Queens, New York — 1994
The morning sun crept through thin curtains like a shy guest, warming the edges of the living room. Elias opened his eyes slowly. His new body—smaller, weaker, unfamiliar—still didn't feel like his. But the ceiling above him, the couch beneath him, and the faint scent of coffee brewing grounded him in this strange reality.
This wasn't the sterile lab.
This wasn't the collapsing reactor.
This wasn't death.
This was May's apartment.
Quiet. Safe. Human.
He heard the clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug, then May's voice, humming a soft, tuneless melody as she moved around the kitchen. It was early, but she was already dressed for work—nurse scrubs, her hair pinned up, shoes by the door, keys on the counter. She glanced over at him with a tired smile.
"Good morning, Ash," she said gently, as if the name had always belonged to him.
"Morning," he replied, voice raspy.
"Hungry?"
He hesitated. The logical part of him, the scientist who once survived for seventy-two hours on nutrient paste during a research lockdown, was about to say no. But the child he now appeared to be—the persona he had to wear—knew better.
"…Yeah."
She smiled wider. "Sit tight. I've got cereal or eggs, but I make better pancakes than either."
---
As the batter sizzled, Elias watched her.
He hadn't expected kindness. Not from this world. Not after what he remembered: villains with godlike power, governments that labeled heroes as threats, innocent people erased with a snap. Yet here she was—this woman from comics and films—real and alive and choosing to care.
May Parker wasn't a superhero.
But she might have been the first good thing in his new life.
---
They sat together at the small kitchen table, plates between them. Ash—he was starting to accept the name—ate slowly, chewing in silence. He knew May had questions. She hadn't asked them last night, and she hadn't pushed now, but he saw it in her eyes.
That look adults get when the pieces don't quite fit.
Finally, she spoke.
"So… Elias. You said your family was gone."
He nodded.
"Do you remember anything? Where you came from? Your last name?"
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Then slowly shook his head.
"No. Just Elias."
It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. That version of him—Elias Mercer—was gone. Legally. Biologically. Burned out in a storm of quantum feedback. What remained was Ash. A new life. A new world. No paper trail. No proof.
Just a mind that didn't belong in this body.
May studied him. "You're not like other kids, are you?"
He tilted his head, cautious. "What makes you say that?"
"You don't fidget. You don't get scared. You speak like… someone who's been through things."
Ash gave a small shrug. "Maybe I have."
It was the most honest answer he could offer.
---
May didn't press. Instead, she sipped her coffee and nodded like she understood. Maybe she did. Grief made people older. So did growing up too fast. She'd seen it in the eyes of patients, in her own mirror after losing her parents.
But Elias—Ash—was different.
Something deeper swirled behind those eyes. Not just sadness. Strategy.
She left for work a little after eight, after walking him to the neighbor's apartment for temporary childcare. But before she left, she knelt by him again, brushing a hand through his damp hair.
"I don't know what you've been through, Ash," she said softly. "But you're safe here. And you're not alone anymore."
And just like that, she was gone.
---
The neighbor was kind but distracted. An old woman with poor hearing and daytime soaps on too loud. Ash sat on the floor, pretending to read from a children's book, but his mind was elsewhere.
He was cataloging.
World Events Timeline: Stark—still years from becoming Iron Man. S.H.I.E.L.D.—quiet but active. Oscorp—likely still developing early-stage mutagenics. Spider-Man? Not bitten yet. Maybe a few years off.
He needed tools. Tech. Data.
He also needed time.
And for that, he needed to blend in.
---
That night, after May returned and the neighbor passed along a glowing (if vague) report, Ash helped her clean the dishes.
"You're really good at this," she said, surprised as he dried a plate without being asked.
He smiled. "Just trying to be useful."
"You already are."
It hit him harder than he expected.
Three words. That's all. But in a life filled with labs and loss, accolades and betrayal, he had never really heard them said like that—like they were meant, not earned.
---
Before bed, May handed him a small blanket and let him choose a movie from the old VHS shelf. He picked something random. Didn't matter. What mattered was the warmth of the couch, the sound of the television, and the quiet hum of a life that felt like it might be worth protecting.
He didn't have his lab. He didn't have his machines.
But he had time.
And the woman who took him in.
---
He curled up under the blanket as the movie flickered, staring at the TV but seeing something else:
A world of gods and heroes. Of danger and wonder.
A world not yet ready for what was coming.
But he would be.