The warehouse smelled like rust and gasoline.
Brendon crouched on a steel beam overhead, hoodie pulled tight, eyes locked on the scene below. A half-dozen men were unloading crates from a truck. No labels, no paperwork. He didn't need Grey Matter to know it wasn't legal.
But what caught his eye was the logo stenciled on the crates: Hammer Industries.
Brendon hissed through his teeth. Justin Hammer. Tony's discount-store rival. Which means weapons.
He thumbed the Omnitrix. The faceplate popped up with its familiar glow. His options spun across the dial—each one a gamble. Heatblast? Too visible. XLR8? Not enough raw punch. Four Arms? Risk of collapse in this rust trap.
Diamondhead. That felt right.
He slammed the core down.
Green light flooded the rafters. When it cleared, a crystalline figure stood in his place, body sharp-edged and gleaming like living glass. His vision refracted through faceted eyes; every flicker of motion below was painfully clear.
Brendon smirked. Let's see how you like a surprise guest.
The First Real Fight
He dropped. The floor shuddered under Diamondhead's landing.
The smugglers froze, one dropping his crowbar with a clang.
"Hi," Brendon said, his voice vibrating through crystal. "Mind if I check what's inside those crates?"
The nearest thug swore and pulled a pistol. Brendon didn't even flinch—bullets pinged harmlessly off his body, ricocheting into the walls.
Another charged him with a bat. Brendon's arm morphed into a jagged blade and swatted it aside, splintering wood like paper.
Panic set in. Three men bolted. Two held their ground, shouting into radios for backup.
Brendon moved methodically. Crystalline shields sprouted from his arms, deflecting gunfire. Spikes shot from his fists, pinning weapons to the ground. It wasn't clean, but it was efficient.
And then—click.
The Omnitrix beeped. The red warning flash pulsed.
Time's up.
Brendon swore. His body dissolved in light, leaving plain old human him standing in the middle of the wrecked floor.
The last thug's eyes went wide. Then he smiled.
"Well, well. You ain't bulletproof now."
He raised his pistol.
Improvisation
Brendon's heart slammed. No time to run. No alien ready.
But his eyes darted to the crates. Hammer Industries weapons.
He bolted, diving behind one as the thug fired. Splinters flew. Brendon's hands scrambled over the locks, fingers finding grooves he didn't consciously know—but Grey Matter's instincts whispered shortcuts. He tore the crate open.
Inside: a half-assembled energy rifle.
He grabbed it, ducked another shot, jammed the battery into place, and prayed.
The gun hummed alive.
He leaned out from cover and pulled the trigger.
A crackling blue blast slammed into the floor at the thug's feet, launching him backwards into the wall. He hit the concrete hard and didn't move.
The rifle smoked in Brendon's hands. He set it down quickly, pulse racing.
The warehouse was silent again.
Cover Stories
Two hours later, Brendon sat cross-legged in his apartment, the disassembled Hammer rifle spread across the floor.
As Grey Matter, he could see it all—the design flaws, the potential upgrades, the shortcuts Hammer's team had taken. It wasn't elegant, but it was useful.
He scribbled notes feverishly. Power efficiency. Miniaturization. Civilian applications.
If he could strip this down into harmless tech—batteries, generators, compact tools—he could push it into his company. Something small enough to fly under Stark's radar, but advanced enough to draw investors.
That's the cover, he thought. That's the firm. I make "consumer tech," and meanwhile I'm field-testing alien upgrades behind the curtain.
The Omnitrix pulsed softly, almost approvingly.
A Line Crossed
Brendon stared at the rifle's humming core. He knew what it could do. With Upgrade or Grey Matter, he could turn it into something ten times worse. He could sell it, arm himself, maybe even stand toe-to-toe with the Avengers one day.
But that wasn't why he was here.
He pushed it aside.
The company would build. The vigilante would strike. But weapons? Weapons were what got Stark dragged into that cave.
Brendon wasn't going down that path.
Trouble Brewing
A week later, the first investors started nibbling. Small venture groups, curious about his "energy storage breakthrough." His prototypes worked too well to ignore.
But he also caught something else in the news: a report of "strange green flashes" in downtown Phoenix. Amateur phone footage. Shaky. But clear enough for anyone paying attention.
And if people were paying attention…
Brendon leaned back in his chair, staring at the muted screen.
Fury's watching. Stark's probably watching. Maybe even worse.
He flexed his wrist. The Omnitrix glowed faintly in the dark, waiting.
"Guess we're on the board now," he muttered.