No one came the first day.
Or the second.
Morgan watched nurses come and go, watched flowers arrive for other patients, watched a family down the hall celebrate when their son finally woke up. His own bedside table stayed empty: no cards, no balloons, no awkward foster parents trying to remember how to comfort a kid they barely knew.
It stung more than he wanted to admit.
On the third morning, when the nurse came in to check his vitals, he finally asked.
"Hey," he said, staring at the ceiling. "Can you…help me remember who I am?"
She paused with the blood pressure cuff in her hand and gave him a careful look. "You still having trouble with your memory?"
"Yeah," he lied, because "I have three lifetimes in here now" was not going to fly. "Bits and pieces, but it's like reading someone else's diary. Was I…with anyone? Parents? Family?"
She softened. "You were listed as a ward of the state. No current foster placement at the time of admission. Social services has been notified; they're working on it." She adjusted the cuff around his arm. "You're sixteen, Morgan. You've been in the system a while."
Sixteen.
He let out a slow breath. Old enough to matter. Young enough that the state still technically owned him.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Once the doctors clear you for discharge, a caseworker will find you a placement," she said. "Probably another foster home. You'll get a new school assignment. New environment." She tried a small smile. "Fresh start, maybe."
Fresh start.
Right. In a universe where Omni‑Man was looming in the background like a loaded gun on the mantle.
"Yeah," Morgan said. "A fresh start."
He didn't push further, and she didn't either. She finished her checks, scribbled something on his chart, and left with a promise that lunch would be "better than yesterday's."
It wasn't, but he ate it anyway. Broken bodies needed calories.
Over the next few days, his recovery went from "miraculous" to "mildly worrying" in the doctors' eyes. Internal bruising faded faster than it should have. Fractures that were supposed to keep him bedridden for weeks downgraded to "sore but stable." They ran tests, took blood, muttered about anomalies.
He played confused and tired. The less they understood, the less they'd think to flag him as "call the government."
On day five, a woman in business casual and a tired expression appeared at his bedside.
"Mr. Grant?" she asked.
He sat up slowly, careful to move like a normal injured teenager, not someone who could probably tear the rails off the bed if he really tried. "Yeah. That's me."
"I'm Ms. Holcomb. I'm with Child Services." She pulled up a chair and opened a thin, overstuffed folder. "First, I'm glad you're okay. We were…concerned."
"About losing the paperwork?" he said before he could stop himself.
She huffed a short, involuntary laugh. "You remember your sense of humor, at least."
He offered a crooked half‑smile. "Guess so."
They went through the basics: no current placement, last foster home closed due to "financial strain," some minor behavioral notes (skipping classes, a few unconfirmed fights, nothing dramatic), decent grades when he bothered to show up.
"We've found a new placement for you," she said eventually. "An elderly couple. The Parkers. They've fostered before, no significant complaints, stable income, no criminal record. House in a quiet neighborhood, good school district."
"Let me guess," Morgan said. "They're very excited to welcome me into their loving home."
Her lips twitched. "They are…willing to provide care and support," she said diplomatically. "Which, in this system, is worth something. You'll be discharged tomorrow morning. I'll take you there, then we'll get your school transfer started."
Tomorrow.
He nodded. "Sure. Sounds great."
That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the itch under his skin—the urge to move, to test his limits, to find a rooftop and see how hard he had to push to get off the ground.
Instead, he stayed put.
One thing at a time.
The next morning, the nurse helped him dress in donated clothes: plain T‑shirt, worn jeans, a hoodie that smelled faintly of bleach. His body still ached, but in the way of a hard workout, not catastrophic trauma.
Ms. Holcomb signed the discharge papers, thanked the staff, then led him out through the automatic doors to the parking lot.
The sun hit him like a physical thing. The air smelled like car exhaust, hot asphalt, and hospital landscaping. Normal.
He slid into the passenger seat of her compact car, the seat belt pressing against healing ribs. As they pulled out, he watched the city go by: pedestrians, traffic, a distant dot in the sky that might have been a bird or might have been someone in a cape.
He didn't like that he couldn't tell the difference yet.
The Parkers' house was straight out of a brochure. One story, neat lawn, white siding, blue shutters. A porch swing. Flower boxes. A mailbox with PARKER stenciled in fading black letters.
"They seem nice," Ms. Holcomb said, which in his experience meant "they haven't scared us yet."
Morgan kept his face neutral. "I'll be good."
"I know you will." She gave his arm a brief, awkward pat. "And if there are problems, you call me. Don't just disappear."
He almost said, "No promises," but swallowed it. "Okay."
The front door opened before they reached it.
An elderly man stepped out first, in a cardigan and slacks, hair white but still thick, glasses perched on his nose. An elderly woman followed, wiping her hands on a dish towel, apron over a floral dress. They looked exactly like central casting's idea of "kind grandparents."
"Morgan?" the woman called, hopeful.
"That's me," he said.
"Welcome, son," the man said, and the word slipped out so naturally it didn't even sound forced. He held out his hand, then seemed to think better of it and opened his arms slightly, offering a hug instead but leaving room for refusal.
Morgan hesitated.
Then, cautiously, he stepped forward and accepted it. The man's embrace was gentle and careful of his injuries, warm without being suffocating. The woman joined in, wrapping her arms around them both.
For a moment, it was too much. Too close to something he'd never really had in either life.
He stepped back, blinking. "Thanks. Uh. For taking me in."
"Of course," the woman said. "I'm Helen. This is Arthur. You can call us that, or Mr. and Mrs. Parker, whatever you're comfortable with."
"Arthur," he echoed, nodding. "Helen. Got it."
Inside, the house smelled like old books, coffee, and something baking in the oven. Family photos lined the hallway, mostly of other kids—some younger, some teenagers, all wearing that same awkward, hopeful look foster kids got when someone pointed a camera at them and said "Smile."
"You'll have your own room," Helen said, leading him down the hall. "It's small, but we've set it up for you. If you want to move things around, that's fine."
The room was modest: single bed, dresser, small desk, a cheap lamp, a closet with a few hangers. The bedding was plain but clean.
"It's great," Morgan said, and meant it more than he expected to. "Seriously."
"School starts for you on Monday," Arthur said from the doorway. "We've got your schedule. It's not far—three blocks. We'll walk you there the first day."
"Cool," Morgan said. New school. New people. New opportunities to keep his head down and accidentally punch through a locker if someone pushed him wrong.
They gave him time to unpack the few belongings Social Services had salvaged—some clothes, a backpack, a couple of textbooks, a worn paperback with his name scribbled on the inside cover in the teenager's handwriting.
He sat on the bed for a while, listening to the muted sounds of the Parkers moving through the house, and thought: This might actually be…okay.
He didn't trust it, but he acknowledged the possibility.
School was less okay.
On Monday, Arthur walked him there as promised, cane tapping lightly against the sidewalk even though he didn't seem to need it much. Students streamed in clusters toward the brick building, the hum of conversations and laughter filling the air.
"This is Lincoln High," Arthur said. "Not perfect, but better than most. Try to stay focused on your studies, all right?"
"I'll do my best," Morgan said.
At the front office, introductions were made, forms were signed, and Morgan got a schedule, a locker assignment, and a "Welcome New Students!" packet that he doubted anyone ever actually read.
Arthur squeezed his shoulder once. "We'll see you after school. If you need to come home early for any reason, call us, okay?"
"Okay."
Then he was alone in a hallway full of strangers.
He'd done this before—new schools, new faces. Old muscle memory kicked in. Head slightly down, expression neutral, pace brisk but not hurried. Don't look lost. Don't look like prey.
First period went fine.
Second period, too.
By lunch, the whispers started: "New kid," "foster," "Grant."
By the end of the day, he'd been sized up by half a dozen social groups and largely written off as "quiet, maybe weird."
Unfortunately, not everyone wrote him off.
It took until Wednesday for the inevitable to happen.
He was at his locker, swapping books, when he felt the shift in the hallway's mood. Conversations dipped, eyes slid toward him, then away, like people watching a traffic accident form in slow motion.
He didn't need ki sensing to know a predator was approaching.
"Hey," a voice drawled behind him. "You're the new kid, right?"
Morgan closed his locker and turned.
The guy was about his height but broader, with the kind of muscle you get from sports and the kind of posture you get from never being told "no." Letterman jacket. Smirk. Two friends flanking him like discount henchmen.
Here we go.
"Yeah," Morgan said, keeping his tone flat. "That's me."
"I'm Tyler," the guy said. "And this hallway is where I hang out. You're in my spot."
Morgan glanced at the perfectly ordinary stretch of tile, then back at Tyler.
"Didn't see your name on it," he said.
A few chuckles from the onlookers. Tyler's smirk tightened.
"You think you're funny?" Tyler took a step closer, invading his space. "You some kind of smartass?"
Used to be my job description, Morgan thought.
Out loud, he said nothing. He was painfully aware of how strong he was now. One wrong reflex, and he'd send this kid through the nearest wall. He could already feel his muscles tensing, instincts whispering: threat, handle.
Tyler put a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in.
"Look, foster kid," Tyler said. "Here's how this works. You keep your head down, do what you're told, and maybe people don't notice you. Or you make it hard, and—"
Morgan's hand moved before he consciously decided.
He grabbed Tyler's wrist—not hard, not really, not for him—and squeezed just enough to break the grip.
Tyler's eyes widened. "What the—"
"Don't touch me," Morgan said quietly.
Tyler yanked his arm back, rubbing his wrist, pride clearly more injured than the limb. The hallway went very, very still.
"Big mistake," Tyler snarled, and swung.
Morgan saw the punch coming like slow‑motion. His body screamed at him to dodge, counter, end the threat. He forced himself to take a half‑step back instead, letting the fist graze his shoulder instead of his jaw.
It still hurt, but mostly his self‑control.
"Stop," Morgan said. "I don't want—"
Tyler lunged again, more wild this time. The second punch would've connected squarely.
So Morgan moved.
He deflected the arm with his forearm, pivoted slightly, and put a hand on Tyler's chest to push him back.
Except "push" wasn't the word a human would use.
What he did was more like "rein in a fraction too late."
Tyler flew.
Not far. Not "into orbit." But far enough to slam into a bank of lockers with a crash of metal and teenage swearing. The lockers dented inward. Papers and a backpack tumbled out from the open one.
The hallway erupted into shouts.
"Whoa!"
"Holy—"
"Did you see that?"
Tyler staggered, eyes wide, then narrowed in at least as much fear as anger.
"You're dead," he spat. "You're so dead."
A teacher's voice cut through the chaos. "What is going on here?"
Ten minutes later, Morgan was sitting in the vice principal's office, staring at a motivational poster about "Choices and Consequences."
The vice principal, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones, looked over her glasses at him.
"Three days," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Three days' suspension," she repeated. "We have zero tolerance for fighting, Mr. Grant."
"He hit me first," Morgan said. It wasn't even an excuse; it was just fact. "I told him to stop. I just—stopped him from hitting me again."
"And he ended up denting a row of lockers," she said coolly. "You're strong. You need to be more careful with that. You could have seriously hurt him."
He thought about the sound of Tyler's fist hitting his ribs, the trajectory of that second punch, the way things would've gone if he'd just stood there and taken it. He bit back three different retorts.
Instead, he said, "So I'm supposed to let people hit me?"
"You're supposed to get a teacher," she said. "Walk away. De‑escalate."
He stared at her.
Right. Because bullies always respected people who walked away and tattled.
He signed the suspension form with a tight jaw.
Back home, the Parkers were waiting at the kitchen table when he walked in with his slip and his backpack hanging low.
Helen looked worried. Arthur looked…concerned, but not surprised.
"We got a call," Helen said. "About an incident at school."
Morgan set the suspension note on the table. "Yeah. There was an incident."
Arthur picked up the paper, read it, then took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You've been here three days," Helen said gently. "That's not much time before…this."
"He was a bully," Morgan said, keeping his voice steady. "He put his hands on me. I told him to stop. He didn't. I finished it."
Helen winced. Arthur exhaled slowly.
"Sit," Arthur said. "Please."
Morgan did.
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking clock and the faint hum of the fridge.
"Fighting should be avoided," Arthur said finally, voice calm but firm. "Someone almost always gets hurt."
Morgan studied him. There was no condescension in the older man's tone, no naive "can't we all just get along." It sounded like someone who had seen the results of fights that went too far.
"Life's messy," Arthur continued. "People push. People provoke. But violence…once you open that door, you don't always get to choose how far it goes."
Morgan thought of planets. Of Viltrumites. Of Saiyans screaming themselves hoarse as they powered up. Of a train.
"Hmmm," he said, tilting his head. "You're an amateur philosopher, huh?"
Arthur's mouth twitched in a modest smile. "Just someone who's seen what happens when boys insist on proving who's tougher."
Morgan leaned back slightly in his chair.
"I get what you're saying," he said slowly. "And I'm not looking for fights. I'm not…that guy. But I'm also not a victim."
Arthur watched him carefully.
"I can't promise anything except this," Morgan went on. "I won't start anything. I'll avoid fights where I can. But if someone decides I'm a target? If they start something…" He met Arthur's eyes. "I will finish it."
The words hung in the air.
Helen's fingers worried the edge of the suspension slip. Arthur studied Morgan for a long moment—really studied him, like he was weighing not just the sentence, but the person behind it.
Then he nodded once.
"That's…not the answer I was hoping for," he said. "But it's honest."
Helen sighed, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "We'd rather you not be in trouble constantly," she said. "But we also won't ask you to let yourself be hurt. If you can walk away, walk away. If you can get help, get help. If you can't…"
"Then I do what I have to," Morgan said quietly.
They seemed to accept that.
"Three days at home," Helen said. "You're not confined to your room, but you're also not on vacation. Schoolwork, chores, and no picking fights with the neighbors."
"No problem," Morgan said.
Arthur smiled faintly. "And maybe," he added, "we can find a way to help you avoid situations that end in dented lockers."
Morgan almost smiled back.
We'll see how long this lasts, he thought. In my experience, people either show their true colors under pressure, or they crack.
But for now?
For now, he had a roof, a bed, two foster parents who actually listened, and three days with no school and a body that healed like it had a grudge against injury.
Plenty of time to test what he could do when no one was watching.