The dream began in silence.
No thunder. No wind. Just a field of gray ash stretching endlessly in every direction, broken only by ruins that flickered between realities. Some looked like cities he recognized—New York, Wakanda, even Asgard—but others were too twisted to name.
Ash stood barefoot in the dust, his child form unchanged. But his mind—the real him—knew this was no ordinary dream. There was weight here. Truth, hidden beneath the surreal haze.
A presence stirred.
A shape shimmered in the haze ahead. Humanoid. Tall. Cloaked in robes made of constellations, stars flickering in the folds. Ash knew that silhouette. From comics. From theories. From the depths of cosmic lore.
The Watcher.
"Elias Mercer," the voice echoed—not spoken aloud, but pressed directly into his consciousness. "You are out of place."
Ash didn't move. "You already know that."
"Yes," the Watcher replied. "And yet, you are not the only anomaly."
Suddenly the dream changed.
The gray plain tore itself apart like paper ripped by invisible hands, revealing flashes of fractured timelines—glimpses from across the Multiverse:
A young man with red and blue webbing falling through shattered glass.
A woman with glowing eyes unleashing chaos from her hands.
A boy wielding Mjolnir on a battlefield of stars.
Stark… dying.
Ash staggered back. The sheer overload of it—possibilities collapsing into realities. Futures that had already died. Others still waiting to be born. The dream didn't obey physics. It obeyed truth.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, breath tight.
"I want nothing," the Watcher said. "But others do."
A shadow passed overhead. Gigantic. Not a ship. Not a god. Something older. Hungrier.
For a moment, Ash saw eyes in the sky. And they saw him back.
Then everything went white.
---
He sat bolt upright on the couch, gasping.
The TV was still playing—static now, some late-night rerun crackling in and out. A storm must have knocked the signal. The room was dark except for the flashing glow of the screen, dancing in broken patterns across the walls.
Ash's heart thundered in his chest.
It wasn't just a nightmare. He knew the difference. His old work—quantum neuro-syncing, predictive AI, temporal feedback—had trained his brain to recognize the difference between dream and perception. Something had reached into his mind tonight. Something real.
He stood quietly and moved to the window, lifting the curtain.
Rain again.
He found the pattern strangely comforting now.
---
The next morning, May noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
"Bad dream?" she asked gently, handing him a warm mug of cocoa.
"Just weird," he murmured. "Felt real."
She nodded like she understood, even if she didn't.
"Well, if you're going to stay here for a while, I'm going to need to get you enrolled in school," she said, sitting beside him at the small kitchen table. "Nothing permanent. Just enough so no one asks questions."
Ash tensed.
School.
He hadn't thought of that. He'd planned on keeping low, quietly rebuilding what he could. But he'd forgotten what being eleven in this world meant. School, records, adults poking around where they didn't belong.
May saw the look on his face and misread it.
"You'll be fine. Kids your age adjust fast."
He almost laughed. I'm not your age. I'm older than your mortgage. But instead he smiled faintly.
"I'll try."
---
That afternoon, she took him to a local clinic for a basic checkup—standard for foster paperwork. Ash braced for questions from the doctor, but to his surprise, the man barely glanced at him.
"Healthy. Quiet for his age," the doctor said. "Probably just trauma. Nothing physical."
Ash exhaled in relief. If anyone ran a DNA scan or deeper bio-profile, they'd know. His genetic structure was recompiled from subatomic memory. Technically, he wasn't human in any singular definition. But surface scans were all they did. No bloodwork. No anomalies flagged.
Safe.
For now.
---
That night, the dreams returned.
This time, they were sharper.
He saw himself in armor—sleek, black, glowing with circuits etched like constellations. Not Iron Man. Not Spider-Man. Something new. Beside him marched others—figures in matching suits, faces blurred, powers flickering at their fingertips. An entire Corp.
His Corp.
He saw Peter Parker fall. And rise. Then fall again.
He saw Stark's final breath.
He saw Aunt May—older. Crying.
He saw the world burning.
And above it all, he heard a voice—not the Watcher, not the shadows.
His own voice, older, colder.
> "We could've stopped it. But we weren't ready."
---
He woke up with tears in his eyes.
This world wasn't just a sandbox for his redemption. It was a battlefield.
And the war hadn't even started yet.
---
He slipped off the couch, padded across the floor quietly, and pulled the notebook from May's drawer—just an old spiral one, meant for shopping lists. He flipped to the back and began to write.
Goals:
1. Monitor timeline.
2. Identify divergence points.
3. Build discreet tech base.
4. Keep Peter safe.
5. Stay hidden from S.H.I.E.L.D., Oscorp, and Stark (for now).
6. Investigate Watcher presence.
7. Corp Protocol: Begin early.
He paused, then added:
8. Protect May.
Ash closed the notebook and slipped it back exactly where he found it.
The storm outside was louder now, thunder rolling in the distance.
But inside, the smallest spark of resolve burned brighter than ever.