XLR8 was a storm on legs.
Brendon shot down the side of the building in a blur, claws scratching sparks from the wall as he ran straight down. His feet hit asphalt with a crack, and before the thugs even realized the wind had shifted, he was standing in the alley.
They froze. Two guys, cheap pistols trembling in their hands. The store clerk, cornered against the dumpster, stared wide-eyed.
XLR8 tilted his head. The visor's neon glow cast the alley green.
"Yeah. Hi." His voice came out warped, digital. "You've got about two seconds to make better life choices."
One of them fired.
XLR8 didn't dodge. He didn't need to. By the time the trigger clicked, Brendon had already run up the wall, looped behind them, and gently plucked the guns out of their hands. He was back in front of them before the shell casing even hit the ground.
The men blinked. Their weapons were gone. Their knees buckled. They ran.
The store clerk stayed frozen.
XLR8 crouched down, talons clicking on the ground. His alien face looked monstrous reflected in the clerk's glasses, but Brendon forced the words out carefully.
"You're safe. Go home. Forget me."
Then the Omnitrix beeped. A red flash of warning. In the middle of the alley, XLR8 dissolved back into Brendon—sweaty, out of breath, hoodie too big on him.
The clerk's jaw dropped. Brendon cursed under his breath, yanked the hood low, and sprinted into the night.
Lessons Learned
Back at the half-abandoned apartment complex he'd claimed, Brendon leaned against the cracked sink, still shaking.
His reflection stared back: tired eyes, jaw tight, that damned green-and-black watch glaring up at him from his wrist.
"Too close," he muttered.
He jotted it all down—transformation time, power performance, cooldown period. He was already building a system.
XLR8 speed: insane. But suit noise carried too much.
Four Arms: power unmatched, but obvious footprint.
Heatblast: dangerous in a city. Could torch civilians.
Grey Matter: safest for lab work, useless in a fight.
Diamondhead: still untested.
He underlined it all twice: time limit is king.
The Omnitrix wasn't infinite. It was a battery with rules. And until he understood those rules, one bad switch could leave him human in front of the wrong person.
Building the Cover
Days bled into weeks. Brendon became two men.
By day: a kid who drifted from repair shops to scrap yards, trading fixes for cash. He put Grey Matter to work refining little devices—cheap batteries, polished software, upgraded drones—and funneled the designs into a shell company he'd quietly registered. Brendon Technologies. Nothing flashy. Not yet.
By night: the vigilante in the shadows. He stayed small-time—robbery prevention, gang breakups, things the real heroes wouldn't care about yet. The trick wasn't fighting. It was choosing which alien fit the job.
He started to get good at it.
Diamondhead for riot shields and takedowns.
Four Arms for intimidation.
XLR8 for get-in-get-out strikes.
The city began whispering. Not about him—thank God—but about "the green flash" or "the desert blur."
The Visitor
It was almost a month in when Brendon realized he wasn't as invisible as he thought.
He came home one evening, arms full of scrap metal, only to find his apartment door already unlocked.
Inside, the single lamp was on. And a man in a suit was sitting in his chair.
Brendon froze.
"Relax," the man said. His tone was calm, almost bored. "If I wanted to arrest you, you wouldn't have made it up the stairs."
Brendon set the scrap down slowly. His throat was dry. "…S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
The man smiled faintly. "Coulson. Agent."
Brendon's mind spun. He forced himself to sit, keeping his left wrist under the table.
Coulson studied him like a puzzle. "You've been busy. Quick repairs. Interesting prototypes. And… odd sightings around town. We don't know what you are yet. Alien, enhanced, something in between. But you're careful. You're not trying to make a scene."
Brendon's jaw locked. He said nothing.
Coulson leaned forward. "Let me give you some advice. Whatever you're carrying—don't draw Stark's eye. Or Fury's. Not yet. Because once you're on the board, you don't get to walk off."
He stood, straightened his tie, and walked to the door. Paused.
"One more thing. If you're going to keep playing vigilante, maybe learn to stick the landing. You're a bit loud."
And then he was gone.
Brendon sat there in silence, heart hammering. The Omnitrix pulsed faintly on his wrist, like it was laughing at him.