Brendon hated suits.
The fabric itched, the tie strangled, and every time he looked in the mirror, he felt like he was impersonating an adult. But the pitch meeting demanded it.
He stood in the lobby of a mid-tier venture group in Los Angeles, a tablet under his arm loaded with specs. His invention—on the surface—was simple: a compact energy cell, twice the storage of lithium, recharged in minutes. In truth, it was a stripped-down fragment of Hammer's rifle core, refined under Grey Matter's precision.
The receptionist waved him in.
Brendon stepped into the boardroom and delivered. Calm. Technical. Efficient. His words flowed smoother than he'd expected. Maybe the Omnitrix was bleeding confidence into him, or maybe near-death fights had lowered the bar for stress.
The investors listened. They asked sharp questions. And they nodded.
By the end, Brendon Technologies had its first major backers.
Stark's Eye
It should've been a victory lap. But two days later, Brendon got the call.
A clipped voice, polite but firm.
"Mr. Stark would like a word."
Brendon froze in the middle of his cluttered apartment, surrounded by blueprints and half-melted alien scrap. He didn't ask how they got his number. He just asked when.
The meeting was set for tomorrow.
That night, Brendon barely slept. He kept replaying possibilities: Was Stark curious? Suspicious? Was S.H.I.E.L.D. pulling strings?
He stared at the Omnitrix glowing faintly on his wrist.
If he sees this… game over.
The Meeting
Stark's office was exactly what Brendon expected—sleek glass walls, holographic displays, the faint smell of overpriced whiskey.
Tony Stark himself lounged behind the desk, sharp eyes flicking over a file.
"Brendon King," he drawled. "Twenty-four. No degree worth bragging about. No patents filed. Yet suddenly you're the hot kid in energy tech. Either you're a genius, or you've got one hell of a cheat sheet."
Brendon forced a smile. "Guess I just think differently."
Tony's gaze lifted, pinning him. "Uh-huh. And where'd you learn to make a cell that makes my arc reactor look old-school?"
Silence stretched. Brendon's pulse hammered.
"I take things apart," he said finally. "Figure out how to put them back together better. That's it."
Tony leaned back, studying him. For a moment, Brendon thought he'd push harder, crack the façade.
But instead, Stark smirked. "Well, good for you. Competition keeps me sharp. Just don't sell out to Hammer. Guy couldn't engineer his way out of a paper bag."
He stood, extended a hand. Brendon shook it.
And in that instant, Tony's eyes flicked—just briefly—to the bulky shape under Brendon's sleeve.
Nothing was said. But the glance told Brendon everything.
Tony had noticed.
Night Work
That evening, Brendon needed to burn the tension out.
He took the Omnitrix to the rooftops. Chose Four Arms this time. Slammed down hard into the green light, his body expanding, muscles stretching until the city lights looked small beneath him.
He roared into the night, leaping building to building, each landing shattering concrete. The power was intoxicating.
But it wasn't mindless. He targeted. He found a gang shipment near the docks, tore through them with controlled precision—no deaths, no witnesses left conscious enough to talk.
It wasn't just about fighting. It was about sending a message.
The green blur wasn't going away. It was growing.
Cracks in the Mask
Back in his room, Brendon sat with the Omnitrix glowing faintly on the desk.
He turned the faceplate over in his hands, tracing its edges.
Every fight, every transformation, he learned more. Durations varied with stress. Some forms resisted the timeout longer than others. The dial's holograms shifted subtly as if the watch was adapting to him.
It wasn't random. It was a system. And systems could be cracked.
He sketched notes: timers, cooldowns, glitches. If there was a way to reach Master Control—the full power override—it had to be buried in here.
But another thought gnawed at him.
Stark knew something. Fury probably knew more. The board was filling up with players, and Brendon was still pretending to be a pawn.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"…How long before someone makes me choose a side?"
The Omnitrix pulsed once, like a warning.