Gwen's Worry
The lab lights glowed faintly against the midnight skyline. Most of Nirvana's compound was asleep, but Gwen Stacy lingered. She leaned over a microscope, logging cell growth, but her attention kept flicking sideways—to the figure hunched at another workstation.
Brendon King.
His face was pale under the harsh light, eyes ringed by exhaustion. Fingers tapped furiously at a keyboard while holographic readouts spiraled around him—metabolic graphs, Omnitrix simulations, projection after projection.
Gwen sighed softly. She'd been around driven people before—her father, her professors, even Oscorp colleagues. But Brendon was different. He didn't just drive himself hard. He devoured every waking hour.
Finally, she set the microscope aside. "You know, most people your age are worrying about exams or dating apps, not rewriting the laws of physics at two in the morning."
Brendon didn't look up. "Most people don't have this much to lose."
"That's exactly my point." Gwen crossed her arms, stepping closer. "You're burning the candle at both ends—and then you're lighting the melted wax on fire too. Do you even hear yourself sometimes?"
That made him pause. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, but his jaw stayed stubborn. "If I slow down, Gwen, people get hurt. Hammer was just the beginning. There's worse out there. I can't afford to—"
She cut him off. "And what happens when you collapse? Who picks up the pieces then? Alicia? Me? Peter? You think we don't see how drained you are?"
Brendon opened his mouth, closed it, then finally leaned back in his chair. For the first time, he looked less like the Morpher, less like the brilliant founder, and more like a kid carrying a mountain.
Gwen softened. "I'm not saying stop. I'm saying… you need balance. A system. You're not a machine, Brendon. Even the best systems crash if you don't maintain them."
Her words landed deeper than she realized.
The Spark of an Idea
Brendon sat in silence long after Gwen left the lab. Her voice echoed in his mind: you're not a machine.
He turned to the Omnitrix, fingers brushing its sleek surface. "She's right, isn't she? You're not meant to keep patching me together while I tear myself apart."
The watch pulsed faintly, almost in agreement.
That night, Brendon sketched a new project into his Black File. Not weapons. Not contingency plans. Something for himself: healing.
An enhancement system, not to push him beyond human limits, but to restore what prolonged Omnitrix use took away. Cellular recovery serums. AI-guided meditation feedback. A fusion pod—half medical chamber, half alien rejuvenation tank.
If the Omnitrix could remake his DNA into alien forms, then surely it could support repairing his baseline. Not just surviving—sustaining.
The Realization of Care
The next morning, Brendon joined breakfast in the compound cafeteria. It was rare for him—usually Alicia shoved food at him between meetings.
Peter was there, grinning about a new water filter prototype. MJ rolled her eyes but listened. Ned animatedly sketched drone designs on napkins. Gwen sat across from them, eyes flicking to Brendon with subtle satisfaction that he was, for once, eating.
Halfway through the meal, Peter looked up. "Brendon, you know… we've got your back, right? Like, if things ever get too much."
MJ snorted. "Translation: stop playing the lone brooding genius. You've got people now."
Ned nodded furiously. "Seriously, man. Sidekick applications are piling up."
Even Alicia, walking by with her tablet, smirked. "They're right. You're not as alone as you think."
Brendon froze mid-bite, the words hitting harder than he expected. He looked around the table—these weren't just recruits or interns. They were friends. People who cared whether he stood or fell.
For the first time in months, Brendon allowed himself to smile, small but real.
Training with Care
That week, his routine shifted. Training was still grueling—Ripjaws' underwater endurance, Heatblast's energy channeling, XLR8's control drills—but now he scheduled rest deliberately. Meditation sessions monitored by his VI. Recovery pods after long transformations.
Alicia teased him mercilessly about the "Brendon Wellness Plan," but she also quietly signed off on the labs prioritizing his recovery tech.
And every so often, he caught Gwen watching him. Not with skepticism now, but with something else. Relief, maybe. Respect.
Closing Reflection
Late one evening, Brendon wrote in the Black File again:
Lesson: A leader isn't measured only by victories, but by endurance.
A system without maintenance fails.
I won't fail—not because I'm invincible, but because I will learn to care for myself as much as others do.
The Omnitrix glowed faintly, almost like approval.
Brendon leaned back, a quiet strength settling over him. He wasn't just training for war anymore. He was training to last.