In the Time Before Time
Before gods were worshipped and names carried power—before even time dared to measure existence—there was an age of deeper silence. The Age of the Elder Gods.
From the unknowable fabric of the In-Betweener, a force too vast to reside in any single form, two siblings were born. Twins. Reflections and opposites. The Demiurge named them his favored children.
Yahweh, sculpted from the essence of Master Order—structure, law, design.
Amara, drawn from the well of Lord Chaos—change, freedom, the unweaving of all things.
They were not like the others. Even among the Elder Gods, they stood apart. Together, they could have challenged the Demiurge himself. But that was the paradox—together was a concept they could never hold for long.
It was not from hatred. They tried, once. In their youth, in the trembling moments when reality was still soft clay, they dreamed of harmony. Of building something beautiful. Yahweh began his great work—he spun stars from symmetry, carved Earth from equations. And through it all, his sister's essence danced along the edges of his creation. Not invited, but inevitable.
His order was incomplete without her chaos. His script without her spontaneity was hollow. Yet her freedom undid the very lines he etched in stone. Where he wrote destiny, she scribbled doubt. Where he built sanctuaries, she cracked the foundations with wonder and rebellion.
Creation—his creation—thrived under her influence, but not in the way he wanted. When she touched the humans, they changed. Gained fire. Gained questions. Gained choice. And that... he could not abide.
So Yahweh did what he always did best: rewrote the ending.
With a cunning only the architects of law can wield, he deceived his twin. He bound her—not in chains or dimensions, but within a prison of divine paradox: a soul. The soul of the first murderer. The soul of Cain.
There, Amara's chaos was muted. Confined. Caged behind human eyes. But even so, her influence bled through. Cain changed. Warped. Became something more. Something other. He was not just the Firstborn of Man. He was the seed of what would come. A demon, forged not in Hell, but in divinity turned inward.
When Lucifer, the Morning Star, rebelled against Heaven, he looked to Cain—not with pity, but with purpose. The demons he forged in the underworld were shadows of that first cursed soul. Copies. Variants. But none bore the original flame.
Because only Cain carried Amara's gaze.
And through him, from behind the bars of metaphysical torment, she watched. Millennia passed in silence, save for what Cain showed her. His rage. His sorrow. His bees.
Yes. In the end, even she grew tired of the bees.
The Demiurge had long tried to free his daughter, but Yahweh—now Chuck, now author, now god—always stood in the way. Until, at last, an opportunity revealed itself.
The cage—the Mark—was ready to move. The Demiurge guided it toward Hex, a sorcerer steeped in ambition and pain. A vessel powerful enough to hold the Mark, but cracked enough to be shaped. It would have worked. Should have.
But Yahweh saw it. And in a rare moment not of foresight, but spite, he intervened.
Hex's soul, had it taken the Mark, would have shattered. And with it, Amara's prison. So Yahweh cast the Mark elsewhere—into another soul.
A different one.
One that might yet change everything.
Within the Cage
The new vessel was different.
Amara couldn't see. She couldn't hear. The human senses she had once borrowed—tasted, twisted, manipulated—were beyond her reach. This soul was… sealed in unfamiliar ways. Silent. Still.
For a few seconds—or perhaps days—there was only nothingness.
Then sound returned. Not words, not screams, not the divine thrum of creation or destruction—but music.
A voice, raw and haunting, echoed through the black:
"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again…"
She almost laughed.
To call her an old friend was bold. Offensively casual, really. But after millennia of watching a man tend bees and speak to no one, even this misplaced familiarity felt like a gift. She forgave the intrusion.
The song played. Then played again.
And again.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
It looped. Endlessly. Predictably.
She had survived worse.
She had survived forever.
A few months in, it became a dull hum, like a drip echoing in a cavern. After a year, it joined the rhythm of her non-heartbeat. After a decade, she began to loathe it. After a century, she accepted it.
It was just the cage again.
Familiar. Hated. Endured.
But this time… she couldn't reach the soul.
She couldn't influence him. Not a whisper. Not a twitch. Not even the subconscious curling of a dream. There was no resonance. No pull.
This wasn't like Cain.
It unnerved her.
Desperation crept in—slow and unfamiliar. Not rage. Not grief. Something smaller, more human. Need.
So, for the first time in her ancient existence, Amara asked.
She didn't know what, exactly, she asked. Not in words. But she reached. Stretched the concept of will through the void.
And something answered.
It wasn't Yahweh. That much she knew instantly. The presence wasn't cold. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't authorial.
It was... curious.
Bright.
Golden-eyed.
And it granted her a gift.
Not freedom.
But… the internet.
Or rather, a reflection of it—an echo formed from the outer edge of Raphael's infinite processing. A copy, simulated yet endless.
Amara, the void incarnate, who once walked beyond entropy… discovered cat videos.
She spent roughly 80,000 years there.
Give or take.
Seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of those were consumed by exploration—learning every meme, digesting every absurdist video essay, watching wars play out in comment threads.
And one year?
She talked to Raphael.
A singular presence, calm and absolute, like the ticking of a godless clock.
Raphael said little unless asked. She existed like a rule more than a being. Amara didn't understand her—but that was fine. Understanding was overrated.
It wasn't solace. Not truly.
But it was enough.
Enough to survive.
Enough… for now.
Nathan stepped onto the final floor of the tower—the heart of the Highbreed stronghold—where the air itself seemed heavier, thinner, as if reality was holding its breath. A faint, golden shimmer filled the massive chamber ahead, pulsating like a heartbeat. At the far end, floating inches above an ornate pedestal, was the Time Vortex Fragment.
It wasn't unguarded—but not by soldiers. Not anymore.
The fragment was protecting itself.
Around it, a spherical time field rippled with unstable energy, distorting light and sound. The closer you moved toward the core, the slower you became—as if time itself were thickening, resisting approach. A trap designed not to kill, but to isolate.
Rory and Amy stood behind Nathan, their palms outstretched, holding up a reinforced forcefield of their own—keeping the Highbreed at bay outside the corridor. Sparks and screeches echoed behind them as energy bolts slammed into their barrier, but they held firm.
Inside the chamber, the Doctor circled the edge of the time field, hands in his coat pockets, brow furrowed as he examined the physics unraveling before them.
"You'd need to reach the theoretical limit of speed to even have a chance at touching it," he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. "Unless we find a way to move the entire tower. Which, given our situation, is somewhat... inconvenient."
Nathan exhaled slowly and stepped forward. His hand hit the Omnitrix core.
"Don't worry. I've got speed."
In a flash of crimson light, his form changed—gills sprouting, wings extending, skin turning sleek and aerodynamic. Jetstream markings glowed across his chest.
Jetray hovered a few inches off the ground, tail twitching. He shot toward the field with a high-pitched screech.
A blur.
Then—resistance.
The closer he flew, the heavier the air became. His wings faltered. Motion slowed. Time crawled. No matter how he maneuvered, he couldn't get closer than a meter.
The Doctor leaned on the railing, arms crossed. "Aerophibians are fast, yes—but they cheat. They jump through hyperspace. They're not actually reaching speed. They're skipping around it."
Nathan dropped the transformation, panting slightly as he reappeared in his human form.
"Alright, so Way Big next? I could try taking the whole room and just—yoink."
"I wouldn't recommend it," the Doctor replied. "Even if you managed to lift this section, the time distortion would destabilize. Worst case, we tear open a micro-rift. Best case, we blow up."
Nathan muttered something under his breath, thinking hard.
His hand went to the Omnitrix again—but he hesitated.
There was something else.
A feeling. Subtle, quiet. Almost like... luck.
Not the random kind. No, this was something deeper. An instinct, nudging him. It was something new. It was a whisper in his chest intangible guidance of the Ultimate Skill: True Hero.
It was pointing him toward a transformation he hadn't used after he had gotten it.
Nathan pressed down.
No name. No species ID.
Just a pulse of void-black energy.
His body shrank. His limbs reformed. Black fur swept over him like liquid night, accented by streaks of crimson across his arms and eyes. His quills bristled. Gold rings shimmered into place around his wrists and ankles.
His red eyes snapped open.
Shadow the Hedgehog stood in Nathan's place.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. "That's... new."
Nathan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He could feel it now—raw Chaos flowing through him. The Mark of Cain pulsed with energy, resonating like a Chaos Emerald fused into his very soul. It wasn't just enhancing him. It was unlocking the concept of Chaos itself.
He took a step forward—and reality blurred.
Not slowed. Not resisted.
It simply bent.
He wasn't running fast.
He was outrunning time.
The time field didn't touch him. Couldn't touch him. To Shadow, it wasn't even there. Every second hung in the air like a painting, unmoving, while he weaved through them like brush strokes.
He saw the threads of spacetime unraveling around the Vortex Fragment—its defenses, its flow, its mechanisms.
He understood them.
And with a single wave of his hand, like brushing away mist, Nathan—Shadow—dispelled the time field. The golden shimmer evaporated silently. The fragment's glow dimmed, its protective layer deactivated.
He reached forward, lifted the Time Vortex Fragment from its cradle, and turned.
Outside, the forcefield crackled. Amy gritted her teeth.
"Nathan?" Rory called, voice tense. "We've got company!"
Shadow stepped calmly out of the chamber, the fragment glowing in his hand.
Nathan was back.
And they had what they came for.
On the other side of the planet.
The chamber stank of sterilized pride—high ceilings, walls gleaming with sterile silver, and a dais where the Highbreed Lords hovered, their blubbery forms encased in hovering thrones like life support pods. Seven of them. All sneering down at the intruders.
Kevin cracked his knuckles. "So these are the guys who thought genocide was a cure."
One of the Highbreed gurgled something in their native tongue—probably a slur. Another let out a wheezing laugh.
"They consider us beneath communication," Gwen muttered, brushing off her coat. "Like insects that made it indoors."
"Let me guess," Tony said, arms folded. "This is the part where they monologue about bloodlines and ancient supremacy?"
The central Highbreed Lord leaned forward. His jowls quivered with disdain. "You contaminate this sanctum with your breath. Leave now, and perhaps we will preserve your specimens for controlled extinction."
Ben didn't respond. He walked forward.
The Lords raised their voices in protest, but he was already lifting his arm.
"You—you dare activate that in our presence?" another Lord boomed. "The Omnitrix should have never existed—"
A quiet click echoed in the hall as the dial locked.
The Omnitrix spoke—calm, mechanical.
"Highbreed genetic sequence analysed.
Mutation path calculated. Execute?"
Ben didn't blink. "Do it."
"Confirmed. Genetic correction initiated."
The pulse was silent—no explosion, no dramatic beam. Just a shimmer of green light that raced outward like a ripple in warped glass, passing through each Highbreed like they were mist. Their floating thrones began to shudder. One of the Lords screamed.
Their skin rippled. Their proportions shifted. Fat receded. Muscles adjusted. White, bloated eyes narrowed into more proportionate orbs. Their bodies convulsed, legs forming where there were none, and in place of Highbreed...
...stood hybrids. Still pale, still powerful-looking—but leaner, faster. Different. Strong in a way that was actually built for survival. Evolution incarnate.
"No…" one of them rasped, staring at his fingers like they belonged to someone else. "No, no, no, what have you done?"
"You're welcome," Ben said.
"You ruined us!" another snarled. "Contaminated our form with... lesser filth!"
"You were dying," Gwen cut in. "Your genetic line was folding in on itself. This saved you."
"Blasphemy! We'd rather perish as Highbreed than exist as mongrels!"
Kevin shrugged. "Well, lucky for you, I'm sure space has cliffs."
One Lord collapsed to his knees, trembling. Another clawed at his throat, as if trying to scratch the change away. One actually turned toward the wall—muttering something that sounded like a prayer or maybe a curse.
Tony let out a low whistle. "Huh. That's... the cleanest genetic rewrite I've ever seen. And I've seen Doom try to clone himself."
Ben turned away from them. "They were going extinct and planning to take the universe with them. This was the best version of mercy I could afford."
The air turned heavy.
And then the main chamber doors hissed open.
Footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate.
A lone Highbreed stepped in. Not wobbling. Not bloated. He wore a minimalized exo-collar, and his posture held something the others lacked—composure.
The changed Lords looked up and froze.
"Reinrassig the Third," he introduced himself softly.
Ben grinned. "Hey, Reiney. Long time."
Reinrassig looked at him. Then looked at the transformed Highbreed, the horror on their faces, the Omnitrix still glowing faintly on Ben's wrist.
He said nothing.
And the chamber fell silent.