The Watcher's hum in Alex's head used to be this intense, guiding force, like a silent, powerful partner. But lately, it just felt like a constant, low-frequency ache, a never-ending thrum right behind his eyeballs. He'd done so much: stopped Ultron, kept the Avengers together, super-charged Dr. Strange, beefed up Spider-Man, and even made Wakanda practically invincible. He was the Architect, sure, pulling off miracles from the shadows. But man, the cost was getting heavy. Really heavy.
He hadn't had a truly peaceful night's sleep in... well, he couldn't even remember. His dreams weren't dreams anymore; they were like horror movies playing on an endless loop. Visions of worlds he hadn't saved, of people he knew died in the original timeline, of his own potential mistakes if he just looked away for a second. He'd wake up gasping, heart pounding, drenched in cold sweat, the screams of dying galaxies echoing in his ears. It was exhausting, totally draining.
And the loneliness? Oh man, that was the worst. He knew so much, saw so much, but he couldn't share any of it. He'd watch people on the street, laughing with their friends, complaining about traffic, worrying about bills – normal, everyday stuff. And he felt this huge, massive wall between him and them. How could he explain that he just averted a robot apocalypse or secretly upgraded a whole country? They wouldn't get it. They couldn't. He was living in a different reality, one only he and the silent Watcher truly understood. It was like he was watching a play, and everyone else was just living their lives, totally unaware of the script only he knew. It made casual conversation feel meaningless, shared moments feel hollow. He was becoming profoundly, terrifyingly isolated.
The paranoia was a real kicker too. Every time S.H.I.E.L.D. ramped up its "security protocols" (which he knew meant they were hunting for him), his stomach would clench. He'd spend hours, days even, just tightening his digital defenses, making sure his ghost signals were perfect. He was constantly looking over his shoulder, even in his empty hideout. Could they be watching? Did they know? The thought was always there, a tiny, gnawing worm in his brain.
He found himself losing interest in simple things. A good meal felt like just fuel. A beautiful sunrise was just light. He was always calculating, always strategizing, always preparing. His mind was a supercomputer, but his heart felt like it was turning into stone. He was getting smarter, stronger, more capable, but he was also becoming… less human. He was losing himself, bit by bit, to the mission.
Is this even worth it? he'd whisper into the quiet room, his voice hoarse. Am I really saving them? Or just becoming some kind of cosmic tool, losing everything that makes me… me?
Sometimes, he just wanted to quit. To shut down the journal, smash the smartwatch, and just disappear. To find a tiny, remote cabin somewhere, and just try to forget it all. But then the Watcher's hum would deepen, a silent, almost sympathetic pull. And a flash of those universe-ending visions would hit him – the blackness, the unraveling. And the resolve, grim and terrifying, would return. He couldn't stop. He literally couldn't stop.
He'd start compulsively reviewing his journal entries, ticking off the disasters averted, the lives saved. Ultron: Averted. Sokovia: Spared. Avengers: United. Strange: Powerful. Spider-Man: Super-effective. Wakanda: Invincible. The list was long, impressive. It was his proof. His reason.
He wasn't finding easy answers about his free will anymore. Was he truly making choices, or just following a cosmic script laid out by Uatu? He didn't know. But he decided something, deep down. Even if he was a pawn, he'd be the best darn pawn he could be. He would choose to fight. Not just for some ancient cosmic entity, but for the laughing families he saw on the street, for the normal lives he couldn't share. For the very idea of a choice, even if he felt like he had none himself. It was a grim, painful kind of determination, but it was his.
He tried to keep going, pushing through the mental fog and the crushing loneliness. The cosmic storm was getting closer. He could feel it in the air, a subtle static before a huge lightning strike. And Alex Mercer, the Architect, the ghost, the burden-bearer, knew he had to keep building. Even if it cost him everything. He just hoped, when it was all over, there would be anything left of him to save.