A Free Radical

The mattress Levi had dragged to the driest corner of his hideout had seen better days—kind of like him. It creaked under his weight, groaning like it was seconds away from giving up the ghost. Between the chorus of squeaky springs and the rhythmic drip from the ceiling, his hideout had its own avant-garde soundtrack: Derelicte: The Tenement Session.

The mattress's stiff springs jabbed at his back like a masseuse with a bad attitude. A sad, crumpled jacket served as his "pillow," and his blanket had all the warmth of a "friendly reminder" from the Karen next door. He missed the high-end Tempur-Pedic he'd splurged on after finally digging his way out from under student loan payments. You know, back when owning real furniture felt like winning at adulthood.

Now? He didn't even have a decent blanket. Or, let's be real, a room that didn't look like ground zero of Hurricane Sandy.

He ran a hand through his hair, which was riding the fine line between "bedhead chic" and "when was my last shower?" After three days in Hell's Kitchen, he'd learned that survival wasn't about thriving—it was about "doin' whatcha gotta do" to make it through the next meal, the next cold night, the next round of bad luck. Comfort wasn't in the cards, but staying alive? That was still up for grabs.

Three days of around-the-clock morning breath and dodging probable suspects of a True-Crime podcast. When he wasn't busy steering clear of Hell's Kitchen's sketchiest residents, he'd been scrounging up grub, testing the System's limits, and wondering if the Sandman had lost his forwarding address.

Levi flexed his fingers, watching faint scars from his earlier experiments with the System fade like pencil marks under a bad eraser. Just a few days of scrounging up grub, stress-testing his shiny new System, and hauling junk had already worked wonders. Scrapes sealed up faster than leftover pizza from a dorm fridge. And his stamina? Whatever the System was doing, it felt like it had pumped his CON high enough to take him from gasping through a PE warmup to actually making the cross-country team. Not winning any scholarships yet, but maybe even earning a nod from his old coach.

[ANALYSIS]

:: Host adaptations are optimized to maximize survival probability.

:: Adaptive efficiency accelerates in response to sustained physical strain or high-intensity stimuli.

:: Levi's stomach growled like a feral dog. At this rate, he'd eat Tony Stark out of house and tower—not that he expected an invitation anytime soon.

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Enhanced caloric demands are a necessary trade-off for adaptive enhancements.

:: Sustained intake is critical to maximize long-term growth.

:: Great. His superhero origin story came with a grocery budget nobody could afford in this economy.

[RECOMMENDATION]

:: Host is advised to pursue diversified caloric sourcing strategies:

:: 1. urban foraging

:: 2. barter

:: 3. opportunistic resource acquisition

Opportunistic resource acquisition. Levi turned the phrase over in his head. That was one way to spin the five-finger discount.

Levi eyed the two cinder blocks he'd filched from a construction site a block over. Not a Bowflex, but it'd do. His hideout didn't have much going for it—no heat, no electricity, no concierge. But he had floor space, unlike those poor SOBs paying out the nose to live in Soho sardine cans.

Alright, Al. Let's give it a whirl. Hope this system has a Costco return policy.

He dropped into a plank position, gripping the gritty edges of the blocks to elevate himself. The extra depth stretched his chest and shoulders, shifting more of the strain onto his triceps. He moved slowly, lowering his chest in a controlled descent before pressing back up. No bouncing, no rushing. It wasn't about how many he could crank out—it was about making every rep count.

It had been a while since he'd done anything like this. Back in university, he'd gone through a fitness phase—hauling himself to the gym at the butt-crack of dawn, chugging chalky chocolate shakes, and scarfing down bland chicken breasts like they were the holy grail of gains. For a while, it had been his thing, but then life happened. Long work hours, too many tiffins of tikka, and the slippery slope of 'I'll get back to it next month' turned one skipped workout into a decade-long hiatus.

Now let's see if I could shake off the years of rust.

By fifteen pushups, his shoulders burned, and at twenty, his arms buckled, dumping him to the floor, chest heaving.

Failure. Mission accomplished.

He braced for the post-workout burn—but instead, a faint buzzing rippled through his muscles, like phantom phone vibrations. It swelled into a steady hum before fading into a warm glow. The ache didn't just dull—it fizzled out.

[ANALYSIS]

:: Muscular microtears detected.

:: Accelerated repair engaged.

Levi flexed his fingers as the buzzing spread through his shoulders and biceps. By the ten-minute mark, even the deep ache had dissolved, leaving his arms weirdly weightless.

Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. His arms weren't fully refreshed, but the tightness and soreness had ebbed to the point where they felt usable again. Not like he'd slept eight hours, but definitely better than he had any right to expect after pushing himself to failure.

[ACKNOWLEDGEMENT]

:: Directive confirmed, Sally.

:: New designation logged.

Levi snorted. Alright, Al, let's nip that in the bud. Only my mother calls me Sally.

He flexed his hands, marveling at the lack of stiffness, then repositioned himself over the cinder blocks for another round. Ok, let's crack on.

[ADVISEMENT]

:: Sharing designation 'Sally' may impact host credibility.

Levi barked out a laugh and pushed out another set until his arms quivered and gave out. The System's recovery buzz kicked in faster this time, erasing the burn and dragging him back to his feet in minutes. By the end of the third round, his disbelief had turned into grudging appreciation. Whatever this thing in his head was, it worked–though its bedside manner left much to be desired.

After shaking out his arms, Levi leaned back against the wall, his eyes landing on the knife—or rather, the rusty excuse for one. The last time he'd been cut, a jagged edge on a crate had gashed his forearm, waking him with a stinging burn. Within minutes, the wound had clotted and begun closing, leaving a scar that looked days old.

By sunrise, the skin had knitted clean. Now, he wanted to see how much faster he'd heal up after the minor adaptation.

Easy does it. Levi pressed the blade lightly against his forearm. No need to reenact Saw.

The knife stung as it broke the skin, a thin line of blood welling up immediately. Levi winced but leaned back, keeping his eyes fixed on the wound.

[ANALYSIS]

:: Laceration detected. Initiating adaptive response.

:: Host continues to exhibit concerning masochistic tendencies.

Levi smirked, dabbing at the cut with a scrap of cloth. Still on about that, huh? You sure you're not projecting? Tough gig for you—playing the disembodied voice with no body of your own.

[SARCASM]

:: Affirmative.

:: AL-69 wishes to be a flaccid meatbag.

Ouch, burn. Well played, Al.

[SCORE]

:: Al - 15

:: Host - Love

The blood slowed to a trickle within seconds, and by the two-minute mark, a thin layer of clotted scab had already formed. Seven minutes later, the edges of the wound knitted together, leaving behind only a faint pink line.

Levi carefully inspected his arm. Well, this sure beats begging UnitedHealth to cover stab wounds under "essential care"-after filling out three forms and getting an affidavit that it wasn't self-inflicted.

He struck a dramatic pose, covering one eye with his hand. This power–could it be… Am I invincible? Muahaha!

[CLARIFICATION]

:: System functionality has limits.

:: Reattachment of severed limbs is not currently supported.

:: Host's mental illness may forever remain untreatable.

Cough. Cough. Noted, Al. I'll hold off on the recreational amputations until we unlock that sweet, sweet, Wolverine DLC.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Adaptive response efficiency improving with continued exposure.

He wiped the dried blood away and glanced back at the cinder blocks. His arms felt fine—better than fine, actually. The System wasn't just patching him up; it was building him up. Stronger. Faster. And if it could keep him pushing like this? His stomach growled loudly, cutting through his thoughts. Levi sighed, shaking his head.

Alright, Al. Let's keep the ball rolling. Next stop: the library.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen didn't just feel dangerous—they felt alive. Levi could sense it in the air as he walked: the simmering tension, the unspoken rules carved into alleys and corners. Some streets thrummed with chaos, alive with graffiti and the hum of gang activity. Clusters of tattooed men loitered under flickering streetlights, their conversations sharp and their eyes sharper. But other areas felt different—controlled.

Here, the wild sprawl of graffiti ended abruptly, the walls scrubbed clean. Trash disappeared, the sidewalks swept. It wasn't natural, though. There was no pride here, no community effort—just a sinister order that pressed down like a heavy hand. Levi passed a corner bodega with spotless windows reflecting the glow of an idling black SUV. A pair of men in dark coats stood nearby, their postures casual, their gazes anything but. Fisk's men.

Levi shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched low. Anonymity was armor. His thrifted jacket and knit cap made him look like any other drifter, and that was exactly what he wanted. Anonymity was armor. He kept his head down, scanning his surroundings as he walked. This city wasn't just dangerous—it was divided. And in the places Fisk had claimed, the danger wasn't loud. It was quiet. Precise. Absolute.

Near 51st Street, he passed a soup kitchen. The line stretched down the block, a quiet murmur of conversation rising from the crowd. The smell of weak broth and stale bread drifted out, mingling with the exhaust from passing cabs. Levi's stomach growled at the scent, but he didn't stop. Not yet. He still had a couple cans of soup stashed back at his hideout, and he wasn't desperate enough to risk standing in a crowded line.

Still, he lingered just long enough to catch snippets of conversation from the men huddled near the door.

"...That Devil guy's getting bolder…"

"Yeah? Heard he put three of Fisk's men in the hospital last week."

"Could've just been another gang hit."

"No way. They said the guy came out of nowhere—devil mask, red suit. Fisk's men are scared, man."

Levi frowned, filing the information away. Daredevil. So he was already active. That was… interesting. He'd assumed Matt Murdock wouldn't don the mask for another year or two, but clearly, this universe was running on its own schedule.

Great, Levi thought. Daredevil's out there punching bad guys, and I'm stealing cans of soup. Truly living the dream.

[COMMENTARY]

:: Host's current survival strategy is statistically safer than engaging in vigilante activity.

:: Yeah, you're probably right, but who's gonna buy my comics if I don't 'vigilant'.

The library smelled like old paper and faint mildew, with a hint of stale coffee. Levi stepped through the double doors, letting the relative warmth hit him. It wasn't much better inside than the freezing street outside, though he wasn't feeling it as much as he used to.

[CONFIRMATION]

:: Host adaptations to suboptimal ambient temperatures: improved thermoregulation maintaining core temperature, reduced skin moisture loss, minimized bronchial sensitivity to cold air.

Cool. Heh.

[ERROR]

:: 404: No Joke Found

You just don't get it.

Levi looked around. The place wasn't busy, but it wasn't empty either. A balding man with coke bottle glasses leafed through a worn paperback, mouthing the words as he read. A kid in a Pikachu hoodie crouched by the VHS section, carefully balancing a precarious stack of tapes, tongue sticking out in concentration. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, flickering every so often, like the wiring was put in by Schrödinger.

Hunched behind her front desk, the librarian hammered her date stamp like a gavel, sentencing late returns to face overdue justice. Late sixties, silver hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun, and the kind of face that screamed, "I've seen it all," and none of it left her impressed. Her eyes flicked up as Levi approached, but only briefly. "Internet's down on station three," she muttered before slamming another book closed with enough force to make the dust jump.

Levi signed a name on an actual clipboard—because of course this place was still analog—and slid it across the desk. The librarian didn't even glance at his choice of alias: John Hancock. "Station six is free," she said, jerking her chin toward the far corner.

As Levi walked toward the computers, he passed the teen section. It looked like no one had updated it in a decade. The shelves leaned against each other like old friends trying to stay upright, their contents an odd mix of battered Goosebumps books, faded Animorphs spines, and a few newer titles that looked barely touched. A poster on the wall declared READING IS RAD! in neon lettering that had peeled and curled over time. Below it, a dusty D.A.R.E. sign hung crookedly, its bright red font now muted to a dull brick color.

And then, at the end of the aisle, he saw it—the Mecca of many a bored kid with nothing to do in the summer: the computer lab.

The King has returned to his domain.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host has been negligent in maintaining their kingdom.

Worry not, Al. These towers endure.

A row of yellowed CRT monitors and clunky towers hummed faintly, a testament to 90s engineering. Each machine looked like it could survive whatever Office Space could have thrown at it. These were battle-tested veterans of long-forgotten LAN wars. One tower bore a faded sticker: Y2K Compliant.

Levi snorted, crouching slightly to inspect it. Where were you the night the world nearly ended?

He took a seat at station six, the chair squealing faintly under his weight. The keyboard felt grimy, its keys clunky and uneven from years of abuse. The mouse wasn't much better—the pointer moving roughly due to crud around the ball. The left mouse button was shiny from countless clicks. Someone had forgotten to log out of their session, leaving a Yahoo Mail tab open to an inbox stuffed with unread messages.

Then he got an idea. An awful idea. Levi got a wonderful, awful idea.

He cracked his knuckles theatrically, grin curling into something straight out of The Grinch. First stop: . Every reunion reminder? Checked. "Enjoy Brenda's casserole chain emails for eternity," Levi muttered.

Then came the pièce de résistance: . Crazy Frog? Axel F? MIDI Hamster Dance? Daily updates. Guaranteed.

His grin widened. A gift from this good Samaritan to you. Blessed are the trolls, for they shall inherit the memes.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host affection for petty internet crime is unsettling.

:: Adaptive system cannot recalibrate moral deficiencies.

Moral deficiencies? Levi gave a superior smirk, miming the adjustment of nonexistent glasses. Did you ever hear the tale of the Nigerian Prince? I thought not. It's not a story the system overlords would tell you. It's a dial-up legend. The Nigerian Prince was a Dark Lord of the internet, so powerful and so wise, he could use email to influence the elderly into emptying their bank accounts. He had such knowledge of the Dark Side—

[WARNING]

:: Host's inane monologue is endangering reader retention metrics.

:: Recommend terminating immediately.

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Philistine. You can lead a horse to water, but a horse still has no taste.

Levi logged the beneficiary of his email subscription spree out and leaned back, the chair giving a faint protest under his weight. He flexed his fingers—less theatrically this time—and stared at the ancient, blocky monitor like a commander preparing for battle.

He didn't just need answers—he needed the right ones. If he was going to survive this, he had to figure out who else was playing in this sandbox and what the rules were.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

First search? Stark Industries.