversational. A tone I'd never seen from the system before.
[Congratulations, little butterfly. You flapped your wings.]
The cursor blinked. A pause. Like it was enjoying itself.
[Now — are you ready for the hurricane?]
I read it twice. My jaw tightened.
I closed my fist around the dial. The holographic display winked out.
The room was dark. Rain tapped against the window. Mom shifted in her chair, murmuring something, fingers tightening on the blanket.
I sat there for a long time. Listening to her breathe.
Hurricane.
Bring it.