Sean Anderson was a kind man in his late thirties. Growing up, he had always been interested in helping those less fortunate. That's what led him to a life of volunteering and giving back to his community. This path led him to his wife, Carly, and two decided to open up a group him for young children without a place to stay.
Due to this, Sean came to know Wyatt when two social services workers came to his group him with the young homeless boy in tow. Sean had always tried to be patient with all his charges, but Wyatt had always been a tough kid. And today, Sean's patience had reached its limit. In his hands, he held an empty envelope. His expression was tired and defeated. Beside him sat Carly. She had a sad expression as she sat back in a chair in their homes kitchen.
The envelope in Sean's hands had once held the money that the government had given him for the group home's monthly allowance. The money was intended to buy their monthly supply of food and much-needed clothing for the children in their group home.
"Wyatt… how could you. You knew we needed that money! And you just… you just took it! How could you do that?!" Sean looked at a 14-year-old Wyatt with disappointment and anger. Carly remained silent, but she kept her eyes on Wyatt. She was afraid that if she spoke, she wouldn't be able to stop the sobs trapped in her throat. She had always wanted to help Wyatt. Help the young troubled boy work through his issues and problems. But Wyatt had always refused her help.
"What's the big deal? Just ask the government for more!" Wyatt said without a care, but his eyes betrayed him. The three of them stood in the home's dark kitchen. Guilt bled through him as he felt Carly's sad gaze on him, but he acted defiantly. "It's not my fault you don't ask for more! Maybe if you did, we could afford to fix the damn AC!"
Sean was about to snap, but after taking a deep, calming breath. He looked away from Wyatt. He was tired. And he couldn't keep putting up with all the troubles and issues Wyatt brought to their home.
"Go, Wyatt... Leave. I can't do this anymore… I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt so many times, but you just don't seem to care." Sean said tiredly. "Get out."
Wyatt stepped back as if struck; his eyes were wide in shock. He glanced over at Carly, almost pleadingly, but she held firm. It killed her inside, but she agreed with her husband. After a few seconds, Wyatt's ever-present anger rose, and he gritted his teeth.
"Fine! Fuck you, and fuck this shitty house!" Wyatt yelled, uncaring that several of his fellow house mates were sleeping. His roar had quickly awakened several of them.
He spun on his heel and grabbed his black backpack from the ground. With his backpack secured, he headed to the front door and grabbed the doorknob. He stood frozen for a second, his mind was in turmoil, before he finally schooled himself.
He opened the door and left.
••o••o••o••
Slowly, Wyatt opened his eyes. Despite having slept a full eight hours, he felt tired. After sitting up, he rubbed his face to rid any remaining sleep.
"What an idiot. No... I'm an idiot."
The dream he had was no dream. It was a memory—a memory of the younger Wyatt's life. Or should he say, his life.
Every night, Wyatt had been living out different memories of both his conjoined lives. Each new dream was getting harder to distinguish who it belonged to. It seemed that his brain was hard at work at merging both of his lifetimes together. Making it all one solid stream of memories.
It was getting harder to distinguish whose memories belonged to who. Wyatt was even beginning to forget what his other body once looked like. A coping mechanism from his brain, perhaps?
Last night, the memory of the reason why he had been kicked out from his group home played all throughout the night. He wasn't kicked out of the group home due to one solitary incident. No, it was due to several dozen incidents.
Each time, Sean and Carly had given him a second, third, fourth, fifth, and even twenty chances to redeem himself from his rash and irresponsible behavior. But he never did. He was too angry at the world and didn't think twice about how his actions could hurt those around him. He was a selfish fool.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when he stole the group home's monthly stipend from the government. The same funds that were needed to buy them all food and clothing for his fellow orphans.
And what did he use the money for?
He used it to pay the very same gang leader who had stabbed him to death as an enrollment fee for the gang.
"Yup. A big old idiot. That's me." Wyatt muttered and got off his bed.
After performing a series of stretches, a flash of reddish-pink energy enveloped him. Cleaning him of any grime or filth while also changing him into some casual clothing. Upon entering his kitchen, his opened his fridge to see a fully stocked fridge. A sight not too common in his past group home.
Frowning, he closed the door and ignored his stomach's hungry growl.
Wyatt walked over to the elevator door and pushed the up button to the side. After a few seconds, a soft ding broke the silence and he waved his hand. The outer layer of concrete hiding the elevator entrance disappeared and he stepped out. With another wave, the concrete slid over the door. As if it was never there to begin with.
Taking a few steps forward, Wyatt picked up two rocks and transformed them into a pair of sunglasses and a black baseball hat. After placing them on, he began making the journey to Hoboken.
••o••o••o••
A melodic ring echoed in Victor's old, grimy pawn shop, gaining his attention. He put down the cheap gold ring he was examining and watched as Wyatt walked over to him with his hands in his front jacket pockets. Victor kept his eyes trained on Wyatt while feeling for the hidden short barreled shotgun under his counter.
Wyatt removed his shades and hat and gave Victor an easygoing smile.
"Morning. The names, Mark. Mark Grayson. I saw the sign on your shop that says you buy gold. And from word around the street, you don't ask questions. That true?" Wyatt said.
After a few seconds, Victor nodded and removed his hands from his weapon in favor of leaning on the counter. But he made sure to remain close by, in case whoever stepped into his shop was another wannabe hooligan. "Yeah... That's true."
"Great. How much can you give me for these?" Wyatt pulled out three expertly crafted gold and diamond-encrusted necklaces.
Seeing them, Victor blinked in fascination and grabbed his headband magnifiers. He inspected each of the necklaces and couldn't help but marvel at their craftsmanship and quality. He had never come upon such high-quality work in all his thirty years of work.
One of the necklaces could easily sell for thirty to fifty thousand dollars. Altogether, at least one hundred fifty thousand dollars was sitting before him!
Victor smiled shrewdly and eyed Wyatt. The boy was young and clearly had no idea what he had on him. This would be the easiest score he would ever make in his life.
"Eh, I can give you… five thousand for all three. No one will offer you more than that." Victor said, unimpressed.
"Oh wow!" Wyatt said with a large smile, causing Victor to grin slightly. "That's a terrible deal!"
Victor blinked as Wyatt quickly took his necklaces back. "You know… I think I saw another jewelry shop down the street. Maybe I'll go there and find someone who isn't as blind as a mole. Goodbye!"
"W-Wait!" Victor panicked and ran around his counter as Wyatt touched the front door. "Sorry, my young friend! I meant to say that I'll give you fifty thousand for your necklaces! A good deal, no?"
"Just fifty thousand? Matteo from down the street offered me seventy. You gotta do better than that if you want these fine works of art." Wyatt crossed his arms and gave Victor a disbelieving look. "You saw it, didn't you? A man of your experience must have seen that these diamonds and gold are the purest you've ever come across."
"That damn, Matteo! Always stealing my business! Okay! Ninety! I can offer you ninety thousand and no more!"
"I want one-thirty."
"Geh! One-thirty?! H-how about one-twenty?"
"One-twenty? You're disrespecting me, Victor. I went through a lot of… trouble acquiring these fine necklaces." Wyatt sighed and opened the door. Victor moved as fast as he could and grabbed Wyatt's wrist.
"Fine! Okay! One-thirty! I'll give you one-thirty for all three!" Victor said with wide eyes. He hoped Wyatt wouldn't ask for more.
Wyatt made a show of thinking it over before smiling. "You got yourself a deal, Victor." He said and held out a hand. "Maybe if you don't low ball me again, I might just come back next month with some more."
Victor released a sigh of relief and shook Wyatt's hand.
After retrieving the funds from his secured safe and placing them in a secured briefcase, Victor returned to the counter and received the necklaces from Wyatt.
"Thank you for your business, my friend. If you do ever come across more of these works of art. You can come to me! And no one else! I'll make sure you're well taken cared of!" Victor said with a slimy smile after giving Wyatt the briefcase.
Wyatt hummed and nodded at the man's offer. "Sure. As long as you don't try to shortchange me, I'll come to you and not anyone else."
"Don't worry, my young friend. You won't find any better offers in Hoboken than my store. I guarantee it."
Wyatt nodded and left Victor's pawn shop. As he turned the corner, he put on his shades and hat and transformed the briefcase into a black Kevlar backpack with the money safely secured inside. Opening it, he looked down at the several stacks of bills and used his power to ensure that Victor didn't shortchange him. After a quick scan, Wyatt saw that the money was all there.
Before coming up with his idea of creating jewelry to sell, Wyatt was tempted to create an infinite amount of dollar bills. It wasn't a bad idea. But it had its drawbacks. While he could create an endless supply of physical money, it would all be counterfeit and quickly proved worthless.
In the United States, money is specially designed to prevent the use of counterfeit copies. Each bill features various security measures, such as watermarks, security threads, color-shifting ink, raised printing, UV-reactive elements, and a serial number. These markings help distinguish authentic bills from counterfeit ones. Thus resulting in Wyatt's counterfeit money being eventually being found out. And if the bills were ever traced back to him, then he would have a new wave of problems.
So if Wyatt wanted to get real money, he would have to sell other materials or goods such as precious ores like gold or diamonds that he could create infinitely without any problem and sell them to those who wouldn't ask too many questions about where he got them.
"It may not change what I did... But at least it should help."
Zipping the bag up, Wyatt slid the backpack on and was about to leave when, all of a sudden, three figures walked out from around the corner of a building. They eyed Wyatt with greedy eyes as they began to follow him. Seeing that the three thugs wouldn't stop following, Wyatt groaned and led them to a solitary alleyway. Once there, he turned to them with annoyance.
"Whatcha got in the bag, boy?" The first thug, a shaggy man whose arms were covered in tattoos, said.
"Hand it over. Now." A man with dirty blonde hair pulled out a butterfly knife and waved it around in an attempt to threaten Wyatt. The last thug, a short, balding man, simply laughed and said nothing. The wooden bat in his hand rested over his shoulder.
"Really? I was expecting this situation to come up sooner or later. But come on! You three losers are the first thugs I have to take down?" Wyatt rubbed his neck. His words and lack of fear left the three thugs bewildered. "I got places to be. Come on. Let's do this."
"…The fucks wrong with this kid?" The dirty blonde man said.
"Who cares? He called us losers! Let's fuck him up!"
With indignant roars, all three men rushed Wyatt. Eager to teach him respect.
Wyatt, despite having reality-warping powers, was still a little nervous. He may have put on a brave face as he talked back to the three men, but deep inside, he was intimidated. He had never gotten into a proper fistfight before. At the sight of three grown men armed with knives and a bat rushing at him, his fear only grew.
"Remember, you can do anything!" Wyatt whispered and waved his right hand to the side.
The bat within the shorter man's grasp shifted into solid steel. Due to the unexpected weight change, the man dropped his bat on his foot. Eliciting a pained scream.
The knife in the first thug's hand transformed into sand and fell through his fingers. "What the hell?!"
Stomping his foot, Wyatt concentrated and extended the concrete floor to cover the legs of all three thugs. Trapping them in their spots. They tried to break free, but the strength of the concrete barely allowed them to move an inch.
"That was… easy." Wyatt said in awe and stared at himself with amazement.
"M-Mutant! This kid is a mutant!" The short man said in fear.
"Shit! Listen, man, we're sorry, alright! Don't kill us!" The tattooed man pleaded.
"What? No, I'm not gonna kill you bozos. And I'm not a mutant… I think. Listen, just go get a real job, or something? Oh and stop breaking the law! Otherwise, I'll… bury you three ten feet under the city?" To prove his point, Wyatt used his powers to pull the thugs slowly into the earth.
"Ahh! Okay! We will! We'll turn a new leaf! Just don't bury us alive!" The dirty blonde-haired man said with his two friends nodding in agreement.
After giving the three men a glare, Wyatt waved his hand. Breaking their concrete holds. Without wasting another second, they ran out of the alley as fast as they could.
"Why were they so afraid that I could have been a mutant? Are the mutants of this universe violent? Are the X-Men not a thing? Damn… why couldn't my younger self have cared more to look into these things before?Now I have to look into it at some point. But first, I need to set things right." Wyatt looked up to the sky and began to float up, thanks to the glowing disk under him.
••o••o••o••
In a quiet neighborhood on the south side of Harlem, Sean pushed his lawn mower as he worked diligently to cut the grass surrounding the Anderson Group Home. Once he was done, he grabbed the weed wacker from the garage and was about to trim the yard around back when he saw a familiar face.
"Wyatt," Sean uttered in surprise. Not expecting to see the boy he had kicked out of his group home. Shame swelled within him as he eyed the fifteen-year-old he had given up on a year ago.
"Hello… Sean," Wyatt said awkwardly.
The two said nothing as they continued their staring contest until Wyatt looked around.
"Where is… where is everyone?" Wyatt asked.
"Carly took everyone on a field trip to the Smithsonian. Jacob was excited to see the new addition to the Captain America exhibit," Sean answered. After taking a deep breath, he motioned to the house that had once been Wyatt's home for two years. "Would you... like to come inside? Do you want something to eat? Drink?"
"No, no. I'm okay. I just came… to give you-give the group home something." Wyatt slid the backpack off and walked up to Sean.
Sean accepted the bag with a confused look, but it quickly changed to shock at the sight of all the money inside. "What- what is this? Where did you get this?"
"Easy. I didn't steal it or anything like that." Wyatt raised his hands and smiled at the man, but his smile faded as he recalled the night Sean had kicked him out. "Listen, Sean. I'm… sorry. I'm sorry I took the money that was meant for everyone. I'm sorry I was such an ungrateful jerk. But now, I'm trying to turn my life around, be better, and I can't do that without making things right with you and this place."
"Wyatt… what I did wasn't right. I shouldn't have kicked you out of your home; that was wrong of me... I'm sorry as well. Still, this is a lot of money. It's too much." Sean closed the bag and took a deep breath. "Does this money have anything to do with why the police came asking about you?"
"Ah, so they did come." Wyatt sighed. "No, they're looking for me for something else. It's really just a misunderstanding. The money is legitimate. I didn't steal it, so you don't have to worry about where it came from." Wyatt reached into his pocket and brought out a sales receipt, which he showed Sean.
Sean bit his tongue; he had been prepared to accuse Wyatt of just that. The bag in his hands now felt heavier. Seeing Sean's reluctance, Wyatt gave him a pleading smile.
"Keep it. Use it to buy everyone a new wardrobe or fix up the place. Remodel the kitchen or upgrade the AC for everyone. Accept it… please," Wyatt said, his voice filled with regret. "If you're not going to take it for me, take it for them." He said, looking at the empty house.
Sean stared at the bag for several seconds before ultimately nodding. "Okay, I will... Thank you, Wyatt."
"Thanks Sean. Say hi to Carly for me," Wyatt smiled and was about to turn away when Sean stopped him.
"You can come back, Wyatt… There's a place for you here. This is still your home," Sean said.
"That's okay, Sean. Really."
"You've changed, Wyatt. I'm not sure what you've been through this past year, but you've changed." Sean's eyes examined Wyatt closely as if he were looking at a completely different person than the angry, troubled boy from last year.
Wyatt remained silent but offered Sean a small smile. He walked away from the Anderson group home and disappeared into the streets with nothing more to say.