The fluorescent lights in the Quick-Stop Convenience hummed like a chorus of dying wasps, casting that special shade of sickly yellow-green that made everyone look like extras from a zombie movie. Adrian Mitchell had always hated that particular aesthetic choice, though he'd never mentioned it to his parents because, honestly, who complains about convenience store lighting?
He was currently standing in the candy aisle, holding a pack of Twizzlers and debating whether cherry or strawberry was the superior artificial fruit flavor, when his dad dropped the worst pun Adrian had heard in his entire twenty-three years of existence.
"So the movie we just saw—*Cosmic Reckoning 3*—I'd give it a solid B-plus," his father said, grinning like he'd just won a dad-joke championship. "Because it was out of this world, but it still had some *space* for improvement."
Adrian groaned so hard he nearly pulled something. "Dad. No. That's... that's weaponized terrible."
"I thought it was clever," his mother said, examining a carton of milk with the intensity of a forensic investigator checking for the freshest possible expiration date.
"Mom, you're enabling him. This is how supervillains are created."
"From bad puns?" She raised an eyebrow.
"History's greatest monsters probably started somewhere. Bad puns seem like a reasonable origin story."
His father looked genuinely delighted by this. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
"I'm jealous of literally everyone who didn't have to hear it, Dad. That's like, seven billion people who are currently winning at life."
"Seven billion minus three," his mother corrected. "We all suffered together."
Adrian loved this. The stupid banter. The casual warmth. Sunday night movies followed by late-night snack runs had become their tradition after he'd moved back home to help with his mom's physical therapy. She'd broken her hip six months ago, and Adrian had taken a semester off from his graduate program to be around.
Best decision he'd ever made, honestly. These moments—arguing about terrible movies and even worse puns—were worth more than any degree.
His mom finally selected her milk with the care of someone defusing a bomb. "Alright, I think we're ready. Adrian, put those Twizzlers back. You know they give you heartburn."
"They give *you* heartburn. I have the digestive system of a champion."
"That's not the flex you think it is, honey."
Adrian was placing the Twizzlers back on the shelf—strawberry, because he was a man of taste and sophistication—when the bell above the entrance chimed.
Three guys walked in.
And Adrian's entire nervous system immediately started screaming in a frequency only dogs and horror movie protagonists could hear.
It wasn't anything obvious. Not at first. Just... wrongness. The way they moved—too purposeful. The way they fanned out—too practiced. The way the lead guy's jacket hung—too heavy on one side.
Adrian's dad noticed it too. His father had done two tours in the Army back in the day, and that instinct never really left. Adrian saw his dad's posture shift, saw his hand move almost imperceptibly toward his mom.
The lead guy was tall, maybe six-two, with the kind of face that had seen some miles. Sunken eyes. Three-day stubble. Hands that wouldn't stop moving. Behind him, his buddies looked even worse—one was sweating despite the AC, the other had pupils so dilated he looked like a cartoon character.
*Oh, shit.*
"Evening, folks," the lead guy said, and his voice had that weird, tight quality of someone barely holding it together. His hand went into his jacket.
The gun came out smoothly. Professional. Practiced.
*Oh, SHIT.*
"Everybody just stay cool, and nobody gets hurt." The barrel swept across the store—over Mrs. Kowalski at the register, over Adrian's parents, over Adrian himself. "This is just business. Quick and simple."
Mrs. Kowalski, who was approximately one thousand years old and had probably seen the invention of fire, stared at the gun with the expression of someone deeply disappointed by the universe's life choices.
"Register's already open, hon," she said in her thick Polish accent, voice steady as bedrock. "I was counting the till. You want it or not?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's good. That's—Marcus, go get it." The leader gestured to Sweaty Guy, who practically vibrated over to the counter.
Adrian's mom had gone very still beside him. His dad had positioned himself slightly in front of both of them, which was very dad of him but also tactically pointless given that bullets didn't care about chivalry.
The third gunman—the one with the dinner-plate pupils—kept giggling. Actually *giggling*, like this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. He waved his gun around like a toy, and Adrian's stomach turned to ice.
Amateur hour. Tweakers doing a stick-up. The most dangerous possible combination because you couldn't predict them. No logic. No plan. Just chaos in a meat suit.
"Wallets!" Giggling Guy suddenly shouted, his gun swinging toward Adrian's group. "Phones! Jewelry! All of it! NOW!"
Adrian's dad slowly reached for his back pocket.
"FASTER!" Giggling Guy lurched forward, and Adrian saw it happening like watching a car crash in slow motion.
The guy's trigger finger was inside the guard. His hand was shaking. His eyes were so dilated they were basically all pupil.
And he was pointing the gun directly at Adrian's father.
Time did that weird thing where it stretches out like taffy. Adrian's brain went into overdrive, running calculations it had no business running.
*If he shoots Dad from that angle, center mass, at this distance—*
*Dad's wearing just a polo shirt, no protection—*
*Mom's right there, she'll be in the line of fire if Dad falls—*
*The guy's on something, he won't stop at one shot—*
Adrian's body moved before his brain caught up. Pure instinct. Zero actual training unless you counted that one self-defense seminar his college had offered where he'd mostly learned how to fall without breaking his face.
He shoved his father sideways with both hands, putting everything he had into it. His dad stumbled, surprised, arms windmilling. Adrian grabbed his mother's shoulder and pulled her down behind a rack of beef jerky and motor oil—because convenience stores were basically Mad Max supply depots.
"GET DOWN—"
The first shot was so loud it didn't even register as sound. Just pressure. A wall of force that made Adrian's ears ring instantly.
Something punched him in the chest.
Not like in movies, where people fly backward dramatically. Just a punch. A really, really hard punch that immediately felt *wrong*.
Adrian looked down, confused.
His favorite hoodie—the dark blue one with the faded Guardians of the Galaxy logo that his mom kept threatening to throw out—was sprouting a red flower. A bloom spreading outward from the center of his chest.
*Oh,* Adrian thought distantly. *That's not good.*
His legs stopped working. Not dramatically—they just sort of... forgot how to leg. He sat down hard, which hurt, but not as much as his chest, which was currently experiencing what felt like someone had set off fireworks inside his ribcage.
"ADRIAN!" His mother's scream cut through the ringing in his ears.
The second shot hit him somewhere in the stomach. He didn't see it happen. Just felt it. Like getting punched by a freight train made of wasps and regret.
*Well, this is bullshit,* Adrian thought.
The gunmen were running. He heard their footsteps, the bell chiming again as they fled. Panic. Chaos. They'd probably gotten maybe two hundred bucks from the register and now they'd killed someone.
*Killed.*
*Me.*
*I'm dying.*
His father's face appeared above him, and Adrian had never seen that expression before. His dad was always so steady. So calm. But now he looked like someone had torn his world apart with their bare hands.
"Son. Son, stay with me. Angela, call 911!" His dad's hands pressed against Adrian's chest, trying to stop the bleeding, and Adrian wanted to tell him it was pointless, but his mouth wasn't working right.
His mom was on her phone, voice shaking but clear as she gave the address. Always so competent, his mom. Even when everything was falling apart.
"Adrian, baby, help is coming. Just hold on. Please hold on." Tears were running down her face, dripping onto his cheeks.
Adrian tried to speak. Managed a wet cough that tasted like copper and bad decisions.
"'m okay," he wheezed, which was the stupidest lie he'd ever told, and he'd once convinced his high school girlfriend that he was related to Chris Hemsworth. "You guys... okay?"
"We're fine. We're fine because of you." His father's voice cracked. "You stupid, brave, wonderful—Adrian, stay awake. Stay with us."
But Adrian could feel it. The cold spreading from his core like someone had opened a freezer in his chest. His vision was doing this weird thing where it was getting darker at the edges, like a camera lens closing.
*This is it. This is actually it.*
He'd always wondered what dying would be like. Figured he'd have more time to think about it. You know, when he was old. Like eighty or ninety. After he'd done all the things—finished grad school, traveled, maybe figured out how to talk to women without sounding like a malfunctioning robot.
Not at twenty-three in a Quick-Stop while wearing a hoodie with a Guardians logo.
*Mom. Dad. God, they're okay. They're alive.*
That thought cut through the cold. They were safe. Unharmed. Because he'd moved. Because he'd pushed them.
*Worth it,* Adrian decided. *Totally worth it.*
His mother's face was the last thing he saw. Her eyes—she had kind eyes, his mom. Always had.
"Love you guys," Adrian managed to whisper.
Then the darkness came up fast, like someone yanking a blanket over his head.
And Adrian Mitchell died at 10:47 PM on a Sunday night, surrounded by beef jerky and motor oil, having saved his parents' lives with the worst possible execution of a heroic sacrifice.
The universe gave him exactly four seconds of pure nothing.
Then it got *really* weird.
---
Adrian opened his eyes to find himself standing in a space that his brain immediately filed under "Nope, Not Dealing With This."
It wasn't white. It wasn't black. It wasn't anything. It was the visual equivalent of that sound you hear when there's no sound—just presence. Existence without context.
"Well," Adrian said to the void, "this is either Heaven, Hell, or I've been drugged and this is all a very elaborate dying brain hallucination."
"None of the above," a voice said.
It came from everywhere and nowhere. Not male or female. Not young or old. Just... a voice. Like if Morgan Freeman and Cate Blanchett had a baby with a cosmic entity.
"Cool, cool, cool." Adrian looked down at himself. No blood. No holes. Solid. "So I'm definitely dead, though, right? Because I distinctly remember being shot twice. There was blood. Screaming. Very traumatic. Two out of ten, would not recommend."
"You are quite dead, yes." The voice sounded almost amused. A form began to coalesce—not really a form, more like a suggestion of a form. A shimmer of light that his brain could latch onto without short-circuiting. "But not *finished*."
"That's very cryptic. Are you God? Because I'm gonna be honest, I have *questions* about some of your narrative choices. Cancer in children? Really? That's just bad writing."
"I am not God. Think of me as..." The presence paused, as if searching for the right words. "An administrator. A Random Omnipotent Being. A ROB, if you prefer."
"A ROB." Adrian blinked. "Like from Reddit. From fanfiction. The thing that shows up and yeets people into other universes."
"I dislike the term 'yeets,' but essentially, yes."
Adrian's brain, which had been running on emergency backup power since the whole dying thing, suddenly kicked into high gear.
"Holy shit. Holy shit, this is real. You're—this is a ROB encounter. This is happening. I'm having an isekai moment."
"If it helps you process, sure."
"Okay. Okay." Adrian started pacing, which was weird because there wasn't really a floor, but his feet found purchase anyway. "So what's the deal? I died saving my parents—which, sidebar, are they okay?"
"Alive and unharmed. The gunmen were apprehended. Your parents will grieve, but they will live full, complete lives thanks to your sacrifice."
Relief hit Adrian like a physical force. "Good. That's—okay. Good."
"Which brings us to why you're here." The ROB's presence seemed to solidify slightly, becoming more defined. "Your death was selfless. Heroic. You earned something rare—a choice."
"Let me guess: transmigration, reincarnation, the full isekai package deal."
"Precisely."
Adrian stopped pacing. "And what's the catch? There's always a catch."
"No catch. This is a reward, not a contract. You died protecting others. That matters. I'm offering you a second chance in another reality—a fictional universe of your choosing. With certain... perks."
"Perks. You mean powers. Abilities. The good stuff."
"Within reason."
Adrian's mind was already racing. Every fanfic he'd ever read, every anime he'd watched, every comic book universe he'd obsessed over. The possibilities were endless.
"Can I ask questions before I decide?"
"Of course."
"First: any world? Like, literally any fictional universe?"
"Most. There are restrictions on certain realities—ones that are too unstable, too dangerous even for my intervention, or that have other... administrators."
"Second question: how does this work? Am I reborn as a baby? Do I get inserted into the timeline? Do I replace someone?"
"That depends on your preference. I can accommodate various insertion methods."
"And abilities? Powers? Can I have Batman's intelligence and training in the Marvel Universe?"
"Now we're getting somewhere interesting," the ROB said, and Adrian could *hear* the smile in its voice.
Adrian grinned. Even dead, even in the void, he couldn't help himself.
"Alright, Random Omnipotent Being. Let's make a deal."
---
"Alright," Adrian said, cracking his knuckles even though he technically didn't have knuckles anymore. "Let's talk specifics. I've read enough of these scenarios on Reddit to know that the vague wishes are how you end up as a sentient potato in the Warhammer 40K universe."
"Oddly specific," the ROB observed.
"I contain multitudes. Okay, universe first: Marvel Cinematic Universe. The movie timeline, not the comics, because the comics are a continuity nightmare that would give me an aneurysm."
"Acceptable. Which point in the timeline?"
Adrian thought about it. "December 1991. A few days before Howard and Maria Stark die. December 16th is when the Winter Soldier kills them, so let's say December 13th. Gives me some prep time."
"Interesting choice. You want to save them?"
"Well..." Adrian hesitated. "Here's the thing. Howard Stark was kind of a dick."
"Excuse me?"
"No, seriously. I've thought about this. Howard was brilliant, sure, but he was also a neglectful father, an arrogant asshole, and honestly? Kind of a war profiteer. He made weapons that killed thousands of people and justified it with patriotism. Tony turned out the way he did *because* Howard was terrible at the whole parenting thing."
The ROB was silent for a moment. "So you don't want to save him."
"I didn't say that. I said he was a dick. But Maria Stark? Maria was a saint. She was kind, loving, and by all accounts the only reason Tony had any emotional stability whatsoever. She died because she was collateral damage in Hydra's hit on Howard. That's bullshit. She deserves to live."
"So you want to save Maria but let Howard die?"
"No, I'll probably save Howard too, but only because letting him die when I could prevent it makes me kind of a psychopath. But my *priority* is Maria. Howard's survival is a convenient side effect."
"You've put thought into this."
"I've had a lot of time in quarantine and a Disney+ subscription. You learn things." Adrian started ticking off points on his fingers. "Here's my logic: December 16th, 1991, Howard and Maria are driving back from the Pentagon. Winter Soldier runs them off the road, kills them both, steals the super soldier serum that Howard had just perfected. That serum is what I actually want."
"Ah. Now we get to it."
"Hey, I'm being honest. Howard just made a breakthrough on a new super soldier formula. It's probably the most complete version since Erskine's original. If I'm going into the MCU with just Batman-level abilities, I'm going to need every edge I can get. Super soldier serum plus Batman's training and intelligence? That's a functional build."
"And you plan to simply... take it?"
"I plan to *save* it from Hydra, acquire it through completely legitimate means as Howard's son, and then use it responsibly. Totally different."
"His son?"
Adrian grinned. "Yeah, that's the insertion method I want. Make me Howard and Maria's second son. Tony's younger brother. Adrian Stark."
"You want to be inserted into the family directly?"
"Makes the most sense. Gives me legitimate access to Stark resources, puts me in position to protect Maria, and sets up a natural dynamic with Tony. Plus, if I just appear out of nowhere, people ask questions. But if I've always existed? Reality adjusts. Everyone remembers me. Clean insertion, minimal paradox."
"And your age?"
"Eighteen. Old enough to be taken seriously, young enough that it's not weird I'm still living at home. Tony would be... let's see, he was born in 1970, so he'd be twenty-one in 1991. Three-year age gap works. He's the genius older brother, I'm the... well, I'll figure out what I am."
"And your abilities? You mentioned Batman."
"Right. The fun part." Adrian's grin widened. "I want Bruce Wayne's complete package. Intelligence, training, skills—everything that makes Batman, well, Batman. Specifically:"
He started counting again.
"One: Genius-level intellect. Bruce Wayne is supposed to have an IQ around 192, polymath-level knowledge in multiple fields—engineering, chemistry, forensics, criminology, psychology. I want that brain."
"Granted."
"Two: Peak human physical condition. Batman in the comics is described as the absolute pinnacle of human capability without being superhuman. Strength, speed, agility, endurance, reflexes—all at the theoretical maximum of what's humanly possible through training."
"Also granted."
"Three: Master martial artist. Bruce Wayne trained with basically every fighting discipline on Earth. I want that muscle memory, that instinctive combat ability. All of it."
"Acceptable."
"Four: Detective skills. Batman is called the World's Greatest Detective for a reason. I want those analytical abilities, that capacity for deductive reasoning, the whole Sherlock Holmes package."
"You're being quite specific."
"I'm making sure there's no monkey's paw bullshit. I've seen enough genie movies."
The ROB actually laughed at that—a sound like distant thunder mixed with wind chimes.
"Continue."
"Five: Pain tolerance and mental fortitude. Batman can keep fighting through injuries that would drop normal people. He's got insane willpower. I need that, especially if I'm going up against enhanced individuals."
"Noted."
"Six: Intimidation factor." Adrian paused. "Okay, this one's weird, but Batman has this thing where he can scare the shit out of people just by existing. It's not a superpower, it's just presence. I want that."
"The ability to project fear through sheer presence. Unusual request, but achievable."
"And finally—and this is important—I want to look like Alan Ritchson."
There was a beat of silence.
"The actor?" the ROB asked.
"Yes. Six-foot-two, built like a Greek god, blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw. The guy people fancast as Batman because he's got the perfect look for it. Plus, Maria Stark was blonde in the MCU, so it makes genetic sense. Howard's got dark hair, Maria's blonde, Tony got the dark hair, I get the blonde. Works out perfectly."
"You've really thought about the aesthetics."
"Listen, if I'm getting a second life, I'm not showing up looking like I did before. I was okay-looking, but this is a chance to optimize. Alan Ritchson as Batman is *chef's kiss*. Plus, the physicality matches what I'm asking for. The dude is huge and moves like a fighter."
"Very well. Appearance modification to match Alan Ritchson's build and features. Anything else?"
Adrian thought hard. "Actually, yeah. One more thing. I don't want to be inserted as a baby or a kid. I want to show up as an eighteen-year-old who's *always existed*. Reality adjusts retroactively—everyone has memories of me growing up, there are photos, school records, everything. But *I* only get inserted with full consciousness on December 13th, 1991."
"Why?"
"Because living through eighteen years of childhood again sounds like hell, and I don't want to risk changing things too much before the important moment. I get inserted, I have three days to prep, and then I save Maria and steal that serum."
"You keep saying you'll 'probably' save Howard."
"Look, I'm not going to *let* him die if I can prevent it. But my priority is Maria. She's innocent. She's kind. She doesn't deserve to die because her husband pissed off the wrong secret Nazi organization. Howard? Howard's choices led to this. He created weapons, he made enemies, he was involved in shady government programs. Maria was just... there. Collateral damage."
"You have strong feelings about this."
"I have strong feelings about innocent people dying for no reason. My mom almost died tonight because some tweakers decided to rob a convenience store. Maria Stark died because she was married to a man who couldn't let go of the super soldier program. Neither of them deserved it."
The silence stretched out.
"Alright," the ROB finally said. "Let me confirm the terms. You want to be inserted into the MCU timeline on December 13th, 1991, as Adrian Stark, age eighteen, second son of Howard and Maria Stark, younger brother to Tony Stark, age twenty-one. You will possess Bruce Wayne's genius-level intellect, peak human physical conditioning, master martial arts skills, detective abilities, psychological training, pain tolerance, and intimidation presence. You will have the appearance of Alan Ritchson. Reality will be adjusted so that you have always existed, complete with memories, records, and social connections. However, *you* will only gain consciousness of your situation on December 13th, creating a clean insertion point."
"Exactly."
"And your goal is to prevent Maria Stark's death, possibly Howard's, and acquire Howard's completed super soldier serum formula before Hydra can steal it."
"That's the opening move, yeah. Long-term, I've got bigger plans, but we'll start there."
"Bigger plans?"
Adrian's grin turned sharp. "I'm going into the Marvel Universe with Batman's brain and training, plus potential super soldier enhancement, three days before a major timeline event. I'm not just going to save one person and call it a day. I'm going to fix things."
"Such as?"
"Hydra's infiltration of SHIELD, for starters. The fact that Bucky Barnes has been brainwashed into a weapon. The fact that Tony is going to spend the next twenty-something years thinking his parents died in a car accident when they were actually murdered. The fact that Thanos is out there collecting stones and nobody's preparing for it. Small stuff."
"You're ambitious."
"I died at twenty-three in a convenience store. Ambition is all I've got left." Adrian spread his hands. "So, do we have a deal?"
The ROB's presence seemed to solidify even more, taking on an almost humanoid shape made of light and possibility.
"We have a deal, Adrian Mitchell. Or should I say... Adrian Stark."
"One last thing," Adrian said quickly.
"Yes?"
"The super soldier serum. When I eventually take it—because let's be real, I'm absolutely taking it—I want it to work properly. No Red Skull face-melting side effects, no Abomination-style mutations. Clean enhancement. Can you make sure of that?"
"The serum amplifies what's already there. Good becomes great, bad becomes worse. That's the fundamental nature of Erskine's formula. But given that you'll have Bruce Wayne's discipline and moral foundation..." The ROB seemed to consider. "Yes. I can ensure the process is stable. No negative physical mutations."
"Perfect." Adrian took a deep breath—did he even need to breathe?—and nodded. "Alright. I'm ready."
"Any final words for your old life?"
Adrian thought of his parents. They'd be okay. They'd grieve, but they'd live. He'd saved them. That was enough.
"Yeah. Tell my mom the Guardians hoodie was worth keeping."
The ROB laughed again, and the void began to collapse inward, light and darkness swirling together.
"Good luck, Adrian Stark. Try not to break the timeline too badly."
"No promises!"
The universe folded in on itself, reality restructuring, and Adrian Mitchell ceased to exist.
Adrian Stark, however, was just getting started.
---
**December 13th, 1991**
**Stark Mansion, Long Island, New York**
**7:47 AM**
Adrian Stark opened his eyes to find himself staring at a ceiling that cost more than most people's houses.
His first thought was: *Holy shit, crown molding.*
His second thought was: *I'm alive. Different body. Different life. It worked.*
His third thought was: *I have three days to save Maria Stark and steal a super soldier serum from my father. No pressure.*
He sat up in a bed that was legitimately the most comfortable thing he'd ever experienced, in a bedroom that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest, wearing pajamas that were probably designer.
On the nightstand, a framed photo: Adrian—this version of Adrian, looking like Alan Ritchson in his younger days—standing between Tony and Maria, all three of them laughing. His eighteenth birthday, according to the memories flooding his brain. Maria had made his favorite cake despite the mansion's professional chef protesting.
Adrian touched the photo, felt the weight of eighteen years of memories that weren't his but also completely were. Growing up in this house. Maria reading to him. Howard being distant. Tony being brilliant and infuriating in equal measure.
"Okay," Adrian said to the empty room. "Let's do this."
He got up, walked to the mirror, and had to suppress a laugh.
Looking back at him was basically Batman's ideal body piloting a younger, slightly friendlier face. Six-foot-two, shoulders like a linebacker, blond hair, blue eyes, jawline that could cut glass.
"Alan Ritchson," Adrian said to his reflection. "You beautiful bastard. This is going to be fun."
He flexed experimentally. The muscle memory was there—every fighting technique, every combat scenario, every training routine Bruce Wayne had ever mastered. It was like having a library downloaded directly into his nervous system.
His mind was different too. Sharper. Faster. He looked at the room and automatically catalogued seventeen points of entry, calculated three escape routes, and assessed four potential weapons.
*Batman's brain,* Adrian thought with satisfaction. *This is going to be very useful.*
A knock on the door.
"Adrian? You awake, honey?" Maria's voice.
Adrian's enhanced emotional control wavered for just a second. That voice. Warm. Kind. Alive.
*You have three days. Don't waste them.*
"Yeah, Mom. I'm up."
"Breakfast in twenty minutes. Your father wants to talk to you about something."
*The serum,* Adrian realized. *He's going to tell me about the breakthrough.*
"I'll be down soon."
"Wear something nice. We might have company later."
Footsteps retreating down the hall.
Adrian looked at himself in the mirror again. Bruce Wayne's mind. Peak human body. Alan Ritchson's face. Three days until the Winter Soldier showed up.
He grinned.
"Alright, MCU. Let's see what you've got."
---
Adrian stood in front of the mirror for a solid thirty seconds, just... processing.
The face staring back at him was objectively perfect. Like, sculpted-by-Renaissance-artists-with-access-to-modern-protein-supplements perfect. Strong jaw, clear blue eyes, blond hair that somehow looked good despite obvious bed-head. This was the face of someone who'd never been turned down for anything in his life.
"Okay, this is deeply unfair to everyone else," Adrian muttered, running a hand through his hair. It fell back into place like it had been trained. "But I'm not complaining."
He flexed his hand, watching the tendons move. The muscle memory was *there*—not like remembering how to ride a bike, but like he'd done it yesterday. Every martial arts form, every combat technique, every training drill. His body knew things his old body had never dreamed of.
He threw a casual jab at the air.
Perfect form. Textbook. His hips rotated, his shoulder extended, his fist snapped back to guard position—all without thinking about it.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "Batman's muscle memory is *ridiculous*."
The door knocked again, more insistent this time.
"Adrian, seriously, your father is already in a mood. Don't make it worse by being late." Maria's voice carried that specific mom-warning that transcended universes.
"Coming!" Adrian called back, then paused. His voice was different too—deeper, more resonant. The kind of voice that probably made waitresses drop things.
He quickly pulled on clothes from the closet—designer everything, because of course—settling on dark jeans and a blue button-down that fit like it had been tailored. Because it probably had been.
The memories were still settling in, like a file download running in the background. Eighteen years of Adrian Stark's life, overlaying his own twenty-three years as Adrian Mitchell. It was disorienting but manageable, probably thanks to Batman's mental discipline keeping him from completely freaking out.
He remembered this house. Every room, every hallway, every hiding spot. He remembered Tony teaching him chess when he was eight and getting frustrated when Adrian actually won. He remembered Maria singing while she cooked, even though they had a chef. He remembered Howard, distant and distracted, occasionally looking at his sons like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them.
And he remembered yesterday—December 12th, from Adrian Stark's perspective—when Howard had come home from the Pentagon looking exhausted but triumphant, carrying a locked briefcase he wouldn't let anyone touch.
*The serum. It's already here.*
Adrian took a breath, centering himself. Bruce Wayne's training included meditation techniques that could calm a racing heart in seconds. He used them now.
Three days. That's all he had. Three days before Winter Soldier showed up to kill his parents and steal that briefcase.
Three days to figure out how to stop an enhanced, brainwashed assassin.
Three days to save Maria Stark.
"No pressure," Adrian said to his reflection. "Just Batman versus the Winter Soldier with zero prep time and no gadgets. Totally doable."
His reflection didn't look convinced, but it did look capable. That would have to be enough.
He headed for the door, then stopped. On his desk, partially hidden under some textbooks, was a newspaper from two days ago. December 11th, 1991.
The headline: "Soviet Union Officially Dissolved."
Right. The Cold War had just ended. The USSR was gone. Hydra would be scrambling, SHIELD would be distracted, and somewhere out there, Bucky Barnes was being thawed out for one more mission.
"Alright," Adrian said quietly. "Let's go meet the family."
He opened the door and stepped into his new life, Batman's instincts already cataloguing exits, threats, and opportunities.
Downstairs, he could hear Tony's voice arguing with someone about engine specifications.
Adrian smiled despite himself. This was going to be interesting.
---
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