A Free Radical

In the first moment of his existence, the world greeted him—a riotous kaleidoscope of sensation. Honking horns, distant shouts, and the metallic grind of unseen machinery assaulted his ears. The air clung, heavy with garbage and exhaust. Every nerve sparked to life, a deluge that left him reeling.

Levi Wilder's arrival was announced with all the fanfare of a soft bloop.

Then came the falling—or at least, the realization that falling was inevitable. For one absurd second, he seemed to hang there, suspended in the universe's spotlight like a coyote who'd just noticed the cliff edge. Then gravity arrived with a metaphorical shrug and yanked him down.

Really? This is how it starts?

The alley's concrete rose up to greet him with all the grace of a sucker punch. Knees scraped the ground, palms stung from the impact, and his skull hit last, the world spinning as cartoonish little birds fluttered through his mind's eye.

Groaning, he pushed himself onto his elbows, squinting at the light filtering between two towering buildings.

Where the hell am I?

The air smelled like exhaust, grease, and the faint tang of garbage. Not exactly homey, but it wasn't the smell that concerned him. The skyline beyond the alley walls looked wrong—not unfamiliar, but stylized somehow, like a comic book backdrop brought to life; sharp edges and gleaming surfaces clashing with graffiti-stained walls and flickering neon signs.

Levi Wilder wasn't a super-soldier, a secret assassin, or the world's preeminent mind on quantum entanglement. He didn't have an eidetic memory or a Shakespearean backstory filled with betrayals and ancient conspiracies. At 37, he was just a programmer—a man who'd once had a family and a steady, quietly good life. Not rich, but not living paycheck to paycheck. He didn't think twice about splurging on coffee that tasted like coffee, and he could usually afford to take his weekends off.

He ran a hand through his hair—dirty blond, short on the sides, and long enough on top to push back when he needed to look sharp. His fingers traced the edges of a beard that straddled the line between rugged and groomed. It framed a long face, his dark blue eyes catching in a puddle's reflection. The dark circles beneath them, his constant companions, paired with faint laugh lines to add a touch of dry humor to his worn features.

The alley was flanked by brick walls that had seen better decades. A rusted dumpster leaned precariously against one side, while a pair of broken pallets lay discarded nearby, completing the tableau of urban decay. Beyond the mouth of the alley, the city loomed—honking cars, shouting pedestrians, and buildings stacked like teetering towers of children's blocks.

As Levi stepped to the mouth of the alley, his eyes darted to a weathered sign across the street: Nelson and Murdock Attorneys at Law. The lettering was clean, but the rest of the building looked like it hadn't seen maintenance in a while.

The name caught his eye. Familiar. Too familiar. Levi narrowed his gaze, a flicker of recognition tightening his chest.

Before he could dwell on it, the crunch of paper underfoot drew his attention. A newspaper, yellowed and torn, was partially crumpled beneath his sneaker. He bent to pick it up, smoothing the front page out against his knee.

The Daily Bugle.

Wait, what? He frowned, his eyes scanning the headline: Stark Industries Closes Record Breaking Deal with The Pentagon. Below that, a subheading read: New York's Young Vigilantes: Menace or Miracle? He scanned the street, half-expecting a guy in red spandex to swing past. No such luck—just regular pedestrians.

Levi's stomach dropped. The name Stark was enough to send his mind racing, but it was the date that sealed it: 2007. This wasn't his world.

Hell's Kitchen. Stark Industries. The pieces clicked into place like a puzzle he wasn't ready to solve. This wasn't just New York—it was… The Marvel Universe. Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Doubt I'll be making Monday morning's meeting. He began to peer more closely at the paper in his hands when a sharp ding cut through his thoughts, the sound echoing inside his head.

[INITIALIZING]

:: User Profile Detected.

:: Loading Adaptive Logic Unit 69.

Levi pressed a hand to his temple as the world tilted for a moment. His pulse thudded against his ribs, his breath hitching before he forced it back under control. An existential crisis wouldn't help, but damn if it didn't feel like an option.

[STATUS]

:: Consciousness Stable.

:: Environmental Threat Assessment: Moderate.

:: Immediate Action Recommended.

What fresh hell is this? Did I get uploaded to the Matrix?

[SARCASM]

:: Upload to Matrix successful.

:: Cognitive stability confirmed.

The voice resonated in his head—cool, clinical, and smug, like someone had hooked a Bluetooth speaker directly into his brain.

The voice in my head assures me I'm stable… what a relief. Levi leaned back against the alley wall, folding his arms. Wait. 'Sarcasm'? Did I wind up with a sassy Jarvis in my head?

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Designation AL-69 (Adaptive Logic) is an integrated adaptive system designed to optimize host functionality.

:: Adaptive communication parameters are calibrated to align with host personality traits for seamless interface.

Levi snorted. So you're saying you're programmed to be a smartass. Great. My subconscious outsourced my coping mechanisms.

[SUMMARY]

:: The Adaptive Evolution System enhances host resilience through exposure and adaptation to environmental stressors, stimuli, and genetic material.

Right. So you're not just here to narrate my mental break. Then what's your job description?

[FUNCTIONS]

:: Incremental Physical Enhancement: Achieved through progressive stress and repetition.

:: Resistance Development: Adaptation to toxins, trauma, temperature extremes, and other external factors.

:: Energy optimization: Enhanced stamina, accelerated recovery, and metabolic efficiency.

:: Advanced traits: Sensory acuity, regeneration, and controlled energy projection.

Wait—'energy projection'? You mean like throwing fireballs or going all Cyclops on people? Levi raised an eyebrow.

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Energy projection traits depend on host physiology and environmental stimuli.

:: Potential exists for advanced adaptation, contingent on controlled exposure.

Cool! So I can become an X-Men!

[WARNING]

:: Improper use of the system may result in Aberrations—unstable adaptations leading to unpredictable or catastrophic outcomes.

…Or a Cronenberg?

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Aberrations are suboptimal outcomes resulting from failed adaptations.

:: Mitigation is possible through controlled exposure.

:: Unresolved Aberrations will self-correct over time, often impairing function and posing significant risks during recovery.

Right. No reckless experimentation, or it's mutation roulette. Got it.

[ACKNOWLEDGEMENT]

:: Summary acceptable.

:: Recommend to avoid mutation roulette.

Levi exhaled through his nose, glancing back toward the street. The city noise washed over him—honking cars, distant sirens, the unmistakable chaos of Hell's Kitchen.

[RECOMMENDATION]

:: Secure Shelter, Food, and Resources.

:: Establish safety.

:: Avoid confrontation with local threats until essential needs have been met.

Survival Guide for Dummies, chapter one. Got it.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host is effectively employing humor as a coping mechanism for perceived surrealism.

Let's just ignore that and move on. Levi hesitated, glancing at the street beyond the alley. What's the play here?

The pedestrians looked like any other city crowd—hurried, indifferent—but this wasn't any other city. Here, stepping into the open could mean catching a stray bullet—or worse, the attention of a stray supervillain on their way back to their lair from the corner market.

[EXHORTATION]

:: Remaining stationary decreases host's life expectancy.

:: Relocate.

His eyes darted to a man across the street, hunched against a lamppost, his gaze lingering a second too long. Levi swallowed, forcing himself to look away. For all he knew, the guy was just homeless. Or he could be waiting to mug the next idiot who looked lost. Either way, staying in one spot wasn't an option.

Despite everything, he chuckled. "Fine. Shelter it is."

Levi paced the alley, forcing himself to think clearly. The newspaper's date confirmed this was the early MCU timeline—probably pre-Iron Man. If he was lucky, things hadn't spiraled into alien invasions and demigod brawls yet. But this wasn't a place to linger.

He ran a hand down his face—his fingers flexed, his expression hardening. Ok, let's figure out what you can do before some super-powered psycho turns me into street art. Hell's Kitchen wasn't exactly a bastion of safety back home—here, in a world shaped by Stan Lee's imagination, it could be ten times worse.

[COMMENTARY]

:: Host's prioritization of survival is logical.

:: Mental coherence remains intact.

Could I use you as a reference? 'Mentally Coherent' - The system interface in my head.

Levi scanned the street. Hell's Kitchen wasn't short on abandoned buildings. The trick would be finding one without squatters or gangs. His stomach rumbled. Hunger didn't care about dignity, but for now, let's leave dumpster diving as a last resort. This place is sketchy. The wrong kind of attention—from criminals, cops, or anyone with a grudge—could turn bad quickly. I'll want to blend in or go unseen.

Levi stepped out of the alley, blending into the flow of pedestrians.

[ADVISEMENT]

:: Environmental risks moderate.

:: No potential threats identified.

:: Maintain vigilance.

As the Al's voice faded, Levi took a deep breath. This wasn't home—not even close—but it was a starting point.

Levi's gaze caught on a boarded-up building across the street, its windows shattered and graffiti marking the walls. The heavy door hung slightly ajar, swaying faintly in the breeze. "Not exactly the Ritz," he muttered, stepping off the curb. "But I've slept in worse."

As Levi stepped into the street, a weathered billboard for Stark Industries loomed in the distance, promising 'Peace Through Strength' in bold, sterile letters. He let out a quiet sigh, brushing his hand against the edge of the Daily Bugle folded in his pocket. "Not much left to miss anyway."

The thought lingered for a moment before he shook it off, squaring his shoulders. Focus, Wilder. Stick to the plan. First: food. Second: shelter. Third: channel your inner Bee Gee and focus on Stayin' Alive.