Uch Sharif had its own rhythm. Hot, slow, unmoved by time. In the summer, the air itself seemed to sweat, clinging to skin like silk soaked in syrup. You could hear sandals slapping through dirt alleys, goats grumbling under banyan trees, transistor radios crackling cricket scores through half-broken windows.
Inside a single-room house halfway between the bazaar and the shrine, twenty-year-old Arslan Ali lay stretched out on a thin mattress that had long since given up on cushioning. One leg draped over a rolled towel. One hand resting lazily on his stomach. He was shirtless — not out of vanity, but necessity. The room was a furnace by noon, and the pedestal fan in the corner only gave false hope. A slow, uneven hum that circulated heat instead of dispelling it.
The walls were cracked but painted. A soft, fading blue. There was a bookshelf nailed half-heartedly above his head, filled with a few old Urdu poetry collections, some English textbooks from his university years in Lahore, and a comic book wedged behind a copy of Manto's Letters like it didn't want to be caught existing. On the far side of the room, near a table made from two stacked crates and an old door, a secondhand tablet blinked softly — its screen cracked but valiantly functional, playing a low-res video on YouTube.
Arslan watched Ben 10, the original series. No subtitles. No dub. Just raw nostalgia. It wasn't for research or irony or some postmodern twist on childhood comfort. It was genuine. He smiled at the opening sequence, that grainy theme song, the way Ben fumbled with heroism like it was a broken toy.
He remembered being ten himself. Grabbing the screen, shouting "Mujhe chahiye!" like the Omnitrix could hear him if he believed hard enough. He'd pressed his palm to the television more times than he could count, convinced that one day — maybe just once — the cartoon would reach back.
Now, older, cynical, tired of being ignored by job boards and ghosted by every "startup" that promised a stipend in exchange for "experience," he still watched it. Still reached forward.
This time, it was muscle memory.
As Ben ran through the forest, chasing the green meteor streaking through the sky, Arslan reached toward the tablet, smirking. He yawned — a slow, jaw-popping yawn — and stretched, hand dragging lazily across the desk to adjust the plug on the old power strip that barely held the tablet's charger in place.
His thumb brushed the socket.
And the socket fought back.
There was no warning. No hiss. No scent of burn.
Just pure light.
White. Blinding. Brutal.
Electricity cracked up his arm like a god's whip. Every muscle in his body locked in instant spasm. His back arched off the mattress. His jaw clenched so tight his molars groaned. For one horrifying second, he couldn't even scream.
Then: dark.
Not sleep.
Not a swoon.
A total blackout.
He didn't remember falling. Didn't remember hitting the floor.
The sound of the fan faded. The video stuttered.
Just void.
---
When Arslan opened his eyes, the world had gone sterile.
White ceiling. White sheets. The smell of disinfectant and dettol-soaked gauze.
A nurse was humming somewhere behind a curtain. A small digital monitor beeped rhythmically beside him. His arm was wrapped in a basic bandage, an IV taped to the inside of his elbow, and his head throbbed like it had been split open, stitched, and sewn shut without anaesthesia.
"Zinda ho," the nurse murmured, peeking around the curtain with a raised brow.
He tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
His spine rebelled. Every nerve sang protest. He grunted — low, deep, quiet — and flopped back onto the pillow.
"Two days," the nurse said. "You were out."
Arslan blinked.
Two. Days.
He should have been dead. Or at least burned.
But there were no blisters on his hand. No singed skin. No nerve damage.
The attending doctor had called it "a mild electrical event," barely able to hide the confusion behind her clipboard. The ECG had gone wild for a few minutes. Then normalized. No arrhythmia. No lasting damage. His vitals were strong.
"Must've just shocked the senses," she'd said, not looking him in the eye.
They let him go by evening.
No charges. No follow-ups.
Just a warning about faulty wiring and a prescription for muscle relaxants he wouldn't fill.
---
Back home, the room was exactly as he left it.
Fan humming.
Tablet still blinking — battery low, screen dimmed.
Arslan stood in the doorway for a long minute, staring at the power strip that had nearly murdered him. It looked innocent. Plastic yellowing. One side of the plug slightly melted, barely holding the socket.
He squatted down, unplugged it, checked the prongs.
Nothing.
No trace of what had happened.
The air felt different though. Like the molecules were holding their breath.
He shook it off, stretched again, then flopped down on the mattress.
Ben 10 was still open, buffered at 360p. That first episode. The scene with the forest. The watch falling from the sky. Landing in front of Ben. Glowing. Beckoning.
He watched it again.
And then, with the lazy smile of someone both exhausted and unreasonably fond of being a fool, he reached forward.
Like a kid.
Just for the memory.
He touched the screen.
And this time…
His hand went in.
No resistance. No pressure. No fanfare.
Just warmth.
Like dipping his fingers into warm jelly.
His breath caught. He tried to jerk back—
But something clicked.
CHAK.
Weight locked onto his wrist.
A chill slammed through his spine.
He pulled back — fast, stumbling, tablet tumbling onto the floor.
And there it was.
On his wrist.
Real.
Not glowing cartoon pixels. Not cosplay plastic. Not some bootleg toy from the bazaar.
The Omnitrix.
Green light pulsing. Bands clamped around his forearm with mechanical precision. Matte black metal, etched with alien glyphs. Smooth to the touch, but cold. Alive.
Arslan stared at it.
Didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Five full minutes passed.
The tablet sparked on the floor. Glitched. Died. Screen went black with a crack down the center.
Still, Arslan didn't move.
He could feel the weight. The way it hugged his wrist like it had grown there. The subtle vibration in his bones.
He finally exhaled.
And muttered, very calmly:
> "Okay."
---
What followed wasn't a panic.
It was discipline.
He spent the next hour testing the edges of reality.
He wrote in his notebook — the same one he used for budgeting groceries and blackout schedules.
Is this a dream?
→ No lag. No inconsistencies.
→ Flame burns. Pain registers.
→ Mirror shows real time.
→ No lucid overlays.
→ Time flow stable.
Is it real?
→ Weight confirmed.
→ Consistency across senses.
→ External object (Omnitrix) visible on camera.
→ Measurable pulses from device (used voltmeter).
→ Not an illusion.
He documented everything. Breath patterns. Reaction speeds. Resting heart rate. Emotional flux.
When he touched the button, it chirped.
Not a shriek. Not an alarm.
Just a soft, affirming ping.
It was real.
It was his.
And yet, he didn't push it.
Didn't transform.
Because Arslan wasn't a hero.
He wasn't some overeager boy drunk on fantasy.
He was a survivor.
He knew tools were for use, not play.
He needed to understand it. Break it down. Rebuild it if needed. See where the power started — and where it would take him if he lost control.
He looked at the tablet again.
Dead.
Screen cracked. CPU fried.
Something had reached back.
---
Arslan stood slowly.
Walked over to the crate-desk.
Unplugged the remaining cords. Cleared space.
Pulled out a torn shopping list and flipped it over.
And then he wrote three words in block, unforgiving Urdu:
BUILD.
CONTROL.
EVOLVE.
He stared at the words. Then at the Omnitrix.
And smiled.
It was not a happy smile.
It was the smile of someone who knew damn well what was coming — and wasn't going to run from it.
The world had no idea.
But a prince had just been born from static.
And nothing would ever be the same again.