Ethan's eyes were locked on the faint flicker of the blue dot hovering at the edge of his vision. It was small, almost unobtrusive, but it pulsed with quiet insistence, as though waiting for his attention.
'Status?' Ethan thought, tentatively. Nothing happened.
'Menu? Interface? Screen?'
Still nothing. Frustration bubbled up as he ran through a rapid list of commands in his head. "How do I access this thing?" he muttered, gripping the hospital blanket with whitening knuckles.
It took nearly five minutes of repetition and brainstorming before the right word finally clicked: Abilities.
The blue dot flared briefly, and a screen materialized before his eyes, clean and minimalist in its design.
[Abilities]
S-Rank: [N/A]
A-Rank: [N/A]
B-Rank: [N/A]
C-Rank: [N/A]
D-Rank: [N/A]
E-Rank: [N/A]
F-Rank: [N/A]
Experimenting further, Ethan focused on the S-Rank slot and thought about Doom's ability. The translucent screen shifted, displaying the energy manipulation power alongside a new prompt.
[Ability Detected: Energy Manipulation (Doctor Doom) – S-Rank]
[Are you sure you wish to copy this ability?]
[Warning: Once slotted, abilities cannot be removed or changed.]
Ethan exhaled sharply, relief and curiosity warring in his chest. He stared at the empty slots, his mind already racing. Seven slots—one for each rank. And they seemed to be permanent, as the words earlier eluded.
'I have to be careful,' he thought, his hand brushing the bruise on his ribs. He needed power, but choosing recklessly could get him killed or worse.
The permanence of the decision made his breath catch. It wasn't just a question of raw power; copying Doom's ability could make him a target for heroes and villains alike. Besides, he had no idea what would happen if he chose the ability; would he be able to use it right away, or would he need to train and learn to control it? There were so many questions he needed to answer before selecting such a permanent choice for S-Rank, his ultimate trump card.
"Not yet," he muttered, canceling the prompt. For now, he needed time to plan. The screen faded back into the blue dot, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke his focus. Ethan turned to see the door to his hospital room swing open. Two familiar figures entered—the strangers from earlier that morning.
The woman reached him first. She was in her late thirties, with warm brown eyes, short wavy hair, and a small mole near her left cheekbone. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed to his bedside and threw her arms around him.
"Thank god you're okay!" she sobbed, her voice trembling. "We thought we lost you. We were so scared!"
The man followed, standing just behind her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face etched with worry. Relief flickered in his eyes as he looked Ethan over, but his expression hardened almost immediately.
"Damn super-powered freaks," he growled. "Always destroying the city, hurting people—"
"Not in front of Ethan!" the woman snapped, cutting him off. "He's safe. That's what matters."
Ethan's throat felt dry. These two were clearly invested in him, their concern palpable. And yet, they were strangers. He hesitated, his voice catching as he finally said the words trying to gauge their response:
"Mom? Dad?"
Both of them froze, then turned to him. The woman wiped her tears quickly, smiling through the lingering worry. "What is it, sweetie?"
The man gave a small nod. "Yeah, son? You need something?"
Ethan swallowed hard. So, I'm their son in this world. The realization settled heavily on him. If this was how the Marvel Universe worked, he shouldn't expect them to live long if he's an important character. Still, he felt weird about callin these two strangers Mom and Dad but he needed to play the role until he figured out what was going on.
Before Ethan could think of a response, the door opened again, and three men in suits walked in. They moved with the precision of bureaucrats, carrying briefcases and wearing identical navy blazers. The man in the center—a slim, middle-aged fellow with thinning hair—spoke first.
"Good afternoon. I'm Agent Manson with the Department of Damage Control, or DODC for short," he said, flashing a badge. "We're here to assess the damages from the incident earlier today."
Ethan's fake parents exchanged a nervous glance. "Damages?" the man asked.
Manson adjusted his tie. "Yes, sir. The battle in your neighborhood caused significant property destruction, including your home, which was... regrettably totaled. We're here to provide compensation."
The woman's hands flew to her mouth. "Our home..."
The agent nodded sympathetically, though his tone remained detached. "The evaluation is as follows: the destroyed property is valued at $400,000. Additionally, we'll cover medical expenses for your son, which total $12,000. And to account for emotional distress, we'll add an extra $20,000."
Ethan blinked. "Wait, that's it?" he asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
Manson turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Young man, this is standard protocol. We aim to resolve these incidents swiftly and fairly. You'll receive a check shortly."
The casual way he brushed off the destruction made Ethan's stomach churn. They've done this before. A lot.
The man—Ethan's fake father—crossed his arms, scowling. "That's all we get? Superheroes blow up half the damn city, and we're supposed to be okay with this?"
Manson offered a practiced smile. "I understand your frustration, sir, but the Department of Damage Control operates under strict budgets. This compensation package is very generous."
The woman placed a hand on her husband's arm. "Let's just take it. At least Ethan's safe."
Ethan leaned back, watching the exchange. His mind raced. The DODC's efficiency was unsettling, but it was also an opportunity. If this world had systems for cleaning up superhero chaos that meant the government was actively tracking them. Knowing this information was useful and he could use it to his advantage in the future.
As Manson handed over the paperwork, Ethan filed away every detail. Survival wasn't just about powers—it was about understanding the rules of this world and learning how to play the game.
Later that night, as Ethan lay in his hospital bed, the events of the day replayed in his mind. His parents—strangers but not. A world of heroes, villains, and collateral damage.
And the system.
The blue dot pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision, waiting. For the first time since arriving, Ethan allowed himself to sleep.