Michael adjusted himself in the leather seat as the jet cut smoothly through the clouds. The cabin was quiet, broken only by the low hum of the engines. Outside the window, the sky stretched wide and grey, the English Channel hidden beneath thick layers of cloud.
He lifted the glass in his hand and took a slow sip of champagne. It tasted expensive, as it always did. This flight was meant to be routine. UK to mainland Europe, a short crossing before another meeting, another deal. His life had become a series of flights and boardrooms, all blending together.
Then the jet shook.
At first, it was light, almost dismissible. Turbulence was common. Michael barely reacted, tightening his grip on the armrest. The champagne sloshed in the glass, spilling a few drops onto his suit.
The second jolt was worse.
The jet lurched sharply downward, throwing Michael forward in his seat. The seatbelt bit into his waist as warning lights flickered overhead. The hum of the engines changed pitch, becoming strained and uneven.
Michael's heart rate spiked.
A third impact followed, violent enough to knock the glass from his hand. It shattered against the cabin wall, champagne spraying across the floor. Alarms began to sound, sharp and constant.
"What the hell?" he yelled.
The jet tilted again, this time not recovering. The floor angled steeply, pulling everything toward the front of the aircraft. Michael unbuckled his seatbelt on instinct, immediately regretting it as gravity took hold.
He hit the aisle hard, pain flashing through his shoulder. The plane screamed around him, metal groaning as it fell. Loose objects slammed into the walls. Overhead compartments burst open, raining bags and debris.
Michael tried to stand but failed. The angle was too steep. He dug his fingers into the carpet and began to crawl, pulling himself forward inch by inch as the jet continued its descent.
Each movement felt heavier than the last. Gravity dragged at him, as if the aircraft itself wanted him at the front.
The cockpit.
He had to reach the cockpit.
The alarms grew louder the closer he got. The door stood open, swinging slightly as the jet shook. Michael forced himself up the final stretch and dragged himself inside.
The sight stopped him cold.
Both pilots were slumped forward in their seats. One was pressed against the controls, unmoving. The other hung sideways, his neck bent at an angle that told Michael everything he needed to know.
They were dead.
Michael swallowed hard. There was no time to think about how or why.
The ocean surged into view through the cockpit window, grey and endless. The jet was falling fast, too fast.
"Crap!" Michael Shouted.
He shoved past the bodies, ignoring the weight and resistance as he forced them aside. His hands fumbled over the controls. He wasn't a pilot. He had no idea what he was doing.
The warning alarms screamed louder.
Water rushed up to meet him.
The impact came without mercy.
The cockpit flooded instantly as the jet tore into the ocean. Cold water slammed into Michael, ripping the air from his lungs. The force pinned him back as the cabin filled, pressure crushing in from all sides.
He struggled, arms flailing, but the water was everywhere. The darkness closed in as the jet sank deeper.
His chest burned. His vision blurred.
And then, everything went black.
Michael expected pain.
Instead, there was nothing.
No weight. No sound. No sense of direction.
He opened his eyes—or at least, he thought he did. There was no light, no darkness. Just emptiness. He tried to breathe and realised he didn't need to. His body felt distant, as if it were a memory rather than something real.
Time lost meaning.
Moments passed, or maybe years. Michael had no way to tell. Thoughts drifted slowly, without urgency. He remembered the fall. The water. The silence after.
"So this is death," he thought.
Then something changed.
A presence appeared before him, not arriving so much as existing. One moment, the void was empty, and the next, it wasn't. The being had no clear shape, only an outline that shifted when Michael tried to focus on it.
It felt vast.
"You are not meant to be here," the being said.
The voice did not come from a mouth. It echoed inside Michael's thoughts, calm and curious.
Michael didn't panic. Strangely, fear felt distant.
"Then where am I meant to be?" he asked.
"Recycled," the being replied. "Your soul was designed to return, broken down, and reused. That is the cycle."
Michael frowned. "But?"
"But your soul fractured its design lines during death. In doing so, it disrupted others."
That got his attention. "Disrupted how?"
The being paused, as if considering how much to explain. "You resisted dissolution. That is… rare."
Michael let out a short laugh. "Figures."
The being studied him. "Your will, your sense of self—it remained intact. That intrigued me."
"Enough to bring me here?" Michael asked.
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Then the being spoke again. "I will grant you three wishes before you are reborn."
Michael stiffened. "Reborn?"
"Existence continues," the being said. "The form is optional."
Michael's mind raced. He had spent his life making decisions that shaped industries. He wouldn't waste this chance.
"I want to choose where," he said.
"You may."
Michael didn't hesitate. "I want to be reborn in the Star Wars universe. Twenty years before the start of the Clone Wars."
The being inclined its head slightly. "A turbulent era."
"That's the point," Michael replied.
"Granted."
Michael exhaled slowly. "Second wish. I want the ability to change into any alien within the Omnitrix. From the Ben Ten universe."
The void seemed to ripple. "You seek adaptability."
"And survival," Michael said.
"Granted."
Michael paused before his final wish. He had learned that power without understanding was fragile.
"For my third wish," he said, "I want a system. Something that grants me knowledge and power as I grow."
The being watched him closely. "A guiding structure."
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Then, "Granted."
The void trembled.
Light burst into existence around Michael, swirling and pulling him forward. The being's presence faded as the pull intensified.
"Until we meet again, Michael," the voice echoed.
Michael tried to speak, but the light swallowed him whole.
The sensation of falling returned.
Michael gasped as air rushed into his lungs. Heat pressed down on him, heavy and dry. He opened his eyes and squinted against a bright sky.
Blue.
Too blue.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, sand slipping through his fingers. It stretched in every direction, endless dunes rolling beneath the sun.
No buildings. No ships. No signs of life.
Just sand.
Michael sat up slowly, brushing grains from his arms. He looked down at himself. His body was whole. Human. Familiar. No wounds. No blood.
"I'm alive," he muttered.
A faint sound echoed in his mind.
[System Initialising…]
Michael froze.
[Host confirmed: Michael Ashcroft]
[Status: Reincarnation complete]
[Era: 42 BBY]
His heart pounded.
"So it worked," he said quietly.
He looked up at the sky again, the twin suns just beginning to dip toward the horizon. Somewhere beyond this desert was a galaxy he knew far too well.
Jedi. Sith. War.
Michael clenched his fists, feeling a strange energy stir beneath his skin.
This time, he wouldn't be powerless in the face of death.
And this galaxy had no idea what was coming.
Michael had been walking for what felt like hours.
The suns had sunk lower, but the heat hadn't faded. Sand filled his shoes, his mouth, his thoughts. Every direction looked the same. The system stayed quiet, offering no guidance beyond status updates that meant little on their own.
He stopped and wiped sweat from his brow.
"So what now?" he asked aloud.
No response.
Michael exhaled through his nose. If this was meant to test him, it was doing a fine job.
That was when he heard it.
A low engine hum.
Michael turned slowly, squinting toward the horizon. At first, it was just a dark shape. Then it grew clearer—a speeder, moving fast and low, kicking up sand behind it.
He stiffened.
Civilisation meant answers. It also meant danger.
The speeder slowed as it approached, circling once before stopping a short distance away. Three figures dismounted. Their clothes were loose and worn, faces covered against the sun.
Scavengers. Or worse.
Michael kept his hands visible.
"Easy," he said, his voice dry. "I'm not armed."
One of them laughed. "That makes two of us richer."
They spread out, boots crunching against the sand. Michael's mind raced. He had power—he knew that—but he didn't know how to access it. The Omnitrix wasn't visible. There was no watch, no interface.
[Warning: Host under threat]
"Good timing," Michael muttered.
The closest scavenger reached for his belt. Michael took a step back.
"Wait," he said. "You don't have to do this."
The man lunged.
Pain exploded across Michael's face as a fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled, barely keeping his balance before another blow sent him down into the sand.
Boots struck his side.
Michael curled instinctively, protecting his head.
[System Prompt: Omnitrix access unlocked – Emergency Only]
The words barely registered before something clicked inside him.
Heat surged through his body, sharp and sudden. His vision blurred as his limbs stretched, muscles shifting under his skin. He screamed as bones reshaped, the sound tearing from his throat before turning into something else entirely.
The scavengers backed away, shouting in panic.
Michael rose to his feet—taller now, broader, his skin hard and dark. He looked down at his hands. They weren't hands anymore.
"Okay," he growled, voice deep and rough. "That's new."
The nearest scavenger fired a blaster.
The bolt struck Michael's chest and bounced off harmlessly.
Michael didn't think. He moved.
One step. One swing.
The scavenger went flying, crashing into the sand and not getting back up.
The other two ran, taking their speeder whilst leaving their dead compatriot.
Michael stood there, breathing heavily, watching them disappear into the desert. His body began to glow faintly before shrinking, reshaping, and returning him to human form.
He dropped to his knees, gasping.
"What the hell was that?" he whispered.
[Transformation complete: Alien ID – Tetramand]
[Duration: 12000 seconds][Cooldown initiated]
Michael stared at the system text.
"So there are rules," he said.
His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the realisation of how close he had been to dying again. Power had saved him, but only barely.
He stood slowly and looked in the direction the scavengers had fled.
They would talk.
And this galaxy, he realised, would not give him time to learn at his own pace.
Michael didn't stay where he was.
The desert was too open, and the scavengers had seen his face. At least, his human one. He walked until his legs ached, keeping the suns at his back. Every step drove home how exposed he was. Power or not, this wasn't a game.
The system stayed quiet, which annoyed him more than if it had been talking.
He crested a dune and froze.
Below him, half-buried in sand, was the wreckage of a small transport ship. The hull was split, scorched along one side. It had been there for years, maybe longer.
Shelter.
Michael slid down the dune and approached carefully. The air smelled of dust and burnt metal. Inside, the ship was stripped of anything valuable, but it was intact enough to block the wind.
He stepped inside and leaned against the wall, breathing out slowly.
"Status," he said.
[Host condition: Minor injuries detected]
[Energy reserves: Low]
[Omnitrix transformations: Limited until recovery]
Michael closed his eyes. "Figures."
He sat down on the floor, ignoring the grit, and let his thoughts settle. The scavengers would spread the word. Someone who could turn into something like that wouldn't stay a secret.
Jedi, maybe.
Or worse.
A sound outside pulled him back to his feet. Not engines this time—voices.
Michael moved deeper into the wreck, keeping low. Through a cracked viewport, he saw figures approaching. Not the same scavengers. These wore long coats and carried rifles, moving with purpose rather than greed.
Hunters.
He swallowed.
[Threat level: Moderate]
The system wasn't wrong.
The hunters fanned out around the wreck. One of them kicked the hull.
"Tracks lead here," a woman said. "Whatever did that back there wasn't normal."
Michael's heart thudded in his chest. He checked himself for anything useful and found nothing. No weapon. No tools.
He clenched his fists.
[Omnitrix cooldown: 82% complete]
"Not fast enough," he whispered.
The hunters moved in.
Michael stepped out before they could corner him. His hands were raised again, a gesture he was already tired of using.
"I'm unarmed," he said. "If you're looking for trouble, you've got the wrong person."
The woman laughed softly. "Funny. We're here because you're exactly the right one."
One of the men raised his rifle.
Michael felt it again—that pressure behind his eyes, the sense of something vast just out of reach. He didn't know if he could transform again, but he knew he couldn't let them take him.
[Warning: Forced activation may cause backlash]
"Do it," Michael muttered.
The world warped.
Pain ripped through him, sharper than before. His body shifted unevenly this time, bones grinding as his form grew larger, heavier. The change finished with him hunched low, four arms braced against the sand.
The hunters froze.
"What in the—"
Michael didn't let them finish.
He charged.
Blaster fire lit the air, bolts striking his arms and chest, burning but not stopping him. He slammed into one hunter, sending him spinning. Another tried to run.
Michael caught him.
The fight was short and messy. When it ended, the hunters lay scattered, unconscious or worse. Michael stood alone again, breathing hard as his form reverted.
He fell to one knee.
[System alert: Backlash sustained]
[Host condition: Critical fatigue]
Michael laughed weakly. "Good to know."
The sky darkened as night began to fall. He dragged himself back into the wreck and collapsed against the wall. Michael felt the fatigue overwhelm him. His eyes grew heavy, and his limbs grew weaker as, for the first time, he rested.