The three days went by faster than any suspension had a right to.
Morgan spent the first morning doing what Helen cheerfully called "earning your keep": sweeping the porch, helping her carry groceries in, figuring out the quirks of the old dishwasher. It all felt strangely…normal. No eggshells, no passive‑aggressive commentary, no "we only took you in for the check" vibe. When he messed up—dropped a dish towel, took a second too long responding to a question—they didn't flinch like they were waiting for him to explode.
That alone put them in the top ten percent of foster homes he'd seen.
The afternoons, he claimed the garage.
It smelled like oil, dust, and old wood, with a workbench along one wall and an ancient radio that still picked up classic rock if you jiggled the dial just right. There were a couple of mismatched dumbbells, a jump rope, and enough space for body‑weight exercise.
He started simple. Push‑ups. Sit‑ups. Planks. Squats.
He made a point of not throwing punches at the heavy storage boxes he stacked for "resistance"—no obvious martial arts, no shadowboxing. If anyone glanced through the little garage window, he wanted them to see a kid blowing off steam, not someone training to break concrete with his hands.
The strange part wasn't that he could do the exercises.
It was that he didn't seem to get tired.
He ramped up slowly, wary of overdoing it, but every time he expected his arms to shake or his lungs to burn, they…didn't. His muscles warmed, sure. He got sweaty. But exhaustion stayed a few steps behind him, unable to catch up.
Zenkai plus Viltrumite recovery, he thought. This is going to get addictive.
On the second afternoon, as he was finishing a set of one‑handed push‑ups, the side door creaked open.
"You'll punch through the floor if you keep that up," Arthur observed mildly.
Morgan rolled over and sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. "Trying not to," he said. "Floor's innocent."
Arthur chuckled and stepped inside, carrying a wooden box under one arm.
"I brought you something," he said, setting it on the workbench.
Morgan eyed it warily. "If it's a punching bag, I'm going to have to pretend I don't know how to use it."
"Nothing quite so direct." Arthur flipped the lid open.
Inside sat a Go board, worn at the edges but clearly cared for. Two lidded wooden bowls nestled beside it, the faint clink of stones inside when Arthur moved the box.
"Go?" Morgan blinked. "I pegged you as a chess man."
"Oh, I love chess," Arthur said, smiling as he lifted the board out. "But chess is about decisive victories. Checkmates. Crushing the opponent's king. Lots of clean, satisfying endings." He set the board down on an old crate and then opened one of the bowls. "Go…" He poured a few smooth black stones into his palm. "Go is about influence. Pressure. Accepting that sometimes the best you can hope for is an uneasy balance."
"A stalemate," Morgan said.
"A living one," Arthur corrected. "Territory held, not conquered. Lines drawn that both sides agree not to cross because they know what happens if they do."
Morgan watched the stones for a moment. "And you think that's something I need."
Arthur met his eyes. "I think," he said gently, "that learning how not to win might be as important to you as learning how not to lose."
Morgan huffed a soft, surprised laugh. "Sounds like something out of a training arc."
"Consider it one," Arthur said. "Come on. I'll teach you the basics."
They ended up at the kitchen table, board between them, Helen drifting in and out with tea and snacks. Arthur explained liberties and captures, eyes and ladders, the idea that sometimes sacrificing a small group now protected a larger group later.
Morgan caught on quickly—too quickly, if he were being cautious—but Arthur didn't comment. He just raised an eyebrow once, as if to say, You're sharp, and I see it, and left it at that.
"That's the thing about Go," Arthur said as Morgan misjudged a corner fight and watched his stones get neatly surrounded. "Sometimes, the move that feels aggressive just overextends you. You gain a few points now and lose the game later."
Morgan nudged a captured stone with his finger. "So don't overextend."
"And don't mistake every encroachment for an attack," Arthur added. "Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do is let the other side have a little space."
Morgan thought of the hallway, of Tyler, of the dented lockers.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm working on that."
He split the rest of his suspension between the garage and the kitchen.
Helen had him help chop vegetables, stir sauces, and taste‑test soups. She fussed over his lingering bruises without smothering, asked about his classes without demanding a full autobiography, and somehow slid into the role of "mom" without tripping all the alarms that word usually set off in his head.
He caught himself, at one point, leaning against the counter while she talked about a recipe like he'd known her for years.
That scared him more than any cape.
The return to school was anticlimactic.
No one confronted him. Tyler shot him a venomous look from across the hall, but didn't come closer. The story had clearly grown in the telling; by the end of the day, Morgan had allegedly lifted Tyler over his head and thrown him down the corridor like a shot put.
He didn't bother correcting it.
Instead, he went to class, took notes, and realized around third period that this school's curriculum—this universe's curriculum—wasn't ready for someone who'd been both a bored adult educator and a reasonably bright teenager.
Algebra? Child's play. Chemistry? A nice reminder of lab days. History? He knew how some of this was going to go, at least on the superhero side.
By the second week, he'd stopped hiding it.
When a teacher asked a question, he answered. When a test came around, he finished early and double‑checked for the sake of appearances, then turned it in with a shrug.
"Show‑off," one of his classmates muttered once, but it was more grudging respect than hostility. Nobody wanted to pick a fight with the guy who'd turned a row of lockers into modern art.
Good. Let them keep their distance.
Thank every dragon god in DBZ, he thought, that I'm not at Reginald Vel Johnson. Sharing a hallway with Mark and his crew right now would be…tempting.
He crossed paths with them anyway.
It was inevitable. Same city. Same age bracket. Same culture of Friday night football games.
His school's team, the Lincoln Lions, made it to a big match against Mark's school. The stadium was a shared facility—home and visitor bleachers split down the middle, field lights buzzing overhead, concession stands doing brisk business in nachos, hot dogs, and sugary drinks.
Morgan went because that's what you did, apparently: show up, sit in the stands, pretend to care about teenagers slamming into each other for school pride.
He was halfway through a hot dog that tasted mostly like salt and nostalgia when he saw them.
Mark. Eve. Amber.
They were on the other side of the stadium, near the home bleachers, laughing about something. Mark in his jacket, Eve in casual clothes that somehow still radiated "I could bench‑press a truck with my mind," Amber with her hair pulled back, face lit by the stadium lights.
She's prettier than the comics, Morgan thought. And the show. That's…unfair.
He watched them for a moment, that weird double‑vision settling over him: the fan who knew their arcs, and the guy who now shared their skyline.
You're not supposed to be in their story, he told himself. You're extra‑canon. A glitch.
He remembered Amber's future—what she'd deal with, what she'd endure, who she'd choose and why. All the messy, human, frustratingly understandable ways she'd react to being in love with someone who lived in a world of blood and secrets.
It wasn't his business.
It also wasn't his nature to ignore a known plotline when he'd already broken so many rules just by existing.
He finished the hot dog, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stared at the concession stand.
If you talk to her, you might disrupt the story.
Good, another part of him argued. The story sucked for a lot of people.
Or you make it worse.
He sat there for a full minute, haggling with himself, while the crowd surged and shouted around him.
In the end, the deciding factor wasn't some grand heroic instinct or a strategic calculation.
It was the memory of lying in a hospital bed, knowing how this world went, and doing nothing to change it.
He stood up.
The concession stand line was long, but he didn't mind. It gave him time to calibrate: shoulders relaxed, expression easy, not too intense. Be a guy, not a looming presence.
Amber stepped into line a few people ahead of him, laughing at something on her phone. Up close, she was even more striking—sharp eyes, expressive face, the kind of posture that said she was used to standing her ground.
Morgan's first thought was: Mark, you idiot, don't screw this up.
His second was: Technically, that's not my problem.
By the time she reached the counter, he'd managed to wrestle his internal monologue into something approximating calm.
She ordered, paid, and stepped aside to wait for her drink.
Morgan moved up next to her, hands in his pockets, gaze on the field like he was just another fan killing time between plays.
"Lions are up," he said casually, nodding toward the scoreboard. "Didn't expect that."
She glanced at him, then at his hoodie with the Lincoln logo. "Biased opinion?"
"Extremely," he said. "But also accurate. We're objectively the better team tonight."
She smirked. "Bold claim to make when you're outnumbered." She gestured vaguely toward the sea of home‑side colors on her half of the stadium.
"Quality over quantity," he said. "I'm Morgan, by the way."
"Amber," she said.
I know, he didn't say.
"Nice to meet you, Amber," he said instead. "Didn't peg you as a football person."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what do I look like I'm into?"
He shrugged. "Arguing with teachers. Calling out hypocrisy. Dragging people on social media when they pretend not to see problems."
She blinked, then let out a short laugh. "That's…weirdly specific."
"Lucky guess," he said lightly.
She studied him for a second longer than strictly necessary, curious rather than suspicious.
"You from around here?" she asked.
"Other side of town," he said. "Lincoln. We're the villains tonight."
"Villains is a strong word," she said. "Antagonists, maybe."
He smiled faintly. "Anti‑heroes, if we win."
Her drink came up; she grabbed it and nodded toward his empty hands. "Not getting anything?"
"Already did," he said. "I'm just here for the company now."
Her lips twitched, clearly debating whether that was cheesy or charming. She settled on amused.
"Well, company's about to multiply," she said, glancing past him.
He didn't have to turn to know who was walking up. He could feel the air change, the way people unconsciously shifted around the gravity of certain personalities.
"Amber, hey," Mark said, voice warm. "You've been hiding at the food line?"
Morgan turned just enough to be polite.
Mark Grayson, up close, looked so normal it was almost eerie. Just a kid. Slightly awkward. Not a hint that he'd one day punch through mountains and…worse.
Eve hovered beside him, posture relaxed, eyes taking in everything.
"Yeah, somebody has to keep the concessions in business," Amber said. "Oh—this is Morgan." She gestured between them. "We were just talking about how his team is about to get stomped."
"Debatable," Morgan said. He gave Mark a small nod, then Eve. "Nice to meet you. Good game so far."
"Thanks," Mark said automatically, even though he wasn't the one on the field.
Eve's gaze lingered on him for a half‑second, like she was trying to place a feeling. He forced his heart rate to stay normal, kept every hint of power tamped down.
Don't ping her radar. Not yet.
"Which school?" Mark asked.
"Lincoln," Morgan said.
"Ouch." Mark winced in exaggerated sympathy. "Sorry in advance for your loss."
Morgan smirked. "We'll see. I should get back, though. Got to cheer for the winning team."
Amber snorted. "Bold talk."
"Confidence is half the battle," he said. "The other half is a decent offensive line."
He stepped back, giving them space. Amber lifted her drink slightly in a half‑salute.
"Catch you around, Morgan," she said.
"Maybe," he said. "Enjoy the game."
He turned and walked back toward the visitor side, feeling their eyes on his back for a moment before the crowd swallowed him again.
He took his seat just as a play started. Lincoln's quarterback pulled off a surprising pass, their receiver cutting through the defense like he'd grown up on highlight reels.
Touchdown.
The visitor stands exploded. Morgan found himself cheering, not because he particularly cared about the sport, but because momentum—of any kind—felt good.
On the other side of the field, he could see Amber watching the scoreboard, then glancing across the divide toward the Lincoln section. For a second, their eyes almost met through the distance and the lights.
She smiled.
He didn't need super senses to see that.
Lincoln held the lead to the end.
Walking home later under the streetlights, the roar of the stadium fading behind him, Morgan replayed the brief conversation in his head.
You talked to Amber, he told himself. You nudged something.
Maybe it would change nothing. Maybe Mark and Amber would still crash into each other the way they were supposed to, timelines reasserting themselves like elastic.
Or maybe a small shift now would ripple later in ways no fan could predict.
He thought about that for a long moment.
Then he thought about the Parkers waiting at home, about the Go board on the kitchen table, about a universe full of forces moving stones around without asking the stones what they wanted.
"Too bad," he murmured to the night. "I'm on the board now."
He wasn't sure yet whether he'd just invaded someone else's territory in Go terms, or quietly placed a stone that would matter much later.
Either way, he'd made a move.
And for the first time since waking up in this world, he felt like that was the right call.