Chapter 1: Wrong Universe, Right Timing
POV: Clark (age 6)
The ceiling was wrong.
Clark stared at it—beige stucco with water stains that mapped continents he'd never seen—and felt his stomach twist into knots that his six-year-old body shouldn't know how to tie. The smell hit him next: fabric softener mixed with bacon grease and something chemical that meant home to someone who wasn't him.
His hands. Small. Pudgy fingers that fumbled at blankets decorated with cartoon characters he recognized but had never owned. The wrong size. The wrong everything.
"This can't be real. This can't be—"
"Clark, honey?"
A woman's voice, warm with Queens honey and morning worry. Sarah. The name floated up from nowhere, along with the knowledge that she made pancakes on Sundays and hummed off-key when she thought no one was listening. His mother. Not his mother. His mother in this place that couldn't exist.
Footsteps on hardwood. Getting closer.
Clark's breath came in short gasps that whistled through a throat too small for the scream building in his chest. He knew things—adult things, impossible things. He remembered driving to work yesterday (tomorrow? never?) in a Honda Civic with a broken air conditioner, remembered paying bills and mortgage statements and the taste of coffee grown cold at his desk. But his legs barely reached the end of this narrow bed, and his voice would crack if he tried to speak above a whisper.
The door creaked open. Sarah—his Sarah now, apparently—stood framed in the doorway, brown hair escaping a ponytail, wearing a nurse's scrubs with cartoon teddy bears. Her face, lined with the particular exhaustion of someone who worked double shifts and still made breakfast, softened when she saw him.
"You're awake." She crossed to the bed, hand automatically reaching for his forehead. "How are you feeling, baby? You gave us quite a scare yesterday."
Her palm was cool against his skin. Real. Solid. The touch of someone who had bandaged his scraped knees (knees he'd never scraped) and checked his temperature through fevers he'd never had.
"She loves me. This person I've never met loves me because I'm wearing the face of her child."
"I—" His voice came out small and confused, which was perfect because small and confused was exactly what he was. "I feel weird, Mom."
The word Mom tasted foreign on his tongue, but Sarah's face relaxed.
"Weird how? Sick weird or just... different weird?"
"Different weird. Like I'm not supposed to be here. Like I stole someone's life and everyone's pretending it's normal."
"Different," he managed.
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, making the mattress dip. The simple weight of her presence grounded him in ways that defied logic. This woman who smelled like antiseptic and worry, who worked herself to exhaustion for a family she'd kill to protect—she was his now. The thought should have been comforting.
Instead, it terrified him.
"Sometimes growing up feels weird," she said, smoothing his hair back with practiced maternal motions. "Your brain's getting bigger, thinking new thoughts. It's normal to feel confused."
"If only she knew."
From somewhere deeper in the apartment came the sound of a man humming—off-key, like mother like father—and the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan. Marcus. The name brought with it the scent of motor oil and the memory of large hands teaching him to tie shoes. Hands that had never touched him, for a man he'd never met, who thought he was raising his son.
Clark's chest tightened. "Mom, what if... what if I remembered things that didn't happen?"
Sarah's eyebrows drew together in the way they did when she was deciding whether to take his temperature or call the doctor. "What kind of things?"
"Like being older. Like knowing stuff I shouldn't know."
The concern in her eyes deepened. She pressed her palm to his forehead again, held it there longer this time. "No fever. But Clark, honey, sometimes when we're sick our dreams can feel very real. Maybe you had some vivid dreams while you were sleeping?"
"Dreams. Right. If only it was that simple."
He nodded, because what else could he do? How do you explain to someone that their child's body housed the mind of a man from another world entirely? How do you tell a mother that her son was gone, replaced by an impostor who knew nothing about the life he'd inherited?
"Yeah," he whispered. "Dreams."
Sarah's smile was gentle relief. "Well, you're awake now, and that's what matters. Think you're up for some breakfast? Dad's making his famous burnt eggs."
From the kitchen came a crash of metal on metal, followed by a string of creative profanity that cut off abruptly.
"SORRY!" Marcus bellowed. "LANGUAGE!"
Despite everything—the wrongness, the fear, the complete impossibility of his situation—Clark felt his mouth twitch upward. These people, these strangers who loved him, were real. Flawed and human and utterly, completely real.
"Yeah," he said, and this time his voice came out steadier. "Breakfast sounds good."
Sarah kissed the top of his head, a gesture so natural it made his throat close up. "Get dressed and come out when you're ready. And Clark? If you keep feeling weird, you tell me, okay? We'll figure it out together."
She left him alone with his impossible situation and his borrowed life.
Clark sat on the edge of the bed, small feet dangling above the floor, and tried to process the enormity of what had happened to him. Transmigration. The word came from nowhere and everywhere, from stories he'd read and fantasies he'd entertained. But those were fiction. This was Saturday morning in Queens, 1992, with the smell of burning eggs and the sound of traffic outside a window that looked out on a world that shouldn't exist.
Except it did exist. And he was in it.
"Okay," he thought, forcing his child's mind to work through adult problems. "If this is real—and the burned breakfast suggests it is—then I need to figure out what I'm dealing with. Is this actually the Marvel universe? Is this some kind of dream? Am I dead? Am I insane?"
He stood, wobbled slightly on legs that felt too short, and made his way to the window. Queens spread out below him, all brick buildings and fire escapes, looking exactly like the New York he remembered from movies. But it felt different, somehow. Cleaner. More... optimistic? Like the world still believed in heroes.
"If this is 1992, then Tony Stark is still a kid. No Iron Man. No Avengers. No—"
The thought stopped dead as light exploded across his vision. Not real light—something that bypassed his eyes entirely and painted itself directly onto his brain. Words formed in the air before him, glowing blue and completely impossible.
[WELCOME, USER 2847]
[INITIALIZING ARTIFACT FINDER SYSTEM]
[SCANNING HOST COMPATIBILITY...]
[COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED]
[INTEGRATION BEGINNING]
Clark stumbled backward, crashed into his desk chair, and watched in numb shock as more text scrolled past his vision like the world's most elaborate hallucination.
[SYSTEM OVERVIEW UNLOCKED]
[ARTIFACT DETECTION: ACTIVE]
[HOST LEVEL: 1]
[STAMINA: 10/10]
[CURRENT ARTIFACTS: 0]
[FIRST MISSION PENDING...]
The glowing text hung in the air for another moment, then faded like smoke. Clark sat in his chair, heart hammering against his ribs, staring at empty air that had just rewritten the rules of reality.
"System," he whispered to himself. "Like a video game. Like those stories where people get isekai'd and wake up with cheat abilities."
He laughed, a sound that came out higher than intended and edged with hysteria. "Of all the things to happen to me. Of all the impossibilities. I get a system."
From the kitchen, Marcus called out: "Clark! Food's ready! And this time I only burned the edges!"
Clark stood on shaking legs, pulled on clothes that fit a body that wasn't quite his, and walked toward the sounds of family breakfast. But his mind was spinning with possibilities and terrors in equal measure.
If this was the Marvel universe—and the system suggested it was—then he had seventeen years before Tony Stark became Iron Man. Seventeen years before the world learned it wasn't alone. Seventeen years to prepare for threats that could end civilization.
Seventeen years with a system that detected artifacts.
"Well," he thought as he reached for the kitchen door handle. "At least it won't be boring."
He pushed through into warmth and light and the smell of slightly burned eggs, wearing the face of a six-year-old boy who would grow up to be something the world had never seen before.
But first, breakfast.
The eggs were indeed burned around the edges, but Marcus served them with such theatrical pride that Clark found himself smiling despite everything. His father—this man who'd earned the title by sixteen years of love and worry—stood at the stove wearing an apron that declared him "KING OF THE GRILL" in fading red letters.
"Behold!" Marcus announced, sliding a plate across the small kitchen table. "Culinary perfection!"
Sarah, already seated with coffee that steamed in the morning light, snorted. "Honey, those eggs are black."
"They're Cajun style."
"We're not Cajun."
"We are now." Marcus winked at Clark as he sat down. "Sometimes you gotta embrace new traditions. Right, sport?"
Clark nodded, cutting into eggs that crunched slightly when his fork hit them. "New traditions. If only he knew."
But as he ate—and the eggs, despite their crispy exteriors, tasted like home and safety and Saturday mornings—Clark felt something settle in his chest. These people didn't know what he was. They couldn't understand the impossibility that had invaded their family. But they loved him anyway, loved the boy they thought they were raising, and that love was real enough to build a life on.
Even if that life came with glowing text and artifact-hunting systems.
The realization hit him halfway through breakfast: he was going to lie to them. Every day, probably for years. He was going to smile and laugh and call them Mom and Dad while hiding the truth of what he was, what he could do, what was coming.
The thought made the burned eggs taste like ash.
"But what choice do I have? Tell them I'm not their son? Tell them I'm some kind of interdimensional refugee with a magical system and knowledge of a future that ends with purple titans snapping their fingers? That'll go over well."
"Clark?" Sarah's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You're making that face again."
"What face?"
"The face you made yesterday before you... had your episode. Like you're thinking too hard about something scary."
Marcus looked up from his own plate, eyes sharp with paternal concern. "Everything okay, kiddo?"
Clark forced his expression to relax, summoned the kind of smile that six-year-olds were supposed to have. "Just thinking about... um... Saturday cartoons."
The lie came easily, which should have bothered him more than it did.
"Which cartoons?" Sarah asked, settling back into her chair with visible relief.
"Which cartoons were on in 1992? Think, Clark. What would a six-year-old watch?"
"X-Men," he said, grasping for something that felt safe.
Marcus perked up. "Now that's quality television. Wolverine's my guy. Gruff exterior, heart of gold. Reminds me of myself."
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Wolverine has metal claws and a healing factor."
"I have a toolbox and industrial-strength antacid. Close enough."
Their banter washed over Clark like white noise as his mind wandered back to the system. X-Men. In this world, were they real? Were there already mutants walking around, hiding their abilities like he'd have to hide his? The thought was both comforting and terrifying.
He was just reaching for his orange juice when the light returned.
[ARTIFACT DETECTED]
The text appeared directly in his field of vision, overlaid on reality like a heads-up display. Clark nearly choked on his eggs.
[ARTIFACT TYPE: E-TIER]
[DESIGNATION: LUCKY PENNY]
[LOCATION: CENTRAL PARK, NYC]
[COORDINATES: 40.7812° N, 73.9665° W]
[DISTANCE: 8.7 MILES]
[MISSION AVAILABLE: ACCEPT? Y/N]
Clark stared at the floating text, wondering if his parents could see it too. But Sarah was reading a nursing journal while she ate, and Marcus was humming under his breath as he flipped through the sports section. The system was his alone.
"Lucky Penny. E-tier. That sounds... harmless? Maybe? Do I accept? Do I have a choice?"
He focused on the "Y" and felt a subtle click in his mind.
[MISSION ACCEPTED]
[OBJECTIVE: LOCATE AND RETRIEVE THE LUCKY PENNY]
[SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: FIND THE LOST CHILD]
[TIME LIMIT: 24 HOURS]
[FAILURE CONSEQUENCE: PERMANENT ARTIFACT LOCK]
[STARTING TIMER... NOW]
"Lost child? What lost child? And what does 'permanent artifact lock' mean?"
But the system had already faded back to transparency, leaving Clark alone with his racing pulse and the sudden, crushing weight of responsibility.
Central Park. Eight miles away. He was six years old, lived in Queens, and had never been to Manhattan by himself. The subway might as well have been the surface of Mars.
"Mom," he said carefully, "can we go to Central Park today?"
Sarah looked up from her journal. "Central Park? Honey, that's in Manhattan. We'd have to take the subway."
"I know. But I... I really want to see it. Please?"
Marcus frowned. "That's a big trip for a little guy. What's got you so interested in Central Park all of a sudden?"
"Think of something believable. Something a six-year-old would want."
"I heard there's a playground there. A big one. And... and ducks."
"There are ducks in Flushing Meadows," Sarah pointed out. "Much closer."
"But these are special ducks."
The look his parents exchanged was the kind that said "our son is being weird again, but harmlessly weird."
"Not today, sport," Marcus said gently. "Maybe next weekend, if you're feeling better. Central Park's not going anywhere."
"But the lost child might be. And I've got twenty-four hours."
Clark felt the countdown timer tick in the back of his mind like a bomb. Every second that passed was one second closer to failure, whatever that meant. The system had mentioned permanent artifact lock, which sounded ominous in ways his six-year-old vocabulary couldn't quite express.
"Please?" he tried again, putting as much innocent pleading into his voice as possible. "I really, really want to go."
Sarah reached across the table and took his hand. "Sweetie, you were sick yesterday. I want to make sure you're fully recovered before we start taking long trips. How about we compromise? We can go to the park down the street, and if you feel good all day, maybe we'll talk about Central Park for next Saturday."
Next Saturday would be too late. Way too late.
Clark nodded, because arguing more would only make them suspicious. "Okay."
But in his mind, he was already planning.
"I'll have to sneak out. A six-year-old, alone in New York City, in 1992. This is either going to be the stupidest thing I've ever done, or the most necessary. Possibly both."
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of forced normalcy. Clark helped clear the table, endured his mother's fussing about whether he felt warm, and submitted to the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons on the couch. But while Wolverine fought Sentinels on the small television screen, Clark's mind was mapping subway routes and calculating how much allowance money he had hidden in his room.
Twenty-three hours and counting.
By the time his parents settled into their usual Saturday afternoon activities—Marcus tinkering with something in his makeshift garage, Sarah catching up on medical journals—Clark had his plan.
He would wait until they were both distracted, slip out the fire escape, and catch the subway into Manhattan. He had three crumpled dollar bills and some quarters in his dresser drawer. Enough for a round trip, if he was careful. He'd find the penny, complete whatever this mission was supposed to be, and be home before anyone noticed he was gone.
Simple. Easy. Foolproof.
"Famous last words," he thought, but the timer in his head was down to twenty-two hours and fifty-six minutes.
Whatever the system wanted from him, whatever this Lucky Penny was supposed to do, he was going to find out.
Even if it killed him.
Which, given that he was six years old and planning to navigate 1990s New York alone, was a distinct possibility.
Clark looked at the cartoon X-Men on the screen—heroes who'd accepted their impossible powers and used them to save people—and made his choice.
"Seventeen years to prepare," he whispered to himself. "It starts now."
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