A Free Radical

Levi leaned back in the groaning office chair, letting it rock a little too far, just to see if the ancient thing would finally collapse under him. It didn't. A sign from the heavens—his efforts would be blessed. Now, if only he had a Magic 8 Ball to confirm that scheming his way into a Scrooge McDuck swimming pool wouldn't backfire spectacularly.

Levi sat, bathed in the glow of the CRT monitor in front of him. The Yahoo search bar glared at him in all its late-2000s glory, daring him to type something. Anything. All the knowledge of the World Wide Web at his fingertips.

Levi cracked his knuckles. All right, Stark, let's see if Santa's still got you on his shit list this year. His fingers hovered over the grimy keyboard for a moment before he started typing: Stark Industries.

The search results arrived with the blistering speed of a one-winged carrier pigeon. Levi longed for the fiber-optic speeds of his old life. The first link led to Stark's official corporate site—exactly the kind of bland PR nonsense he expected. He clicked it anyway.

The page loaded, filled with stock photos of smiling engineers, American soldiers standing proudly in front of Stark weapon systems, and a glowing, professional logo that oozed smug confidence. Levi could hear corporate jingles ringing in his head.

And I'm proud to be an American Levi hummed to himself as he scrolled past headlines about cutting-edge defense solutions and revolutionary advancements in global security.

Let's see. Are we dealing with 'Tony Stark: The functionally alcoholic war criminal,' or 'Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist, Savior of the world?'

It was all just glossy propaganda, but the details were useful. Stark Industries was deeply entrenched in weapons manufacturing, with major U.S. government contracts and glowing write-ups about their "innovative missile systems." No arc reactor yet. No Iron Man. Tony Stark was still a weapons tycoon—and probably three martinis and two inches deep into a supermodel at this very moment.

[TL;DR]

:: Stark Industries currently specializes in advanced missile systems, kinetic energy weapons, and autonomous artillery platforms.

:: No mention of an Arc Reactor.

Levi smirked. So, still in his 'This is how dad did it. This is how America does it.' phase.

He scrolled further, finding a nugget of gold: a recent press release about an upcoming 'revolutionary' weapons demonstration. The Jericho missile. The one Stark would show off to the military, right before booking himself a zero-star Uber ride to Kabul.

The press release detailed a high-profile demo scheduled for fall 2008. Levi did the mental math. That meant Stark Industries stock was going to skyrocket over the next year as investors bought into the hype. Then, when Tony announced the company was abandoning weapons manufacturing, the crash would come. The investors would panic. The stock would crater.

All right, Stark, Let's see how much I can make off your midlife crisis.

Levi tapped his fingers on the desk, connecting the dots. Step one: go all in shorting the stock leading up to the Jericho demonstration. Step two: wait for Tony to sink his company in with his 'Come to Jesus' moment. Step three: cash out.

The chair creaked ominously as he leaned back, grinning. But his plan wasn't done.

Then go long. Buy back in before the arc reactor hype kicks off. Once Tony rebuilds Stark Industries as a clean energy juggernaut, the stock's gonna explode faster than his Fun-vee.

[ANALYSIS]

:: Multi-phase financial exploitation identified.

:: Probability of success: High.

Yeah, but there's a problem. He gestured at the screen. I'm broke. I can't short anything without cash to put on the table. I don't think a pocketful of loose change and half a stick of gum will give me much skin in the game.

[ADVISEMENT]

:: Confirmed, Host lacks sufficient capital for initial execution.

:: Recommend pursuing creative short-term resource acquisition.

Hmm, well unfortunately we don't have the time for a good ol' Ponzi scheme, and I don't have any smack to hawk on the streets. He drummed his fingers on the desk, letting his mind wander. Let's see… What's the going rate for a kidney these days? Fifty grand? I could probably spare one.

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Host is not yet adapted to regrow kidneys.

:: Recommend postponing organ sales.

Levi chuckled despite himself. Postponing? I need the cash pronto.

His gaze wandered to the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Or I could just play Robin Hood with the local gangs. Steal from the criminals, give to… well, me.

[BRAINSTORM]

:: Direct engagement with organized crime inadvisable given current host combat capabilities.

:: Alternative: Identify high-value, unsecured resources controlled by low-threat actors.

Levi blinked, leaning forward. Are you seriously suggesting I rob someone?

[CORRECTION]

:: System suggests reallocating unclaimed resources from unmonitored or low-risk environments.

'Unclaimed resources,' huh? You know that's just a PR spin for 'theft,' right?

[ADDENDUM]

:: Host has repeatedly demonstrated willingness to consider unconventional problem-solving methods.

Fair enough. Levi drummed his fingers on the desk. But I'm not about to start shaking kids for their lunch money. I've got some standards.

[OBSERVATION]

:: No standards have yet been identified.

I beg your pardon! Levi clutched at his nonexistent pearls with a huff–the very soul of indignation.

The Stark play was part of the plan, sure, but it wasn't enough. If he wanted to really become a big player, he'd need to cash in on the banks—and lucky for him, they were already speeding toward a brick wall.

Levi opened a new tab, typing: housing bubble news.

The results confirmed exactly what he expected. Subprime loans, predatory mortgages, and the early ripples of what would become the 2008 financial meltdown. The headlines screamed disaster, but the suits still thought they could outrun the avalanche, clutching their golden parachutes like security blankets—because nothing says 'my bad' like a seven-figure severance package. No one in this timeline realized just how deep the pit they were digging went, or how fast they were falling.

The banks weren't just going to fail. They were going to collapse in on themselves like a dying star, imploding under the weight of their own greed. Families, neighborhoods, and entire industries would be dragged into their self-made disaster. Levi leaned closer to the screen, scrolling through reports about the rising foreclosure rates. It felt… uncomfortable. Personal.

He'd lived through the crash once already, watching friends lose their homes, coworkers buckle under impossible debt, and politicians bail out the corporations instead of their victims. He remembered the quiet devastation, the hopelessness that clung to everything like ash after a fire. But this time? He might not be able to prevent the collapse, but he had options.

The banks are gonna burn, he thought grimly, and I'll be roasting marshmallows on the fire.

He leaned back in the creaking chair, forcing the guilt to the edges of his mind.

Step one: profit off the banks.

Step two: short Stark into oblivion.

Step three: ?

Step four: cackle all the way to the bank.

[COMMENTARY]

:: Host demonstrates rising affinity for exploitative tactics.

It's not exploitation, Levi thought defensively, though the words felt flimsy even in his head. It's wealth redistribution. I'll just… keep the redistribution part to myself for now.

The truth was, it wasn't just about money. The cash was a tool, a means to an end. Hell's Kitchen was a battlefield, a whole community left to fend for itself against a world that didn't care. But with enough resources, Levi could flip the script and give them something the system never did—a fighting chance.

All right, Al. Plan's shaping up. Now I just need a few zeroes to my name.

[SAVINGS]

:: Current balance: 0 zeroes.

Thank you for that in-depth financial analysis, Al, Levi thought dryly, though a faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

Levi tapped his fingers on the desk. What else, what else… Ah. He typed: 'mutants sightings news.'

The results trickled in, a mix of paranoia and vague speculation. Headlines like "Mysterious Abilities Spark Fear of Mutants" and "Government Dismisses Mutant Registration Rumors" filled the screen. One article caught his eye: a grainy photo of a teenage girl standing in the middle of a wrecked mall food court, her hands faintly glowing. The caption read: "Mall Meltdown: Teen's 'Fireworks' Cause Panic!"

He skimmed the text. The story was out of California—apparently, a kid had freaked out during an argument, sending bursts of light and sound cascading across the food court. No one had been hurt, aside from a few fried electronics and the tragic loss of an innocent box of orange chicken in the crossfire, but the media had pounced. Words like 'dangerous' and 'unstable' peppered the article, and some local politician had already taken the opportunity to demand 'answers'—no doubt rehearsing for their next campaign ad about 'protecting America's families.'

Levi smiled wistfully to himself, remembering the glory days of Saturday mornings back in '94.

Da-na-na-na-naaah, na-nah!

Da-na-na-na-naaah, na-nah!

Da-na-na-na-naaah, na-nah!

Na-nah!

Dear Jubilee, we are pleased to inform you that you've been accepted to a magical boarding school for gifted youngsters where you'll learn how to avoid accidentally blowing up your Kung Pao Chicken.

[ANALYSIS]

:: Mutant activity is sporadic but increasing.

:: Theorized that powers manifest under extreme stress or trauma.

Is this WORM or Marvel, Levi mused, clicking to the next result. Most of the articles were just as vague—whispers about unexplained abilities, tabloid-worthy headlines, and the occasional blurry video of floating objects or glowing hands. Nothing concrete, but the pattern was obvious: mutants were real, and they wouldn't be underground much longer.

But another thought pulled at him, one he couldn't quite shake. What would the System do with mutant DNA? Telekinesis. Regeneration. Magnetism. The possibilities danced at the edges of his mind, tempting and dangerous.

Hey, Al, what are the odds I could swipe Wolverine's DNA without sprouting claws or growling 'Bub' every five seconds?

[CLARIFICATION]

:: Host lacks sufficient adaptive foundation for stable integration of mutant DNA.

:: Probability of Aberration: Very Likely.

:: Risk of host fatality: High.

So you're saying there's a chance.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Incremental adaptations to baseline physiology will reduce future Aberration probability.

:: Patience is advised.

Guess I'll hold off on juicing Wolverine until I've leveled up a bit. Pause.

Get some of his DNA inside me. Wait.

Sigh–I'll have to take him out to dinner first. Wonder what his flower is? Bet it's something prickly. Like a cactus.

Next search: Captain America.

The search results lit up with what Levi half-expected: a mix of American mythmaking and historical facts stretched so thin you could practically see through them. Every article was a star-spangled fever dream, complete with grainy photos of a skinny kid from Brooklyn who somehow became the poster boy for punching Nazis.

He clicked on an official-looking site titled: "The Legacy of Captain America." The page was draped in patriotic colors, the kind of design that screamed funded by the Smithsonian. Levi scrolled through the now-familiar story: Steve Rogers, scrawny but stubborn, volunteered for Project Rebirth. One injection, a dramatic light show, and voilà: he's the All-American hero men want to be and women want to be with. Tragic that he was too busy blowing up bunkers to have his dance card punched.

A footnote caught his eye: Super Soldier Serum lost with the death of Dr. Abraham Erskine. No successful reproductions reported to date.

Lost? Levi arched a brow. You're telling me the government didn't have, like, a Plan B? Nobody scribbled down the recipe? Not even on a bar napkin? Even my Auntie Pearl's Chicken and Dumplings recipe stood the test of time.

Perfect candidate, lost formula, tragic backstory... superhero origin alchemy at its finest. I'm guessing the recipe's locked in a vault somewhere—or someone's filing it under 'break glass in case of world-ending catastrophe.'

[ANALYSIS]

:: Super Soldier Serum represents significant genetic enhancement potential.

:: Recovery of original formula improbable.

Levi snorted. Improbable? Please. This is the military we're talking about, taking a shit requires you file a request in triplicate. Besides, the only thing America hates more than losing a war is paying our corporate taxes–there's definitely a recipe stashed in some filing cabinet with the Lost Ark or something. He leaned back in the chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. Still, not gonna front, it's impressive–they only got to juice one guy, and it turns out they chose a diamond in the rough… What's with me and juice today?

The article had a few more details about Rogers himself—modesty, courage, all the Boy Scout traits you'd expect from the guy who volunteered to go toe to toe with every goose-stepper in Germany. Levi couldn't help but grin. Steve Rogers wasn't just a hero; he was the face they slapped on every recruitment poster to convince kids barely old enough to shave that they'd find glory in getting ground up for the cause. Not to worry, those boys and girls get to come back to a country that takes good care of them. Well… That thanks them for their service, anyway.

Levi sighed and shook the bitter thoughts away. Anyway, this guy gets pumped full of Uber-steroids, and he's immediately storming bunkers solo, armed with nothing but a silver platter, the kind Nana would pull out for the Thanksgiving turkey. Honestly, imagine the things I'd have done with that kind of–

[INTERRUPTION]

:: Probably host would pass Dr. Erskine's candidate evaluation criteria: Below the margin of error.

… Al, you can be a real bitch.

Next search: Bruce Banner gamma radiation incident.

The results were just as murky as he expected. Officially, Bruce Banner was "missing," but conspiracy blogs and fringe forums had theories. Some claimed he'd been killed in a lab accident, others swore he was working on secret military weapons. The truth, Levi figured, was probably somewhere in between—and a lot messier.

He skimmed an article speculating on gamma radiation, its catastrophic effects on human cells, and why Bruce Banner, somehow, hadn't ended up as a glowing smear with a chalk outline.

Gamma radiation. Basically weaponized cancer, Levi thought. Yet somehow, Banner trades in his lab coat for a pair of impossibly stretchy pants and the physique of He-Man on a roid bender. Wonder what the System would do with that.

[WARNING]

:: Gamma radiation exposure poses an overwhelming probability of catastrophic Aberration given Host's current physical state.

:: Immediate host survival unlikely.

Yeah, okay. Filing that under 'future me's catastrophically bad ideas,' Levi thought, leaning back in the chair. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Still, it's tempting. If I survive the gamma cocktail, what's next? Punching tanks? Swatting jets out of the sky?

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host demonstrates a concerning level of enthusiasm for self-destructive scenarios.

Levi waved a hand dismissively. Relax, Al. No gamma laced Flintstones vitamins until I can bench-press a Buick with good old fashioned shounen strength. Promise.

Finally, Levi hesitated, fingers poised over the keyboard. He typed his own name.

No results found.

Well, that's... anticlimactic.

Part of him was relieved. No ties. No history. No chance of running into an alternate version of himself. But another part—a quieter, more fragile part—felt the absence keenly. He hadn't expected to find anything, but the absence was heavy.

He typed again, slower this time. His wife's name. His daughter's.

No results found.

Levi leaned back in the chair, the old springs groaning faintly. The sting was muted—time had dulled it—but it was still there, like a bruise pressed too hard.

No strings. No connections. No version of his family running around unaware of his existence. A clean slate. That's a win, right?

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host emotional state: ambivalent.

:: Host's emotional self-regulation sufficient for the task.

Levi smiled faintly. Thanks, Al. You should write for Hallmark.

But another thought crept in. No history. No birth certificate. No ID.

I'm not just broke—I technically don't exist.

[OBSERVATION]

:: Host's lack of documentation will complicate resource acquisition.

:: Recommend addressing identity gap.

Yeah, I got that, Al. Guess I'll need a fake name... or a fake everything.

The Yahoo homepage flickered on the screen as Levi logged out. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The world out there was chaotic, divided, and dangerous—but chaos meant opportunity.

All right, MCU, let's see what you've got. Time to make some questionable decisions.