After returning to his room, Mark stepped into the shower. The warmth of the water spilled over his body, loosening the tightness in his shoulders and washing away the sweat that clung to him like armor. For a few fleeting minutes, the world outside his mind faded. No multiversal threats, no clashing ideologies, no daily struggle to balance science, magic, and mutant politics. Just silence, steam, and the steady drum of water on tile.
He lingered a little longer than usual, savoring the brief peace. When he finally stepped out, steam curled around him like mist. He dried himself off, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and crossed the room to his desk. A tap of the finger opened his laptop. The familiar glow of the screen lit his face as he pulled up the day's newsfeed and began to scroll.
This ritual had become as natural to him as breathing. It wasn't simply habit, it was reconnaissance. A quiet, consistent strategy for identifying ripples in the timeline.
To the average person, most headlines were disposable fluff. But Mark had long since learned that scattered among the noise were glimpses of deeper truths. Journalists, especially the reckless kind, had a habit of stumbling upon events that institutions buried. A sudden blackout. A plane that vanished mid-flight. A corporate deal that collapsed without explanation. Small stories, but all pointing to larger, hidden gears in motion.
And then, as always, came the spectacle of Tony Stark.
The top headline read, "Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark leaves his own product launch party early seen departing with three Hollywood actresses."
Mark shook his head and exhaled a breath of amused disbelief.
"Stark never changes," he muttered, clicking to the next article. "Too bad I was born a few years too early. Could've shorted the stock before his kidnapping and made a fortune on the recovery."
He remembered that turning point vividly. In the years after Stark's abduction, the value of Stark Industries plummeted. Investors panicked. Board members scrambled. When Stark returned and abruptly announced the shutdown of the weapons division, it triggered another collapse. But the debut of Iron Man had rewritten everything. Overnight, a failing company became a technological monolith. Those who had gambled at the bottom saw exponential returns.
But that was still years away. This was 2003. Mark couldn't afford to wait that long.
Still, getting close to Stark might offer more immediate benefits. Especially if he could frame it as collaboration. The gravity chamber project he was developing required a fusion of engineering brilliance and materials science. Stark fit both categories, if Mark could stomach his ego.
Further down the page, a less glamorous headline caught his eye.
"Orbitek Technologies Risks Collapse: Competition From Aerospace Startups and Lost Defense Contracts Jeopardize Future of Mid-Sized Giant."
Mark leaned in slightly, tapping the side of the screen.
Orbitek. That name stirred something in his memory.
Wasn't that the stand-in for Oscorp in one of the Spider-Man movie timelines? The company tied to Norman Osborn, known for its unstable mix of cutting-edge military research and ethically bankrupt ambition?
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.
Yes. Oscorp. It appeared in multiple realities, always with some version of Norman Osborn at the helm. In some universes, it specialized in genetic editing. In others, it dealt in experimental weaponry or nanotechnology. Regardless of the details, the company had always been a hotbed of danger and innovation.
And yet, there hadn't been a single mention of a Spider-Man in this timeline.
No red-and-blue figure swinging through skyscrapers. No reports of a masked vigilante stopping muggings or quipping during high-speed chases. The city skyline remained untouched by spider-webbing.
But this was earth 838. It wasn't his home reality, and events would never align perfectly. Every universe had its own tempo. Some might have a Peter Parker just beginning high school. Others might not have one at all or may have a different person as the spider. The multiverse offered endless iterations, and Mark had stopped expecting consistency a long time ago.
If Spider-Man did exist here, he was either too young, too cautious, or too overwhelmed to appear in the news yet.
Oscorp was a name to watch. Not as flashy as Stark Industries, but still powerful in the right hands.
He kept scrolling.
"Reed Richards Pioneer of Engineering, Physics, and Mathematics on the Verge of Bankruptcy. Will the So-Called 'Smartest Man Alive' Survive the Crash?"
Mark blinked. His posture straightened.
That name was unmistakable.
Reed Richards. Mister Fantastic. A founding member of the Fantastic Four and one of the most brilliant minds in any known universe. A polymath whose intellect rivaled, and occasionally exceeded, even Stark's. But based on the article, the cosmic radiation event that would grant Reed and his team their powers had not yet occurred.
That meant the team didn't exist yet. No Human Torch. No Invisible Woman. No Thing. The Fantastic Four were still just four highly qualified civilians preparing or failing to fund a mission.
Mark made a mental note. Richards was another potential ally or resource
He closed the laptop with a quiet snap and turned toward the small table beside his bed. Resting on the surface was a ring made of deep ebony wood, polished to a smooth shine. He picked it up and slid it onto his index finger.
Pointing at his damp hair, he spoke softly.
"Hot air."
A soft spiral of wind formed above his head, drying his hair instantly without even ruffling the papers nearby. Simple, efficient, and elegant. One of many minor spells he had committed to instinct.
The ring was more than an accessory. It functioned like a wand, but unlike traditional magical implements, it was subtle. Always on his hand. Always ready.
Back when Beast had returned from a research expedition, Mark had loaded his Harry Template and asked him to examine his wand's architecture. After weeks of work, Beast had developed a method to imbue ordinary objects with magical focus properties. The ring was the result a perfect fusion of magical theory and scientific engineering.
Mark had also commissioned his combat staff made of adamantium, enchanted to channel high-level spells. But the staff was cumbersome. Too conspicuous for daily use. The ring, on the other hand, was perfect for environments where stealth and convenience mattered.
He had intentionally avoided metal for its construction. Magneto, despite their current truce, was not someone he trusted blindly. And Mark had no interest in having his only focus weapon ripped from his hand by a flick of the wrist.
For now, Magneto visited the school often. Sometimes he even joined staff meetings or checked in on the growing mutants. But Mark knew the man's convictions hadn't softened. The fire-powered student who had defected to join him last month was proof enough. If the war between humans and mutants ever reignited, Mark had no illusions about which side Magneto would choose or what he'd do to anyone in his way.
With the ring and staff, he no longer needed to rely exclusively on the template. As long as he trained consistently, he could refine his abilities, and one day, perhaps, he could cast without words or gestures at all.
He glanced at the clock on the wall.
Time for dinner.
Grabbing a jacket, he stepped into the hallway and headed for the cafeteria. The halls were quiet. Classes were still in session, meaning he had the entire wing to himself.
The cook, would already have his meal prepared. They had worked out a system. Mark avoided mealtime rushes entirely. Breakfast before dawn. Lunch and dinner during class periods. It was easier for everyone that way.
By the time the dining hall filled with hungry students, Mark would already be gone.
The students had even come up with a nickname for him "The Mysterious Mark." They caught only glimpses of him, a figure training outside in the early morning, a shadow crossing the courtyard at dusk. He existed in their lives like a rumor. Present, but distant.
It wasn't that he disliked the students. He just didn't belong among them.
Most of the students were teenagers still finding themselves. He had long since passed that stage. They talked about crushes, games, homework. He thought about energy thresholds, spellcasting, battle strategies. There was a gulf between them, and he had no desire to bridge it.
Among the staff, however, he had found something closer to camaraderie. He got along with Logan, Jean, even Scott on good days. Logan had even lent him his customized motorcycle once or twice, and Mark had taken it beyond the speed limit just for the thrill of it.
But indulgence was rare.
With the combined Saiyan resilience and magical inheritance burning in his blood, Mark had no room for idleness.
So he trained.
Every day. Every hour. Every minute he could spare.
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