The rhythmic clang of weights filled the air, blending with the muffled beats of gym music. I exhaled sharply, pushing the barbell upward before setting it back onto the rack with a controlled motion. The gym wasn't too crowded this early in the morning, which suited me just fine.
Two weeks had passed since I started coming here. It was the perfect excuse for my increasing muscle definition—something that would have raised a few questions otherwise. Not to mention, it gave me time to clear my mind, think through my plans, and get used to my new reality.
I grabbed my towel and wiped the sweat off my face as I made my way out, nodding at the front desk clerk before stepping into the cool morning air. The walk back home was short, and by the time I entered the house, I could already hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
"Back already?" My mom, Sandra, glanced at me from where she stood by the stove, flipping pancakes. "Didn't think you'd actually stick with this whole gym thing."
I scoffed lightly, grabbing a glass of water. "What, you thought I'd quit after the first week?"
She smirked, setting a plate of pancakes on the table. "You did say mornings weren't your thing."
"Yeah, well, I changed my mind," I replied casually, sitting down.
Dad walked in just then, dressed in his usual work attire, sipping his coffee. "Good to see you doing something productive, sport. Maybe you'll put some of that energy into your studies next."
I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. I was already planning on skipping ahead to college soon enough, but for now, I'll let them think I was just another teenager trying to stay in shape.
The conversation moved on to other things, and soon enough, breakfast was done. As I stood to leave, my mind shifted back to my real plans for the day. The gym was just one part of my routine—but the real work was about to begin.
-3 POV-
For the next few days, things settled into a routine—gym in the morning, scavenging in the afternoon, and late-night tinkering in his room.
He found a junkyard about a twenty-minute bike ride from home, a place filled with discarded appliances, car parts, and even old computers. He spent hours searching through rusted piles, plucking out circuit boards, processors, and cooling systems. Most of it was outdated junk, but with the right modifications? They'd be more than enough.
The second-hand tech stores were trickier. He couldn't exactly walk in and buy cutting-edge components in bulk without raising eyebrows. Instead, he bought broken or outdated models—laptops, parts, and even a trashed workstation PC. The cashier gave him a weird look, but a shrug and a comment about "hobby repairs" was enough to wave off suspicion.
By the fourth day, his stash was complete. It was time to work.
-X-X-X-X-X-
"Alright, let's see what Uprigg can do."
Ben twisted the Omnitrix and selected his chosen form. Green light engulfed him, and in an instant, his body morphed into a fusion of Upgrade and Juryrigg. His body morphed to the smaller stature of Juryrigg with the colour scheme matching that of Upgrade, his fingers twitching with hyperactive energy.
And then—he got to work.
His hands moved faster than his own thoughts, tearing apart old hardware and merging it into something new. Components melted and reshaped under his touch, metal plating fusing seamlessly as his nanotech-infused biology overrode the limitations of the parts.
Of course, Uprigg was erratic.
The first attempt resulted in a computer that overheated so fast it nearly fried itself. The second attempt? The power supply shorted out, nearly taking the house's electricity with it. At one point, his cooling system overperformed and flash-froze half the motherboard.
Still, trial and error was part of the process.
By the time he was done, his "old" computer sat on the desk—identical on the outside, but inside? It was something else entirely. A fully functional super computer, decades ahead of its time, disguised as an average PC to avoid any suspicion from his parents.
Now came the next step—the AI.
Switching forms again, he transformed into XLR-Grey—his fusion of XLR8 and Grey Matter.
His brain immediately kicked into overdrive. The room seemed slower, his thoughts branching in multiple directions at once. Ideas linked together in ways they never could before, and his fingers danced across the keyboard at impossible speeds.
The AI was no simple task. He spent three days writing the core framework, debugging, and running stress tests. There were errors—some minor, some frustratingly persistent—but nothing he couldn't handle.
By the fourth night, it was done.
His screen flickered, then stabilized. A smooth, synthesized voice rang out:
"All systems functional. Awaiting primary directives."
Ben exhaled, a slow grin forming. It worked.
"I think I'll call you Gideon."
"Designation accepted. Hello, Ben. How may I assist you today?"
Ben leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. Step one was complete. He had a fully functional AI, a quantum supercomputer disguised as a normal PC, and now—it was time to put it to work.
"Gideon, I need intel. Deep, classified intel."
"Please clarify parameters."
"Government databases. Intelligence agencies. SHIELD, CIA, NSA—if it exists, I want to know about it. And while you're at it, check for any hidden organizations. You know, the ones that don't officially exist."
There was a brief pause. Then—"Acknowledged. Initiating infiltration protocols."
The screen flickered as lines of code began flooding in. The AI was fast—far faster than any hacker in the world—but even then, it would take time.
Ben sighed, leaning back in his chair. He wasn't worried about being caught. Gideon was designed to be undetectable, rewriting and covering its tracks instantly. What mattered now was what he would find.
And what came next.
Eight years. That was his estimate before the world changed. But was that actually right? Could he be sure?
Ben frowned, deep in thought. He wasn't just planning for the short term—he needed long-term certainty. He needed to know exactly when the real players would start showing up. The timeline wasn't fixed. The future was fluid.
His fingers drummed against the desk as his mind raced.
Time.
The word hung in his thoughts for a moment, then everything clicked.
"I don't need to guess the future."
He could see it for himself.
Ben sat up straighter, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Gideon, keep working. I've got something to check on my end."
Time to bring out ChronoGrade.
-X-X-X-X-X-
Ben rolled his shoulders as he stepped away from his desk, letting Gideon do its thing. The AI was fast, but even with its speed, digging through the deepest layers of government databases would take time.
That was fine. He had something else to do.
Something only he could do.
His fingers hovered over the Omnitrix, already set to the form he needed. ChronoGrade. A fusion of Upgrade and Clockwork.
Normally, he'd hesitate before pulling something this risky. Looking too far ahead could get the attention of... things. Cosmic beings with unfathomable powers. But he wasn't trying to learn everything.
Just a simple confirmation. When would the heroes arrive?
He took a breath, then slammed the dial down.
A flash of emerald light.
Ben's vision shifted instantly, his mind stretching across time like a ripple across a still pond.
Images flickered in his mind, not as a perfect sequence but as possibilities. Some were clearer than others—major turning points in history were always easier to pinpoint.
2005. The Phoenix stirs. Mutants take the global stage in ways that can't be ignored.
Summer 2007. A teenager in Queens is bitten by something he shouldn't have survived.
Summer 2008. A brilliant billionaire crashes into the sands of Afghanistan, a glowing arc in his chest marking the birth of something new.
2008, later that summer. Four astronauts return from space, forever changed.
Ben exhaled as the visions faded. That was enough.
He could've pushed further. He could've seen everything.
But he wasn't stupid.
The longer he stayed connected to time, the more likely someone or something would notice him. ChronoGrade was powerful, but not undetectable.
As the greenish-gold rings of ChronoGrade's power faded, Ben exhaled, rubbing his temples as the echoes of possible futures settled in his mind.
Six years. That's how long he had before things truly started. The X-Men's major event would be in 2005. The Fantastic Four could appear in 2008. And, most importantly, Tony Stark would become Iron Man in the summer of 2008.
That gave him a deadline.
By early 2005, he needed to be ready.
Not just as a hero—but as someone who mattered. Someone with resources, influence, and a name that carried weight.
And that meant he needed money.
Ben deactivated the Omnitrix and sat back down at his desk. His eyes flicked to the corner of his screen.
Date: June 28, 2000
Ben leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking to the corner of his screen where the date was displayed. June 28, 2000. That meant he had about two months left of summer vacation. Two months to set the foundation for everything he needed before the constraints of school kicked in.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as his mind went over his options.
First priority: money.
He needed funds to get started, but more importantly, money that made sense. He already had Instagram, fully developed and polished, sitting in his files, untouched. But the timing wasn't right.
The internet infrastructure of this world wasn't quite ready. Marvel's tech level was bizarre—advanced in some areas, outdated in others. The internet existed, sure, but social media as a concept? Not yet. It was still in its infancy, meaning launching something like Instagram too early would be pointless. It'd be better to shelve the project for a few years. Maybe when he was in college, he could use it as a stepping stone into the tech industry—establish himself as a name before launching it as a startup.
So, that left other options.
He could easily hack offshore accounts, terrorist funds, or dirty money pools, but that wasn't clean. Too much risk, too much attention. No, he needed something legitimate, something people wouldn't question.
Then, it clicked.
"Gideon, search for the Harry Potter book series."
A brief pause. Then, the AI's voice responded.
"No records found for a book series under that name."
Ben smirked.
If it didn't exist, then he'd write it himself.
The books were a guaranteed hit, a multi-billion-dollar franchise, and the perfect way to start building his empire without raising suspicion. He got to work immediately, his enhanced memory pulling every detail from his past life.
It took him days, but with Gideon's help, plot holes were patched, inconsistencies were cleaned, and by the end of it, the manuscript for Book One was finished.
"Gideon, establish copyright for Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone under my name."
"Acknowledged. Processing now."
It wasn't hero work—not yet—but it was the first step.