Lusborn soared through the air, the wind rushing past him as he relished the sensation of true flight.
One of the reasons he had chosen to transform into Morbius was precisely for this ability—the power to defy gravity and move through the skies as freely as a bird.
In his past life as a stuntman, he had performed some of the most dangerous skydiving feats imaginable, plummeting from impossible heights with nothing but a parachute and a daredevil's resolve.
But this—this was different. This was real. No strings, no parachutes, just pure, unrestricted movement.
Despite his exhilaration, he knew better than to be reckless.
The Marvel world was a place filled with technology far beyond what he was used to, and satellite surveillance was nothing to joke about.
If he flew too high or too openly, someone would take notice.
SHIELD, or even worse, hydra, or some unknown organization he had never even heard of yet. He needed to stay under the radar—literally.
He kept low, skimming just above the rooftops, staying in the shadows where possible, avoiding bright city lights and any cameras.
However, he could feel it—his time was running out.
This body wasn't strong enough yet to sustain his transformation for too long. He was already pushing it by staying as Morbius for this long.
He needed to land before he dropped out of the sky uncontrollably.
Spotting a dark alleyway in the distance, he angled his descent, adjusting for a smooth landing.
With one final burst of effort, he brought himself down into the alley, stumbling slightly as he felt the transformation coming undone.
The power drained from his body, his strength diminishing rapidly, his form reverting back to his original self.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself against a wall as fatigue crept in.
Now back in his original form, Lusborn felt the full brunt of exhaustion slam into him like a freight train.
His muscles ached, his head pounded, and his body felt drained of every ounce of energy.
"Gosh, I feel like I've run a marathon... in high heels... while carrying a piano." he muttered.
He could barely stand straight, but he forced himself to keep moving.
He made his way to the direction that he was sure was leading to the street, after all he had been flying, so although he had no energy to look all around, he was sure this was the way.
"Isn't it like weird.... talking to myself?" he continued.
However, he was met with a brick wall on the path that led to the street.
"Aah, Was wondering if I forgot something, turns out I left my luck in hell."
Placing his hand on the wall, he felt frustrated, because first, he was in no shape to transform again.
Second, the wall was smooth and too tall, meaning no chance of climbing it, not that he had the energy to do so.
He felt too tired he just wanted to sleep it out.
Leaning at the wall and felt like screaming out to take out his frustration. First, he had died in a really pathetic way.
Like seriously, who the fuck poisoned him, and why the fuck would they even do that?
But then, not only that, he was reincarnated, but in a fucked up place.
"Like seriously, whoever reincarnated me must have some issues with their brain or something," he muttered in anger.
I mean, who does that? Reincarnating someone straight in battle?
But even after escaping with relative ease, now he was trapped in a damn alley, can you imagine that?
Escaping lethal robots but being trapped by an alley.
"Fuck this," Lusborn shouted.
Anyway, now was the time.
He had taken his time to catch his breathe, and even purposefully thought about things that may bring him anger so that he could accumulate adrenaline in his bloodstream.
After all it is a fact that adrenaline is secreted by the body a lot more if a person is angry, so now with a sudden pump, Lusborn was no longer too tired.
He walked towards the alley, grabbed a dustbin, dragged it to the wall, and as easily as that, climbed the wall, and jumped down to the other side.
Those were the some of the perks of being a stuntman, you get to know how to get out of every situation.
Emerging from the alleyway, it seemed he had landed in someone's backyard.
He ran a bit to reach the street, then blended into the bustling city streets.
Even with his slightly tattered clothes, the dried blood on his skin, and the dust clinging to him, no one batted an eye.
The people of this city had seen worse. Or maybe they just didn't care. Either way, it worked in his favor.
With a deep breath, he hailed a taxi, the black car pulling up beside him almost instantly.
The driver, a middle-aged black man with a deep voice and an easygoing manner, greeted him as he slid into the back seat.
Lusborn gave his address, leaning his head against the seat and finally allowing his eyes to close for a brief moment.
He was drained. Physically and mentally exhausted.
This new body was far weaker than his original one. Even as a regular human in his past life, he had trained, kept himself in top condition as a stuntman.
This body, however—it was pathetic in comparison. It felt soft, unused to physical exertion.
The difference was frustrating. How could someone not work out at all? Did his new self just sit around doing nothing?
As the taxi rolled through the city, the driver kept talking, his voice a constant hum of background noise.
Lusborn wasn't really listening. His mind was elsewhere, already thinking about what he needed to do next.
He had to get stronger. He had to train this body, push it to its limits, make it capable of handling his transformations without nearly killing him.
This world was dangerous just from the movies. And now he had just gotten a firsthand look at exactly how dangerous it could be.
If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to thrive, he needed to be ready.
The road stretched on, the night deepening, the city lights flickering outside the window.
Lusborn kept his eyes closed, letting himself drift in and out of wakefulness, preparing for what came next.
The taxi pulled to a stop. Lusborn didn't stir.
The driver sighed, a sound like air leaking from a tire. He reached back, nudging Lusborn's shoulder. "Hey. We're here."
The driver called him a couple of times, irritation lacing his voice as he cursed his misfortune of picking up a drunkard—or so he assumed.
He wondered if he would even get paid for this trip.
Lusborn only stirred when the driver shook him, grumbling as he blinked his weary eyes open.
His bare feet touched the cool ground as he stepped out, and for a moment, he just stood there, looking down at them, feeling the odd sensation of unfamiliarity.
These feet weren't really his—or at least, they didn't feel like his own.
The driver cleared his throat impatiently. "You payin' or what?"
Lusborn snapped out of his daze, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
He handed the driver the fare, and the man sighed in relief, muttering a quiet, "Thank God," before driving off.
Lusborn chuckled slightly at the man's reaction, but the amusement was short-lived as he turned towards the house.
It was… impressive. Modern, sleek lines, a stark contrast to the cozy, almost ramshackle house he remembered.
It loomed larger than he expected, a monument to a life he didn't recognize. A shiver ran down his spine.
It felt familiar, yet utterly foreign, like a half-remembered melody. He walked towards it, his steps hesitant.
On the porch, a large ceramic pot overflowed with vibrant flowers. He paused, an odd impulse drawing him to it.
He lifted the pot, finding a key nestled beneath. How did he know?
The thought echoed in his mind, unsettling. It was as if his body knew something his mind didn't.
He shoved the thought aside, the nagging feeling of wrongness clinging to him, after all he was reincarnated.
And for most of the reincarnation novels he had read, then even if he didn't gain the original's memories, he would still be with muscle memory.
He unlocked the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet night. Stepping inside, he was enveloped by a cool, still silence.
The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something else… something he couldn't quite place.
Another wave of unfamiliarity washed over him.
He closed the door behind him, the sound a soft thud that seemed to amplify the silence.
He walked through the dimly lit house, his steps light on the polished wooden floors.
The layout was unfamiliar, yet his body moved with certainty, guiding him to the kitchen.
He opened the fridge, the cold air hitting his face as he grabbed a bottle of milk.
Taking a swig, he shut the fridge with his other hand, then reached over to the kitchen stand for some bread. It wasn't much, but it would do for now.
As he turned to head upstairs, a soft shuffling noise caught his attention.
Lusborn froze, halfway to the stairs. A woman stood in the hallway, bathed in the dim light spilling from the living room.
She wore a nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes, heavy with sleep, widened with concern as she took in his disheveled appearance.
"Lusborn?" she called out softly, her voice laced with worry. "Are you okay? What happened? Why do you look like that?"
Her presence startled him. He hadn't expected to meet anyone tonight, let alone someone who seemed to care.
But then, a thought surfaced in his mind the moment he looked at her.
Mother.
The realization hit him like a truck, but with it came an overwhelming sense of discomfort. He could see it now—this woman was his mother.
But the moment she stepped forward, reaching out as if to touch him, his body flinched before his mind could even process it.
He dodged her touch instinctively, his muscles tensing as if recoiling from something dangerous.
He didn't understand it.
She was his mother—wasn't she? Then why did his entire being reject her so violently? Why did his heart pound with something that was not fear, but resentment?
The confusion only lasted for a moment before he shut it down.
He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to question the past he couldn't remember.
Whatever had happened between them, it had left deep scars, and right now, he didn't have the time or energy to deal with it.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and rushed up the stairs, his steps firm, his resolve stronger.
He reached his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed the chasm growing between them. He leaned against the cool wood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn't understand what was happening.
But right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.
She didn't follow.
She didn't call after him.
She simply stood there in the dim light of the living room, watching the son who wanted nothing to do with her disappear into the darkness of his room, shutting the door behind him.
And as she slowly sank onto the couch, her eyes filled with a quiet, defeated sorrow, she wondered—not for the first time—if she would ever be forgiven.
...........................
In the heart of New York, nestled away from the bustling city streets, stood a grand mansion unlike any other.
It was an estate of vast beauty and history, yet to those who truly knew what it housed, it was more than just a mere mansion.
This was the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, a sanctuary and school for those born with extraordinary abilities—mutants.
The night was calm, the moon casting a silver glow upon the vast property, illuminating the many windows behind which countless young minds rested, dreaming of a world that could one day accept them.
In a quiet, dimly lit office, a middle-aged man with a bald head sat in a wheelchair, his deep blue eyes scanning the pages of an old book.
Professor Charles Xavier was no stranger to late-night readings, finding solace in literature when his duties as headmaster and leader of the X-Men allowed him brief moments of peace.
However, tonight was different.
A sudden disturbance prickled at the edges of his vast telepathic mind.
A new presence—raw, unrefined, yet immensely powerful—flickered into existence, like a roaring fire suddenly igniting in the dark.
It lasted but a moment before vanishing, but its intensity was unmistakable.
Frowning slightly, Charles placed the book aside and straightened, his hands resting on the arms of his wheelchair.
He closed his eyes, extending his awareness.
He felt it again – a flicker, a flare of raw power, like a newborn star struggling to ignite. It was immense, untamed, but… unstable.
He saw fragmented images: a flash of crimson, the chaotic energy of a struggle, a glimpse of… something monstrous. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Sighing, he opened his eyes, and then with a thought, he reached out telepathically. 'Hank, come to the office, please.'
A few moments later, footsteps echoed through the hall, followed by a soft knock.
The door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with glasses, his intellectual yet slightly disheveled appearance betraying his late-night research session.
Hank McCoy, better known as Beast, entered, his brow furrowed with his own unease. "Professor?"
Charles didn't speak. He simply gestured towards the door. Hank nodded, understanding.
Hank quickly fell in step beside the Professor.
The two made their way through the mansion's corridors, one walking with determined strides, the other maneuvering his advanced wheelchair with practiced ease.
They soon arrived at the secured chamber housing Cerebro, the massive, spherical device capable of amplifying Charles' telepathic abilities to locate and track mutants across the globe.
Hank moved to the control panel, his fingers swiftly inputting commands as the machine powered up with a low hum.
Charles positioned himself in the center of the room, donning the specialized helmet that connected him to Cerebro's vast network of consciousnesses.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and reached out with his mind.
The world unfolded before him—a vast sea of minds stretching across the planet, each glowing like tiny stars in the expanse of his telepathic perception.
He sifted through the countless presences, searching for the one that had disrupted his senses moments before.
Then, as quickly as he had felt it before, he sensed it again—a presence of raw, untamed energy, radiating immense power yet flickering unpredictably, as if struggling to maintain its form.
But just as he began to focus on it, it vanished once more, retreating into obscurity as if it had never been there.
Slowly, Charles removed the helmet, his expression contemplative. Hank observed him closely, waiting for an answer.
"What did you see?" Hank asked, his voice low.
Charles shook his head. "Fragments. Impressions. A power… unlike any I've encountered. It's unstable, Hank. Dangerous. And it's gone silent."
Hank's frown deepened. "Gone silent? You mean…"
"I don't know," Charles admitted, his voice laced with worry. "But I fear… we're not the only ones who felt it."
......
Meanwhile, aboard one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s massive Helicarriers, a different kind of investigation was unfolding.
Inside a dimly lit office, a stern-faced black and bald man sat at his desk, his single eye scanning a report intently.
The ever-watchful Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury, was not a man easily rattled, but something about the data before him did not sit well.
Across from him stood Agent Phil Coulson, a man known for his level-headedness and calm demeanor.
However, even he seemed uncertain as he watched Fury process the information.
Fury finally looked up, his one good eye narrowed. "Gamma signature. Off the charts. And then… poof." He gestured with his pen. "Like it never happened."
Coulson nodded. "Happened during the Stark/Vanko dust-up. Satellite picked it up. Brief, intense spike. Then nothing."
Fury grunted. "Stark's toys acting up again?"
Coulson shrugged. "Possible, but… the readings were organic, sir. Something biological."
Fury leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. "Organic… packing that kind of power? Almost like hulk? That's not just a metahuman, Coulson. That's something else entirely."
He paused, his gaze drifting to the blank wall as he considered the implications. "And it vanished. Cleanly. Like a ghost."
He looked back at Coulson, his expression grim. "I want to know everything about this, Coulson. Every damn detail. And I want Stark in on this. He was there. Maybe he saw something."
Coulson nodded. "Right away, sir."
As Coulson turned to leave, Fury muttered, more to himself than to his agent, "This ain't good. This ain't good at all."
If this was indeed a human—or rather, a mutant—it was one that could produce energy levels that rivaled some of the most dangerous individuals on the planet.
But what nagged at him the most was the sudden disappearance. Whatever—or whoever—this was, they knew how to hide.
"Let's hope it's Stark," he muttered.
After all this unstable power surge had happened where Stark was fighting with Ivan Vanko.
So maybe it was Stark's weapon, or Ivan Vanko's, though his instincts told him this wasn't the case.
Fury sat back, his good eye staring at the ceiling in thought.
If there was a new player on the board, he needed to know about it. And soon.
One thing was certain—this was only the beginning, and his intuition has never been wrong, never.
And so just like that, Lusborn had attracted the same attention he did not want just because of his one choice.
The choice to become the hulk, and because he couldn't control it, the energy flared the way it wouldn't even flare for the real hulk who by the way is already out there doing God knows what.
He didn't know that in that time he had turned a little, his energy was so open for anyone to look at, like a beacon in a dark sky.
A choice, one choice of his, has created infinite possibilities, now the question is, which of the possibilities will prevail?
...
Pliz dear readers, this kind of ability I gave him has lots and lots of shit that he can use to grow stronger.
And obviously I cant think of all of them, I might even think of some stupid shit so, that's why I will need yo help.
I need ideas from you guys, I have already received some and it has really enlightened me, so, it would be better if I received more.
Thanx.
....
Also pliz support my other works, I need help with that too. Still new in this thing so.... will need u guys.