Two months later.
The air in the basement was thick with the sour scent of sweat and damp concrete. Ethan's muscles screamed, each fiber a taut, vibrating wire of agony. The floorboards were slick with his effort. With a final, guttural roar that echoed in the small space, he pushed the world away one last time—300—and collapsed, his chest heaving as he gulped down the stale air.
A grim smile touched his lips. For a normal twelve-year-old, this regimen would have been a recipe for hospitalization. But for him, it was like pouring water into a cracked, empty well; his Saiyan physiology drank the punishment and demanded more. He could feel the microscopic tears in his muscles already beginning to mend, stronger than before. It wasn't happiness; it was the raw, addictive thrill of quantifiable progress. Every morning he was stronger than the night before. His power level, once a fictional concept, was now a tangible reality he was building, one agonizing rep at a time.
There was, however, a bottleneck. His stomach growled, a cavernous, aching void.
Sokovia was rebuilding, and Oleg and Alina had steady work, but their income was a flickering candle against the furnace of his Saiyan appetite. To eat his fill, to truly fuel the engine of his growth, would bankrupt them in a week. He thought of Goku's legendary feast that consumed nearly all of the 500,000 Zeni prize money. He was a long way from that, but the principle held. His training was throttled by his love for this family—or at least, his unwillingness to see them starve.
The thought of using the Goku template had crossed his mind. A quick, one-hour jaunt as a super-powered being could solve their money problems permanently. He could play the part of a vigilante, take down some local gangsters… earn some Justice Points on the side.
He immediately dismissed it. The risk was too high. He vividly remembered a detail from the movies: Sokovia housed a Hydra base, led by Baron Strucker, a man with a clinical obsession for powered individuals. Revealing himself now would be like painting a target on his back, and by extension, on the Maximoffs. A one-hour power trip followed by debilitating exhaustion was a suicidal gamble against an organization like Hydra. Worse was the personality bleed. In his current state, he was cold, rational, a survivor. As Goku, he was a battle-happy beacon of righteousness. He couldn't trust that version of himself to make the smart, cynical choices needed to stay hidden.
No. He would wait. It was only the year 2000. He had a decade before Tony Stark even built his first suit. Time was his greatest asset.
After a short rest, he unwrapped the leathery, brown tail from around his waist. It twitched, then coiled around the leg of a heavy wooden chair, lifting it an inch off the ground before straining. It was the Saiyan's greatest weakness. He had to turn it into a strength.
"Ethan! Ethan, come out!"
The basement door creaked open a sliver, and Wanda's bright eyes peeked through, followed by Pietro's messy mop of silver hair.
"The moon is so full tonight! Come see it from the balcony!" Pietro whisper-shouted, waving excitedly.
The words hit Ethan like a physical blow. A cold spike of pure adrenaline shot through his veins. Every muscle locked. Through the crack in the door, he could see it: a brilliant, perfect silver disc hanging in the night sky. For a terrifying second, he imagined the change—the uncontrollable surge, the bones breaking and reforming, the primal rage that would annihilate his consciousness. The full moon was no longer a beautiful sight; it was a monthly appointment with a monster wearing his face.
He forced the terror down, composing his features into a calm, gentle smile that felt like a porcelain mask. "You two go ahead," he said, his voice steady. "I'm not much of a moon-gazer."
Their faces fell in perfect, synchronized disappointment. He had become the stable center of their small world, the older brother who was always there, and his absence was felt keenly.
He sighed. "Tell you what. After you're done looking, meet me in the kitchen. I'll make my special tomato and egg noodles."
Their disappointment vanished as if it had never been, replaced by pure joy. "Okay!" they chirped in unison. In their eyes, he was magic—a cook, a storyteller, a protector. For him, cooking and cleaning were just another form of training, a way to pull his weight and practice the Kame-style philosophy of finding discipline in daily life.
"Oh, wait!" Pietro darted back to the door before leaving. "My papa gave me this. I finished it. You can read it." He proudly presented a well-worn comic book.
"And mine," Wanda added, not to be outdone. She pushed a plastic disc case into his other hand. "It's my favorite show."
"Thanks, you two," Ethan said, ruffling both of their heads.
After they scampered upstairs, he set the gifts aside. Time for a quick wash before noodle duty. As he stood up, buttoning a clean shirt over his training vest, his eyes happened to fall on the comic Pietro had given him.
He glanced down, and the world tilted on its axis.
The garish colors on the cover seemed to burn into his retinas. The image was dynamic, patriotic, and fundamentally wrong. A woman, dressed in a tactical uniform emblazoned with the British Union Jack, held a familiar star-spangled shield high, deflecting a blast from a man whose head was a grotesque, crimson skull. Bold letters arched over the scene.
CAPTAIN CARTER vs. THE RED SKULL
Carter? Not Rogers? Captain America fought the Red Skull.
His hands trembled as he snatched the comic. He flipped through the pages, seeing familiar events twisted into a new shape. All his plans, all his carefully laid assumptions about this world, were built on a foundation of sand.
"Could it be…?" he whispered to the silent, concrete walls, the comic book feeling impossibly heavy in his hands. "The 838 universe?"