**November 27th, 2024 – New York City, Earth 5554 Prime Universe**
The door to Ben Stewart's cramped apartment creaked open, the hinges groaning under the weight of another exhausting day. He tossed his keys onto the cluttered table, where they clattered against his hard hat, a relic of his grueling construction job.
A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders sagging as the frustrations of the day lingered like a bitter aftertaste. His colleagues—entitled, loud, and painfully oblivious—had pushed his patience to its breaking point.
At eighteen, Ben felt decades older than most of them, their immaturity a stark contrast to the harsh realities of the world he navigated daily. He couldn't help but think of them as kids, perpetually stuck in adolescence, blind to the grinding machinery of the real world.
In the dim light of his kitchen, Ben grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, its cold plastic a fleeting comfort against his calloused hands. He downed it in one long, desperate gulp, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat but doing little to quell the anxiety gnawing at his core. His apartment, with its peeling wallpaper and mismatched furniture, was a constant reminder of his precarious situation.
Inflation was a relentless predator, sinking its claws deeper into his paycheck each month. Rent, groceries, utilities—everything was climbing faster than his income could keep up. His savings, carefully scraped together from his side hustle as a freelance graphic designer, were dwindling. Eighteen months of grinding away, balancing two jobs, and he'd managed to save a modest sum—an achievement that felt monumental compared to his peers, most of whom were still stumbling through university or coasting on their parents' dime.
But the world outside his apartment was unraveling. The country was in the grip of a financial crisis, exacerbated by an aging president whose speeches felt more like relics than rallying cries, and a vice president whose promises rang hollow. The streets of New York buzzed with chaos—vandalism scrawled across storefronts, protests clogging intersections, traffic snarls that turned commutes into endurance tests.
Ben's fists clenched at the thought of it all. Sometimes, he fantasized about confronting the architects of this disorder, his eight years of boxing and karate training itching for release. He was no stranger to discipline; his martial arts had forged him into something beyond the standard black belt, his reflexes honed to a razor's edge. Yet even that felt insufficient against the weight of the world.
Worse still was the state of entertainment, once a refuge for Ben's overworked mind. Politics and ideology had seeped into every corner of the industry, turning beloved franchises into soulless machines churning out uninspired, preachy drivel. It baffled him—didn't anyone see how unprofitable this was? The flops kept coming, each one more disconnected from its audience than the last, yet studios doubled down, expecting loyalty from fans they'd long alienated.
The thought made his temples throb. He pressed his fingers to his forehead, muttering under his breath, "If anyone's out there listening, save me from this madness. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise, you're afraid you'll die young from stress. Is that what you were going to say, Mr. Stewart?"
Ben froze, the air in the room turning heavy. The voice—calm, unfamiliar, and tinged with amusement—cut through his thoughts like a blade. His heart kicked into overdrive, instincts flaring as he spun toward the source. In one fluid motion, he snatched a kitchen knife from the counter, its worn handle familiar in his grip. He dropped into a fighting stance, knees bent, eyes scanning the dim apartment. Eight years of training had made him formidable, but he wasn't reckless. He wouldn't strike until he knew what he was up against.
Two figures stood in the shadows near his couch, their presence impossibly sudden. Ben's pulse thundered in his ears as he sized them up. The first was an older man, his face eerily reminiscent of the late Stan Lee—same kind eyes, same mischievous smile framed by a neatly trimmed mustache. The resemblance was uncanny, almost unsettling.
The second was a middle-aged man, his attire a bizarre blend of medieval and futuristic: a lab coat adorned with brown and black pouches, gold trim glinting faintly in the low light, paired with a black turtleneck, a white scarf draped elegantly over a brown vest.
Goggles hung loosely around his neck, and a metallic gauntlet encased his right hand, its intricate design hinting at advanced technology. A fingerless glove covered his left hand, adding to the eclectic ensemble. The man's demeanor was calm, almost scholarly, but there was an edge to him—a quiet confidence that set Ben's nerves on edge.
"Who the hell are you?" Ben demanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. His grip on the knife tightened, his stance unwavering. He wasn't foolish enough to rush them—not when he was outnumbered, not when he didn't know if they were armed or if others were lurking nearby. For all he knew, this was a robbery, a prank, or something far stranger.
The Stan Lee lookalike raised his hands in a placating gesture, his smile apologetic but unyielding. "Well then, young Stewart," he said, his voice warm yet carrying an undercurrent of authority. "It seems we've unduly frightened you. My apologies for the intrusion. I'm afraid, however, we must apologize for what comes next."
Ben's eyes narrowed. "Afraid of what—?"
Before he could finish, the older man raised a hand, and the world tilted. Ben's vision blurred, a tidal wave of darkness crashing ascendancy crashing over him. He tried to move, to fight back, but his limbs grew heavy, his thoughts sluggish. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor as his knees buckled.
As his consciousness faded, the old man's voice echoed faintly in his mind, soft and cryptic. "I'll gift you something to aid you in your future travels. I hope it serves as an apology as well."
Then, nothing.
---
Ben's eyes snapped open, his heart hammering in his chest. He was standing upright, the familiar chaos of New York City's streets buzzing around him—horns blaring, pedestrians weaving through the crowd, the air thick with the scent of hot asphalt and street food. It was too vivid, too real to be a dream. His head spun, questions piling up like debris in a storm.
Had he been drugged? Kidnapped? Was this some kind of government experiment? He'd spent years half-joking about secret agents watching him, a paranoid fantasy fueled by too many late-night anime binges. But now, standing in the middle of Times Square with no memory of how he'd gotten there, the idea didn't seem so far-fetched.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. *Get a grip, Ben.* He couldn't afford to spiral. Taking a deep breath, he grounded himself, scanning his surroundings. The two strangers—the Stan Lee doppelgänger and the man—were gone, as if they'd never been there. His gaze dropped to his feet, and his breath caught. He was wearing shoes—sleek, unfamiliar sneakers that definitely weren't his. He'd been barefoot in his apartment, hadn't he? His pulse quickened, a cold sweat prickling his skin.
He raised his wrist, expecting the familiar glint of his silver Casio watch, a reliable companion through long workdays. Instead, his eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat. Strapped to his wrist was a device straight out of his childhood fantasies—a sleek, biomechanical marvel that pulsed faintly with green light.
The Omnitrix.
Ben's mind reeled. The device from the animated series, a relic of Saturday morning cartoons, was now a tangible weight on his wrist. Its surface was smooth yet organic, like a living machine, its core glowing with an otherworldly energy. This wasn't a toy, a cosplay prop, or a hallucination. It was real. And it was his.
The city pulsed around him, indifferent to the impossible truth now tethered to his body. Ben's heart raced, not with fear, but with something else—a spark of curiosity, a flicker of exhilaration. Whatever had happened in his apartment, whoever those strangers were, they'd left him with a gift that could change everything. The question was: what came next?
The Omnitrix hugged Ben's wrist like a second skin, its sleek black-and-gray band a stark contrast to the faintly glowing green hourglass emblem that pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm. It was slimmer than he remembered from the cartoons, more refined, almost as if it had been designed with him in mind. The weight of it was both comforting and unnerving, a constant reminder of the impossible reality he now inhabited.
"Is this a joke?" Ben muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and cautious excitement. The bustling chaos of Times Square swirled around him—tourists snapping photos, street vendors hawking pretzels, neon signs casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the pavement. A few passersby shot him curious glances, their eyes lingering on the strange device strapped to his wrist. He couldn't just stand here gawking like a lunatic. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
"Okay, let's find somewhere quieter to think this through," he told himself, earning an odd look from a woman in a hurry, her earbuds dangling as she brushed past. Ben ignored her, his mind racing as he navigated the crowded streets, his sneakers—still unfamiliar, still *wrong*—slapping against the concrete. He needed a place to process, somewhere familiar where he could anchor himself in this disorienting new world. A library. Yes, that would do.
He'd always found solace in the hum of computers, the logic of code—a skill he'd honed since his early teens to supplement his income. He wasn't a prodigy, but he was good enough to land a desk job at any of the big tech giants—if he'd ever wanted to. Right now, though, he just needed a screen and a keyboard to make sense of the madness.
He slipped into the New York Public Library's Mid-Manhattan branch, its quiet interior a stark contrast to the city's frenetic energy. The air smelled of old books and polished wood, a faint comfort that grounded him as he made his way to a row of public computers. The machines were relics—bulky CRT monitors and clunky keyboards that looked like they belonged in a museum. An uneasy feeling crept over him, but he pushed it aside. It didn't matter. He just needed to think, to search, to confirm.
Ben sat down, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as the screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow across his face. He moved the mouse, and the dated interface blinked into focus. His eyes darted to the bottom corner of the screen, and his breath caught in his throat.
**Sunday, November 1st, 2009.**
His pulse spiked, a cold sweat prickling his skin. That couldn't be right. His hands trembled as he gripped the mouse, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and disbelief. He opened the browser, the ancient version of Internet Explorer loading with agonizing slowness. The Google homepage appeared, but it was a ghost from the past—blocky, simplistic, a relic of a bygone era. He typed frantically, searching for news, for anything that could anchor him to reality. Every website, every article, every search result screamed the same truth: 2009.
His mouth went dry, his thoughts spiraling. This wasn't a glitch. This wasn't a dream. He was in the past.
Desperation clawed at him, and he turned to the girl sitting at the next computer, her red hair catching the light as she scrolled on a flip phone—an actual flip phone. "Excuse me," he stammered, his voice unsteady. "Could you tell me the date?"
She barely glanced up, her expression one of mild annoyance. "It's on your screen, genius. Sunday, November 1st, 2009. You blind or something?"
Her words hit like a sledgehammer. Ben's heart stuttered, his vision swimming for a moment. This was real. He wasn't just displaced in space—he was displaced in *time*.
As he sat there, trying to steady his breathing, his eyes drifted back to the screen. A news headline caught his attention, bold and unmistakable: **"Tony Stark Rescued from Afghan Desert by U.S. Air Force, Led by Colonel James Rhodes."** Below it, another article screamed, **"Tony Stark Is Iron Man."** The accompanying images were unmistakable—Tony Stark, the spitting image of Robert Downey Jr., smirking at a press conference, and Colonel James Rhodes, looking eerily like Don Cheadle, standing stoically by his side.
Ben's breath hitched. This wasn't just 2009. This was the *Marvel Universe*. A world of superheroes, supervillains, and cataclysmic events that could crush an ordinary person in an instant. Captain America. Hydra. They weren't fiction here—they were real. And he was standing in the middle of it all, a nobody from 2024 with no connections, no family, no safety net.
He exhaled shakily, muttering under his breath, "Okay… what now?" There was no one waiting for him back in his old world—no parents, no close friends, just a life of grinding work and mounting bills. But here? Surviving in a universe where gods clashed and cities crumbled? That was a challenge he wasn't sure he was ready for.
His gaze dropped to his wrist, and his heart skipped another beat. The Omnitrix gleamed faintly, its green glow a quiet promise of power. How had he forgotten about it, even for a moment? If this was the real deal—and every instinct told him it was—then he wasn't just a nobody anymore. In this world, with this device, he had the potential to be something extraordinary.
Ben slipped out of the library, his mind buzzing with possibilities. He needed to test the Omnitrix, to confirm it wasn't some elaborate trick. Ducking into a narrow alley behind a shuttered bodega, he crouched behind a rusted dumpster, the stench of garbage mingling with the cool November air. His fingers brushed the Omnitrix, its surface warm and faintly alive under his touch.
He pressed the dial, and the device sprang to life, a holographic tower rising from its face. Black silhouettes of alien forms flickered across the display—Jetray aerospace fighter, Swampfire's swampy figure, Rath a fiery rage beast, Brainstorm a intellectual menace. Ten aliens, each a key to survival in this dangerous new world.
A slow grin spread across his face. This was real. And it was *his*.
"Now then," he murmured, scrolling through the options with a flick of his thumb. "Who's our first contestant?"
His finger paused on Brainstorm. Perfect. The hyper-intelligent crustacean would give him the mental edge he needed to navigate this chaotic universe. If he was going to survive—hell, if he was going to *thrive*—he needed to think several steps ahead.
He waited until the sun dipped below the skyline, casting the alley in deep shadows. Then, with a steadying breath, he slammed the Omnitrix down.
The transformation was instantaneous, a surge of energy coursing through him like a lightning bolt. His limbs stretched and hardened, his skin morphing into an orange, crab-like exoskeleton. His head expanded, his brain swelling with a flood of new connections, each thought sharper and more precise than the last. The world around him seemed to slow, his mind racing at a speed that made his human self feel like a sluggish child. Ideas branched into possibilities, probabilities, and plans within seconds.
The sensation was intoxicating—his ego swelled with every passing moment, Brainstorm's arrogance blending seamlessly with his own determination.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice now laced with a thick, posh British accent that made him chuckle despite himself. Catching his reflection in a shattered mirror propped against the alley wall, he studied his new form. His face was a menacing scowl, glowing green eyes piercing the darkness. Sharp spikes jutted from his expanded cranium, and the Omnitrix emblem gleamed proudly on his forehead. His three pairs of spindly limbs twitched with restless energy, ready to act on the flood of plans forming in his mind.
He shook himself out of his admiration. *Focus.* He had work to do. "Step one: establish a new identity," he said, his voice dripping with Brainstorm's haughty confidence. "Step two: blend in."
Breaking into the library's locked office was child's play. His pincers snapped through the cheap lock like it was tinfoil, and he slipped inside, the glow of the computer monitor casting eerie shadows across the room. Hacking into the U.S. identity database was almost insultingly easy for Brainstorm's intellect. Within seconds, he'd crafted a new digital footprint:
**Benjamin Stewart Tennyson. Born: July 23, 1991, Austin, Texas. Height: 1.88m. Weight: 180 lbs. Eyes: Green.**
A birth certificate, a driver's license, a Social Security number—just enough to make him a legal entity in this world. It wasn't perfect; physical documents would require more effort to forge, but for now, this would suffice. He leaned back in the chair, a smug grin spreading across his crustacean face. "There we go. A legal, living person—well, digitally speaking," he said, his voice brimming with satisfaction. "That take cares of my identity crisis. "
He slipped back into the night, reverting to human form with a flash of green light. The transformation left him dizzy for a moment, his human mind struggling to process the lingering clarity of Brainstorm's intellect. As he walked through the dimly lit streets, the weight of the Omnitrix on his wrist felt like both a lifeline and a challenge.
He had power, knowledge of the future, and now, a foothold in this universe. There was nothing left for him in 2024—no family, no ties, just a life of endless struggle. But here, in a world of heroes and villains, he had a chance to be something more.
Ben's lips curled into a determined smile as the cool night air washed over him. The Marvel Universe was a dangerous place, but with the Omnitrix, he wasn't just a bystander. He was a main player.
"Let's see what I can really do with what I've been given," he said softly, his eyes glinting with ambition. The city loomed around him, alive with possibilities—and dangers. Somewhere out there, Tony Stark was building his suits, S.H.I.E.L.D. was watching, and the wheels of a larger story were already turning. Ben didn't know where he'd fit into it yet, but one thing was certain: he was ready to find out.
----
Back in human form left Ben feeling like he'd been downgraded from a supercomputer to a flip phone. His thoughts, so razor-sharp as Brainstorm, now felt sluggish, muddled by the limitations of his human brain. It was frustrating, like trying to run through quicksand after sprinting on open pavement. But even in his human state, he retained a faint echo of Brainstorm's brilliance—a newfound understanding of the hacking he'd pulled off in the library. He wasn't a master coder by any stretch, but the basics of what he'd done were a little clearer now, like a fog lifting just enough to reveal the path ahead. It wasn't much, but it was something. A starting point.
And it was only the beginning.
As he walked through the neon-lit streets of New York, his mind kept circling back to the Omnitrix, its sleek black-and-gray band a constant weight on his wrist. The green hourglass emblem pulsed faintly, as if alive, a quiet reminder of the power it held. He couldn't stop thinking about the device's time-out function, a feature that had always intrigued him as a kid watching *Ben 10*.
Azmuth, the genius Galvan who created the Omnitrix, had designed it with safeguards for a reason. Fan theories he'd read online speculated that prolonged transformations could cause alien DNA to merge permanently with the user's, altering their very being. But that never felt like the full story. Ben 10,000, the future version of the cartoon's hero, could stay transformed for days without reverting, wielding godlike control over his alien forms. That alone hinted at something deeper.
The real purpose of the time-out, Ben thought made more sense, wasn't just about biology—it was psychological. The Omnitrix granted access to powers beyond human comprehension: the raw strength of a Tetramand, the blazing speed of a Kineceleran, the intellect of a Galvan.
Each transformation was a rush, a glimpse into a world where you weren't just *better*—you were *more*. It was addictive. Without a cooldown, a user could lose themselves in the thrill, forgetting who they were at their core.
The time-out was a tether, a forced return to humanity or own species to keep the user grounded. It wasn't about the device's energy limits—why would a machine capable of rewriting DNA need to "recharge" like a cheap smartphone? No, it was a safeguard against the seductive pull of godlike power.
Still, the Omnitrix was bonded to his DNA. That was its foundation, its reset point. Even if there were risks, Ben doubted he'd end up permanently stuck as an alien for long. The thought was reassuring, but not entirely comforting. Speculation was one thing; testing it was another. For now, he had more immediate concerns.
Walking through the cool November air, the city's pulse thrumming around him. Horns blaring, pedestrians jostled past, and neon signs flickered overhead, painting the streets in vibrant hues. This version of New York, rooted in the Marvel Universe, was both familiar and alien. It was cleaner than the gritty, chaotic city he'd known in 2024, the edges softened in a way that felt almost cinematic. The difference was subtle but undeniable, like stepping into a polished movie set rather than the real, grimy world.
His first priority was survival. He needed a place to stay, somewhere discreet where he could plan his next moves. A cheap motel would do for now—nothing flashy, just a roof over his head. Money was an issue, but he'd already taken care of that. While hacking into a bank to create an account wasn't exactly ethical, he'd only withdrawn the equivalent of his personal savings from 2024—$25,000, a modest sum he'd scraped together through years of freelancing. It wasn't stealing, he told himself; it was reclaiming what was his. Still, the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He found a rundown motel in Hell's Kitchen, its flickering sign barely legible in the twilight. After withdrawing some cash from an ATM, he paid for three nights upfront—$180, a small dent in his funds but enough to keep him off the streets while he got his bearings.
By the time he stepped into his room, the clock on the nightstand read 11:45 PM. The motel was about what he'd expected: cheap furniture, a flickering ceiling light, and wallpaper stained with god-knows-what. The bed looked questionable, its sagging mattress conjuring images of the motel's less savory clientele. Ben shuddered but was too exhausted to care. Kicking off his shoes and jacket, he collapsed onto the bed, the lumpy mattress creaking under his weight. Sleep claimed him almost instantly, the weight of the day pulling him under.
---
Morning came too soon, sunlight filtering through the grimy blinds and casting slatted shadows across the room. For a fleeting moment, Ben thought it had all been a dream—the Omnitrix, the time jump, the Marvel Universe. But then his gaze landed on his wrist, where the Omnitrix gleamed faintly, its green hourglass emblem a quiet rebuke to his hopes. This was real. All of it.
He dragged himself out of bed, groggy and aching, and shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror revealed a face that looked too tired for twenty-two, with faint shadows under his green eyes. He had no toiletries, no spare clothes—just the jeans, T-shirt, and jacket he'd been wearing since yesterday. Splashing cold water on his face was the best he could do for now, the shock of it jolting him awake.
With $25,000 in his account, he wasn't destitute, but he couldn't live off that forever. He needed a real income, something sustainable. The idea of becoming a broke, crime-fighting superhero held no appeal—he'd read enough Spider-Man comics to know that path was a one-way ticket to stress and tragedy. He wanted stability, a chance to enjoy this insane new world without constantly worrying about paying bills.
That didn't mean he'd ignore a crime happening right in front of him. If he could help someone and maybe make a quick buck in the process, he wouldn't hesitate. But he wasn't about to become a vigilante like the Punisher or a mercenary like Deadpool, mowing down enemies without a second thought. Nor was he naive enough to cling to blind idealism. This was the Marvel Universe—heroes and villains operated in shades of gray, and he'd need to navigate that line carefully.
His stomach growled, pulling him from his thoughts. He grabbed his jacket and headed out, locking the door behind him. The diner he'd passed the night before was just a block away, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the morning light. He slid into a booth, the vinyl creaking under him, and ordered a stack of pancakes. When the plate arrived, he attacked it with a ferocity that turned heads.
The Omnitrix, still strapped to his wrist, drew curious glances from a waitress and a few other customers. Its sleek design was less bulky than the cartoon version, but the glowing green hourglass was impossible to miss. He tugged his sleeve down, trying to be discreet, and ordered a second plate of pancakes, his appetite insatiable after yesterday's ordeal.
By the time he finished, the clock on the diner's wall read 9:15 AM. He paid the bill—$7.50, a steal compared to 2024 prices—and stepped outside, intending to buy some essentials: clothes, a toothbrush, maybe a cheap phone. He needed to blend in, to look less like a displaced time traveler and more like someone who belonged in 2009.
Then—
**BOOM.**
The ground shuddered beneath his feet, a deep, resonant explosion echoing from a few blocks away. A massive plume of smoke billowed into the sky, black and ominous, curling above the rooftops. Pedestrians froze, their eyes wide as they turned toward the sound. Car alarms wailed, and a ripple of panic spread through the crowd.
Ben let out a slow, exasperated breath, a headache already forming behind his eyes. "Seriously?" he muttered, half to himself. "Is this some kind of plot convenience?"
//////
Character Bio
NAME:
Benjamin Alexander Stewart (Formerly)
Benjamin Stewart Tennyson (Current)
HOME WORLD:
Earth 5554 (Formerly)
Earth 2000089 (Current)
RESIDENTS:
New York Manhattan
AGE:
18 (As of Time of Story)
HEIGHT:
6 foot 1(1,83 cm)
OCCUPATION:
Superhero/ Vigilante
Mechanical Engineer/Civil engineering
Programmer (self-taught)
Entrepreneur
ABILITIES:
Enhanced Eidetic Memory
Freestyle Hand-To-Hand Combatant
Advance Marksmanship
Spontaneous Learning/Understanding
EQUIPMENT:
Omnimatrix/ Omnitrix (restored original prototype)
////
TRANSFORMATION
BRAINSTORM:
A Cerebrocrustacean from the planet Encephalonus IV. Brainstorm is among Ben's smartest transformations. He can also generate electric shocks from his claws and exposed brain.
BRAINSTORM/SPECIES:
Cerebrocrustacean
HOME WORLD:
Encephalonus IV
DNA SOURCE:
Unknown
BODY:
Crablike
ABILITIES:
Electrokinesis
Electromagnetic Levitation
Electric Telekinesis
Force-Field Generation
High Intellect
Mnemokinesis
Sharp Pincers
Underwater Breathing
Wall Scaling