Albedos Redemption

Albedo dropped onto the hard-packed ground, knees striking damp dirt and sending a jolt through his slight, Galvan-based frame. A fissure of leftover interdimensional energy flickered behind him and then vanished into thin air, leaving no trace of the cosmic corridor he had just traversed. For a disorienting moment, he couldn't see much beyond a swirl of nighttime shadows—just the vague outlines of trees and broad stretches of land. There was no sign of the White Hot Room or the grand cosmic powers he'd encountered before his arrival. Gone were the luminous figures of Lady Death, Phoenix, the One-Above-All, and of course, Professor Paradox who had orchestrated his arrival. Instead, Albedo found himself in a place dominated by hushed cricket chirps and the low hum of an electric lamp at the edge of a winding road.

He stood, adjusting to the mortal gravity of this foreign universe, and glanced at the new Ultimatrix glinting around his left wrist. Its design was sleeker than the one he had destroyed in that fateful meltdown that killed both him and Vilgax. This watch was a gift—an uneasy, conditional gift from Azmuth (reluctantly) and Paradox (eagerly). The terms were simple: Albedo had a chance to redeem himself, to prove that he could channel his intellect and cunning into something less destructive. If he strayed too far, well, Lady Death had made it quite clear that she was waiting with open arms in the underworld.

Yet the night air and the rough soil against his boots felt very real, which disoriented him. For a moment, he simply scanned his surroundings: a narrow blacktop road, with no visible traffic at this late hour, and beyond that, a small cluster of lights indicating what might be a distant gas station or convenience store. The night sky seemed the same as any star-littered cosmic vault, yet it was wholly new to Albedo. He recognized none of these constellations. This was a world of different heroes, different cosmic threats—and, so he had been told, at least one local hero who went by the name Spider-Man.

Albedo exhaled slowly. His last memories were of the explosion, the raging meltdown that took both him and Vilgax in a swirl of unstoppable energy. Then the abrupt drift into that impossible tea party in the White Hot Room. One moment he was dead, the next he'd been offered redemption by cosmic entities with a strange sense of humor. And now here he was, in what they called the Marvel Universe, holding a brand-new Ultimatrix that presumably connected him to a wide array of transformations. His chest tightened involuntarily. Redemption. The word soured on his tongue. He had never asked for redemption, had never cared for the moralities that others prattled on about. Still, the alternative was an afterlife of torment with no identity, and he refused to vanish so ignominiously.

He took a careful step away from the place he'd landed. The ground underfoot was stable, though dotted with pebbles that slipped beneath his weight. Albedo looked up the road, then down it. The gas station glow appeared more or less in one direction, so he started walking in that direction. He saw no immediate reason to linger.

As he walked, the hush of the night enveloped him. Being alone with his thoughts was unsettling, and he found himself replaying old humiliations—betrayals by Vilgax, humiliations by that meddling hero Ben Tennyson, reminders that he was second-rate in everything. But then, almost as if in gentle rebuke, the new Ultimatrix hummed quietly, flashing a subtle band of color along its rim. Albedo frowned at it and slowed his step. Was it trying to communicate something? He tapped the watch's side and received only a faint beep. He made a mental note to investigate its functions in depth when he had the chance. For now, he supposed, the watch was verifying that he'd arrived safely in this reality.

The walk toward the light took longer than he anticipated. Galvan biology, even in a form approximating human height, wasn't immune to fatigue, and the night had a chill that pricked his bare arms. Back in his original dimension, he would have used the Ultimatrix to transform into a heat-generating alien, but here, something stayed his hand. Perhaps it was the uneasy memory of the meltdown, or maybe it was a sense that he should remain inconspicuous. He'd crashed into an alien world, after all. If he roamed around in monstrous forms, he might draw attention. For the moment, he had no desire to be chased by authorities or recognized as a potential threat. Redeeming himself would be impossible if he immediately started sowing terror.

Eventually, he reached the edge of a dusty parking lot ringed by a handful of flickering fluorescent lamps. A run-down sign spelled out "Randy's Pump & Snacks" in chipped red letters. The place was open—he could tell by the bored look on the cashier's face, visible through the glass doors. A single old pickup truck was parked outside, presumably belonging to either a late-night traveler or the cashier. Albedo paused in the shadows, assessing. He had no Earth currency, no local knowledge of this version of Earth, and no guarantee that these humans would treat him kindly. In his own dimension, humans had proven selfish, chaotic, often cruel. Yet ironically, it was a human hero—Ben Tennyson—who had saved him from oblivion more than once. Still, Albedo's experiences with them were far from trusting.

He took a step forward, hearing the crunch of gravel underfoot. The cashier, a lanky man wearing a baseball cap, looked up, noticing Albedo's approach. Albedo inhaled sharply and tried to arrange his features into a neutral expression. Did these people know about aliens? This was the Marvel Universe, so it was entirely possible. Their kind might be used to cosmic threats or bizarre happenings. But that didn't mean they were used to seeing an odd figure in black and red attire, with features just a little too sharp, hair a stark white color that contrasted with his young face.

He realized with a sudden jolt that he might appear to be a normal—if somewhat strange—human. Yes, perhaps a bit small or slight if you considered standard adult human builds, but not necessarily monstrous. If anyone here had read about the X-Men or Inhumans, maybe they'd dismiss him as a mutant. Albedo was not sure how that would help or hinder him. All he knew was that for the moment, he was cold, hungry, and in need of direction. He shoved open the glass door, letting the overhead buzzer announce his arrival.

The cashier looked him over suspiciously. "Evenin'," he said, drawing out the syllable in that local accent. "We're open if you need somethin'."

Albedo didn't know where to begin. He glanced at the shelves lined with colorful plastic wrappers, the dusty soda fountain in the corner, a stand of tourist maps next to the door. Something about the normalcy of it all clashed violently with the cosmic meltdown that had ended his previous life. "I—where am I?" he asked, voice slightly raspy. "I mean, which state?"

The cashier blinked in confusion. "You serious? This here's Pennsylvania. Clearview Township, to be exact. You lost?"

Pennsylvania. He repeated the name in his mind. He'd heard of it—Ben Tennyson occasionally wore T-shirts referencing American states, but Albedo had never cared for Earth geography. "I need to get to New York City," he said carefully. "Is it far from here?"

The cashier squinted at him, probably weighing the odds of this white-haired stranger being some kind of trouble. "About four hours east, if you're drivin'." He gestured out the window. "You got a car?"

Albedo glanced at the empty parking lot. He forced a neutral expression. "No." Seeing the bored but also curious gaze on the man's face, Albedo quickly added, "I'm trying to meet a friend in New York. My car broke down a few miles back." He wasn't sure why he lied—old habits of subterfuge, perhaps. "Do you have a bus schedule or anything?"

The man jerked a thumb toward a corkboard near the bathroom. "We got local bus schedules pinned up, but this time o' night, you won't find a bus. You might have better luck hitchin' a ride with a trucker off Route 80."

Albedo nodded, absorbing the information. Next, his eyes flicked to a small display of packaged sandwiches. A twinge of hunger tightened his gut. He had no currency, no human money. In his old dimension, he might have simply stolen what he needed. Even in this dimension, a part of him considered it. But that part warred with the knowledge that he was on thin cosmic ice. He couldn't risk immediate petty theft if he was to demonstrate good behavior. Still, it was possible that the watch had some sort of function that allowed him to replicate items, but he doubted it. It had always been about alien transformations, not conjuring currency out of thin air.

He took a quick breath, swallowing his pride. "I, uh— I lost my wallet too. Is there any chance I could— I'm sorry, do you have anything you'd be willing to give away? I can pay you back if you let me get to New York first."

The cashier frowned deeply, suspicion flashing in his eyes. This was it, Albedo thought. He expected a harsh dismissal. But after a long, silent moment, the man shrugged. "Tell ya what, kid, there's some day-old sandwiches we usually toss in the bin. Not exactly prime eats, but if you're hungry, I can let you have a couple. And there's a jug of water in the back." He motioned for Albedo to follow him to a small refrigerator near the storage door.

Albedo blinked, surprised. In his own dimension, he'd always assumed humans were a greedy lot, rarely inclined to help strangers for free. Perhaps things were different here, or perhaps it was just this one man's small kindness. Slowly, Albedo nodded, gratitude mixing with confusion. "Thank you," he managed.

He followed the cashier to the fridge, accepting a wrapped sandwich whose label read "Turkey & Cheese, Sell By Yesterday." The man also gave him a plastic bottle of water. Albedo mumbled his thanks, fumbling awkwardly. The man studied him a moment longer, then returned to his post behind the counter. "If you wait 'til morning, a few folks around here might be headin' to the city. But can't promise that. Otherwise, you'd have to walk or hitch. I'd help, but my shift ends at 5 A.M., and I'm not headin' that far."

Albedo weighed his options. Morning was still hours away, but he wasn't sure he wanted to keep walking in the dark. A half-remembered fact from the White Hot Room flickered in his mind: the chance to do better, or to continue acting with cruelty and suspicion. Tired, hungry, and uncertain, he decided not to push his luck. He realized the station had a few chairs by the windows, presumably for customers who wanted to eat inside.

"May I sit here for a bit?" Albedo asked.

The cashier shrugged again. "Knock yourself out. Just don't make a mess, okay?"

Albedo nodded and moved to one of the seats, dropping onto the worn plastic cushion. He unwrapped the sandwich cautiously. The stale bread and processed turkey was hardly appetizing, but his body needed the sustenance, so he forced it down. The watery, faintly chemical taste of cheap bottled water also failed to entice him, yet it relieved the dryness in his throat. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of fluorescent lights lull him into uneasy calm.

Images of his final battle with Vilgax intruded on his thoughts: the snarling green tyrant, the shockwave of unstoppable force, the meltdown that tore them both apart. Then the White Hot Room, that surreal meeting with cosmic beings who gave him tea and measured out his fate. Now here he was, in a shabby gas station in Pennsylvania, eating a day-old sandwich given to him by an indifferent human. The strangeness of it all nearly made him laugh, except the laugh never came. He was too drained for laughter.

Eventually, his eyes drooped, and he dozed off in the chair. He floated on the edge of consciousness, half-aware of the squeak of the door when occasional customers entered and left. The cashier's low phone conversations, the beep of the register, the shuffle of footsteps—these sounds melded into a distant hum. Albedo dreamed, though the images were murky and discordant: floating cosmic figures, swirling energy, the Ultimatrix's shining face. Words like redemption and second chance echoed in the background of his mind. He felt an uncomfortable sense of responsibility, something wholly unfamiliar to him.

When he finally stirred, the first pale hints of dawn trickled through the windows. He glanced around to see that a second employee, a stout woman with a bright pink sweater, had replaced the night-shift cashier. She was busy sweeping the floor near the slushy machine. Albedo rubbed the sleep from his eyes, noting the stiff ache in his shoulders from sleeping upright. He had no time or resources to seek a better bed, so he endured it. Checking the new Ultimatrix, he confirmed it was still firmly attached, the face reading stable power levels. He had no reason to transform now, but it was reassuring to know it worked.

The woman caught sight of him and offered a polite half-smile. "Morning. You been here all night?"

Albedo inclined his head. "I, uh, I had nowhere else to go." The admission tasted bitter.

She nodded, still sweeping. "A few folks come in for coffee before headin' out to the city. You might ask around if you're lookin' for a ride."

Albedo looked toward the window, noticing the first car rolling into the lot. On the other side of the store, a small group of men in construction boots were pouring coffee into paper cups. He stood, straightening his rumpled clothing, and approached them gingerly, noticing the perplexed expressions that flitted over their faces as he drew near. He wondered if they found his hair color strange, or if they sensed he was from nowhere around here. Possibly both.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to steady his voice. "Are any of you heading to New York City?"

One of them, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, looked him up and down. "We're headin' to Scranton for a job, son. Not goin' as far as New York."

A second man, shorter, shook his head. "Nope, we're local. Sorry." He took his coffee and left.

A swirl of disappointment coiled in Albedo's chest. He nodded and stepped back. So be it. Maybe he could start walking along the highway, see if he found someone else. Glancing out the window, he saw the highway stretched eastward, presumably leading toward New York. It might take him a day or more on foot, but with the Ultimatrix, he could always transform into something that made travel easier—like XLR8, a speed-based alien. But that might attract attention on a busy interstate. If he were spotted racing at superhuman speed, he might draw the interest of local law enforcement or, worse, a superhero. Albedo had no illusions about how that first meeting might go.

He returned to the seat for a few more minutes, deciding to muster his courage. Eventually, the older man who'd claimed to be heading to Scranton approached him with an expression that hovered between curiosity and concern. "Kid, you say you need a ride to New York?"

Albedo glanced up, wary. "Yes, I do."

The man scratched at his beard. "Well, me and my buddy can take you as far as the interstate near the Delaware Water Gap. That's about halfway. You'll have a better chance findin' a ride there."

Suspicion prickled. Albedo had dealt with enough double-crosses in his life to know a trap could be anywhere. Still, these men looked unremarkable, and the cosmic powers who sent him here had suggested that humans in this dimension might not be as cutthroat as he assumed. He weighed the risk. "Alright," he said at last. "That'd be helpful."

The man tilted his head toward the door. "We're headin' out in five. My name's Bill. Yours?"

For a moment, Albedo considered giving a fake name, but realized that might be more trouble than it was worth. "Albedo," he said. He didn't elaborate, and Bill raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

When they stepped outside, the crisp morning air made Albedo wrap his arms around himself for warmth. Bill's truck—a battered pickup—idled near the pumps as they filled the tank. Another man, presumably Bill's coworker, gave Albedo a once-over but didn't say much. They climbed in, the interior reeking of old coffee and gasoline. Albedo squeezed into the back seat, setting his meager half-empty water bottle on the floor.

Soon, they pulled out onto the highway, the engine rumbling underfoot. The ride was bumpy, the roads pitted with winter damage. Albedo stared out the window, observing the passing landscape: rolling hills, leafless trees, occasional houses spaced far apart. They had the radio on a local talk station, the DJ discussing a meteorologist's forecast and a minor sports scandal that meant nothing to Albedo. He found the mundane chatter strangely comforting. In his old dimension, everything had been overshadowed by the existence of the Omnitrix, interstellar wars, and the looming threat of cosmic destruction. Here, so far, people lived routine lives—though he suspected the Marvel Universe had its own share of cosmic dangers.

Bill glanced at Albedo through the rearview mirror. "So, you from around these parts?"

Albedo shook his head, uncertain of how much to reveal. "I'm from…far away. Another country."

The coworker, a burly man with a shaved head, snorted. "Figures. You don't look like an American." He didn't elaborate, and Albedo decided not to push it. Instead, he turned his gaze back outside, feeling slightly claustrophobic in the cramped truck.

He dozed intermittently during the ride, half-listening to Bill's discussion about their construction job in Scranton. Bill occasionally asked harmless small-talk questions, but Albedo offered minimal answers, not wanting to spin an elaborate web of lies. Despite their curiosity, they didn't press him too hard. About an hour later, they pulled off at a rest stop near the Delaware Water Gap, close to where Pennsylvania met New Jersey. Bill eased the truck into a parking slot next to some tractor-trailers.

"This is as far as we can take ya, Albedo," Bill said, turning in his seat. "You should be able to find a ride from here. Long-haul truckers come through all the time."

Albedo quietly nodded. "Thank you for the ride," he said, voice subdued.

"Yeah, good luck," Bill replied, giving him a brief wave. "Stay safe."

With that, Albedo climbed out, hearing the door slam behind him. The truck rumbled away, leaving him standing in a bustling rest area. Cars, RVs, and trucks pulled in and out, their drivers hurrying toward the restrooms or the coffee shop. Nearby, a vending area displayed bright pictures of local attractions, including the famous waterfalls of the Delaware Water Gap region. Albedo found himself a quiet spot near a row of picnic tables and took stock of his next move.

He needed to reach New York, specifically New York City. From what he understood, that metropolis was home to Spider-Man, among other heroes. Paradox had strongly hinted that Spider-Man, though not the most cosmic of Marvel heroes, was a significant figure in the moral fabric of this universe—a hero who balanced everyday life and superhuman responsibilities. Perhaps interacting with someone like that would shape Albedo's own path. The idea sounded maddening—Albedo was no one's friend, and certainly no champion. Still, if he was to approach any hero, better to start with a street-level vigilante than, say, an all-powerful Avenger or cosmic entity.

But how to get there without currency? Hitchhiking in broad daylight carried risks, but might be his only option. For a moment, he considered using the Ultimatrix to transform into XLR8 once the highway was emptier. He could zip across the state line to New York in the blink of an eye. But someone might see him. And he worried about using that power so openly. He recalled the warnings from the cosmic tribunal: blatant mayhem or misuse of the Ultimatrix could spark immediate intervention.

Albedo's train of thought was interrupted by a slight figure wearing a heavy coat and pushing a suitcase on wheels. The figure almost collided with him, halting abruptly in front of the picnic table. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, phone in hand, eyebrows knit in frustration. She muttered something under her breath about a broken-down bus. Catching Albedo's curious look, she sighed.

"You wouldn't happen to be heading to New York, are you?" she asked in a harried tone, as if she expected no assistance but asked out of desperation.

For a second, Albedo just blinked. Then he realized she was in a predicament similar to his. "I am," he offered. "But, I…don't have a car."

She gave a wry half-laugh. "Of course you don't. Figures. My bus died about ten miles back. We got towed here, and now the replacement is going to be hours. I need to get to Manhattan for a meeting." She raised her phone, showing the flickering battery icon. "My phone's about to die, so calling an Uber is out of the question. These rest stops rarely have charging stations."

Albedo frowned, glancing around. Various people seemed preoccupied with their own travels. He considered telling her that they could try to hitch a ride together, but that felt awkward. Yet in his quest for redemption, perhaps helping another traveler would be a step in the right direction. He swallowed his pride. "Maybe we could find someone with a car who can take us both to the city. Share the ride?"

She gave him a once-over, as if assessing whether he was trustworthy. He felt a pang of annoyance but kept his mouth shut. Finally, she shrugged. "Why not? Safety in numbers, right?" She extended a hand. "I'm Jenny."

He hesitated, then took her hand in a brief shake. "Albedo," he said, not bothering with a surname. "I guess we should start asking around." He wasn't used to cooperating with random humans, but ironically, she seemed more open to that possibility than he was.

They approached a few parked cars, politely asking if anyone was heading to New York. Most drivers were not or only going as far as local towns. Another half hour passed without luck. Frustration simmered at the edge of Albedo's thoughts, but he recalled the White Hot Room's emphasis on patience. So he forced himself to remain calm. Jenny tried the same, though she kept checking her phone and muttering about missed deadlines.

Eventually, they came across a young couple—college-aged by the look of them—who were sipping coffee near their compact car. The woman wore thick-rimmed glasses and a friendly smile; the man was tall and lanky, wearing a band T-shirt. Jenny approached them, explaining their situation. The couple exchanged a glance, and Albedo could tell they were debating the risks. Two strangers, no luggage except Jenny's suitcase, heading into the city.

"New York's kind of out of our way," the man said. "We're heading to Newark to meet some friends." He looked at the woman, who shrugged. "But it's close enough. We could drop you guys at the Newark train station. Then you can take a train into Manhattan."

Jenny's face brightened. "That would be amazing! Thank you!"

They introduced themselves as Sam and Brianna, clarifying that they attended a college near Pittsburgh and were on break, driving east to see friends. They had limited space in their trunk, but managed to squeeze Jenny's suitcase in. Albedo sat in the back again, this time behind Brianna, while Jenny took the seat behind Sam. The air was filled with the slightly sweet smell of cologne and a faint hint of coffee.

As they pulled out onto the highway, Albedo felt an odd sense of relief, as if he were crossing small hurdles to reenter civilization. The couple chatted with Jenny about the city, about school, about mundane topics that Albedo found baffling but also strangely comforting. He realized with some surprise that these humans were assisting him without expecting anything in return. Yes, they primarily wanted to help Jenny, who had a sympathetic story about a broken bus, but still, they had no obligation to help either of them. In Albedo's experiences in his old dimension, such kindness from strangers—especially to the likes of him—was a rarity. Perhaps that was because he usually wore villainy on his sleeve, whereas here, he was presenting as a lost traveler.

He gazed out the window as the car crossed the border into New Jersey, noticing farmland slowly giving way to more industrial vistas. Overpasses and highways braided into complex networks. Billboards advertised everything from lawyers to phone plans. Once, he saw a sign for a museum exhibit on cosmic phenomena, which made him chuckle under his breath. If only these people knew the cosmic phenomena he'd witnessed personally.

"So, are you two from around here?" Brianna asked, glancing back at Jenny and Albedo. Jenny launched into a brief explanation of her real home in Virginia, her reason for traveling to Manhattan for a big meeting with a potential employer. Albedo, feeling eyes on him, looked down at his hands. "What about you, Albedo?"

He paused, resisting the urge to create some elaborate lie. "I'm from… outside the country," he finally said. "Trying to get to New York to find someone I've heard about." That was technically true. He wanted to find Spider-Man, though not in the sense these humans might assume.

Brianna nodded politely. "Welcome, then. I hope you find who you're looking for."

Jenny pivoted the conversation, telling them a little about her background in marketing. Albedo stayed silent, focusing on the passing scenery. The hour or two in the car went by in a blur of small talk that he contributed to minimally. At one point, Sam tried to put on some music, but the radio signal was spotty. They eventually settled on a pop station that repeated the same three songs, prompting mild complaints.

At last, the car approached Newark, the skyline of a major city looming in the distance. The highways snarled with traffic as they navigated toward the train station. Once parked at a short-term lot, Sam hopped out to help Jenny retrieve her suitcase. Albedo stepped onto the sidewalk, shoulders tense as he took in the bustle of city life. Horns blared, pedestrians hurried, and towering buildings overshadowed the streets. It was all new to him. Even though he'd visited Earth in his original dimension, that Earth felt somewhat different. This was the Marvel Universe's version of the same planet, with subtle and not-so-subtle differences.

Jenny thanked Sam and Brianna profusely for the ride, exchanging phone numbers so she could repay them if needed. Albedo, less certain of social niceties, simply nodded, but he mustered a small word of thanks as well. The couple waved and disappeared into the stream of traffic.

Jenny turned to Albedo. "Okay, so the train from Newark to Penn Station in Manhattan takes less than half an hour. Let's see…" She pulled out her phone, which was barely clinging to life at ten percent battery, scanning for train schedules. "I can probably get a ticket from the kiosk. What about you? You still have no wallet, right?"

He felt a pang of discomfort. "Right," he said quietly.

She bit her lip, scanning his expression. "Well, if you don't mind sticking with me for a bit, I could buy you a train ticket. I know that's weird since we've only just met, but you helped me find a ride. It's the least I can do."

Albedo was taken aback by her offer. In his experience, no one gave things for free unless they expected something in return or had some ulterior motive. Still, these people so far seemed genuine in their willingness to help. Perhaps this was simply how many in this universe behaved, or perhaps he was extraordinarily lucky. He nodded stiffly. "Thank you," he said, feeling the awkwardness of gratitude. "I'll pay you back somehow."

Jenny shrugged, already walking toward the station entrance. "Focus on getting your wallet replaced or something. That's priority one, I'd guess."

They navigated the crowds in the station, Jenny purchasing two tickets from the automated kiosk. It was midday now, and lines of commuters, visitors, and businesspeople bustled around them, each with a personal destination. Albedo found it claustrophobic, but the swirl of humanity also fascinated him. In many ways, they reminded him of the people from his old dimension—rushing about, chasing their own concerns. Yet he couldn't help but wonder if they were a tad more open-minded or used to strange happenings in this world dominated by superpowered beings.

They hopped onto a train, finding seats near the window. The ride jolted into motion, and the cityscape of Newark gradually morphed into the approach to New York. The atmosphere changed tangibly as they neared the metropolis. Albedo stared at the buildings, old and new, crowding the horizon. A swirl of conflicting emotions overtook him. He was close to his target city, close to the hero known as Spider-Man, or at least, that was his plan. But what did he even plan to do upon meeting him? Challenge him? Demand he show Albedo how to be a hero? That idea was ridiculous. Maybe Paradox expected Albedo to observe, to watch how these local heroes operated, and glean something from them.

Jenny tapped his shoulder gently, interrupting his thoughts. "Is there someone picking you up in the city?"

He paused. "Not exactly. I'm… I have a friend who might be around, but I need to find him."

She studied him carefully, as if worried. "You sure you'll be alright?"

"I'll manage," Albedo said, looking away. He was used to handling problems alone.

The train soon descended into the darkness of the tunnel leading into Penn Station. The overhead lights flickered, and the intercom crackled an announcement. Moments later, they emerged in a deafening swirl of brakes, stopping at the platform. Passengers stood, gathering their belongings. Jenny guided Albedo through the crowd, up the escalators, and into the cavernous main area of Penn Station. The station's hustle and bustle dwarfed the rest stop or even the Newark station. Arrivals and departures flashed on a giant board overhead; countless people hurried in every direction, from business travelers to tourists with cameras slung around their necks.

Jenny took a moment to orient herself. "My meeting is in Midtown," she said, checking her phone. "I have a bit of time to drop you somewhere if you want, but I guess you still don't have money for cabs…"

Albedo shook his head. "I'll figure it out. Really, you've helped enough." He sensed her concern, and it made him uneasy—he wasn't used to such genuine worry from a stranger. "Jenny… thank you. I owe you."

She smiled faintly. "Just pay it forward someday, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, she waved farewell, tugging her suitcase toward the exit. Albedo watched her go, feeling a swirl of emotion he couldn't quite name. This entire journey had been one of unexpected small kindnesses—sandwiches, rides, tickets. Part of him still believed humans were typically self-serving, but these interactions poked holes in that assumption.

He turned away from the departing crowd and studied the labyrinth of signs indicating subway lines, taxis, and city exits. So, this was Manhattan, the heart of New York City. Spider-Man was rumored to frequent Queens and Manhattan, swinging between skyscrapers, stopping petty criminals, and occasionally facing cosmic threats. In his old dimension, Albedo had read partial glimpses of alternate realities in Paradox's archives, but it was entirely different to stand here and feel the city's pulse. He had no illusions that approaching Spider-Man in the open would be wise, especially since he had no grasp of local protocols. That left him with a question: Where would he go first?

The simplest approach might be to create a temporary base, lay low for a while, learn about this universe's social norms, and only then decide how to contact the local heroes. The cosmic tribunal had recommended an "organic" approach—that was, not seeking out immediate confrontation, but rather understanding and integrating. The thought made him recoil slightly. Integrate? Like a normal inhabitant of the city? That was laughable. He was Albedo. Yet… he had no resources, no place to go, and no desire to be flagged as a threat on day one. A slow burn approach might be the only viable plan.

He made his way up a flight of stairs, stepping onto the busy streets of Midtown Manhattan. The sudden rush of city noise—car horns, voices, the rumble of buses—smacked him in the face. The cacophony was disorienting, but also oddly exhilarating. Skyscrapers soared overhead, clad in glass and steel, reflecting the midday sun. Street vendors sold hot dogs, pretzels, and roasted nuts from carts on the corners. Businesspeople in suits hurried by, phones pressed to their ears. Tourists lugging cameras paused to snap pictures of every tall building.

Albedo navigated the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd. A few passersby glanced at him, possibly drawn by his unusual hair color and clothing, but no one stopped him. He realized that in a city this large, eccentric appearances were commonplace. He was just another stranger among millions. The anonymity offered a strange sort of comfort.

Though he had no money, he decided to explore the area in search of a quieter place to collect his thoughts. A few blocks away, he found a small public park squeezed between buildings. It wasn't large, but it had benches, a few trees, and an open area with patchy grass. People sat eating lunch or reading. Albedo chose a vacant bench at the corner, facing a modest fountain that trickled water into a shallow basin. The midday sun filtered between tall buildings, casting partial shade across the space.

He settled there, mind racing. The brand-new Ultimatrix glimmered in the sunlight, prompting him to run a finger along its smooth edges. He could, theoretically, transform right now and solve all his immediate problems. He could become an alien with enhanced intelligence to forge documents, or a shape-shifter to steal wallets undetected, or XLR8 to speed out of the city and raid a bank—assuming he still had those forms. But the memory of the meltdown and the cosmic warning held him back. The tribunal was watching. On top of that, repeated theft and violence hadn't served him well in his old dimension. If he was truly on a path away from eternal damnation, repeating those mistakes was hardly wise.

He stared at the fountain water, reflecting on the bizarre notion that maybe, just maybe, not everything needed to be stolen or taken by force. For the first time, an idea took root: he might try to find honest work. He possessed an intellect surpassing most humans, though overshadowed by Azmuth's in the original dimension. Even so, in this universe, that intelligence could be put to use. If he found a scientific or technological field, he might earn enough money to survive, gather resources, and eventually build a stable platform from which to contact Spider-Man on amicable terms.

This new approach felt foreign, and part of him scoffed at the notion of participating in menial labor. He was Albedo, a genius, and once had been the proud owner of the Ultimatrix. Why degrade himself? But that pride had led to a lifetime of conflict. Maybe doing things differently was the point of this second chance. He exhaled, frustration and curiosity entwined, then stood and walked out of the park, rejoining the stream of pedestrians.

As he meandered through the city, he memorized landmarks. His keen mind quickly formed an internal map of Midtown's layout, referencing the glimpses of signage. Towering structures bore famous corporate logos: Stark Industries had a large presence, along with Oscorp. The latter name struck a note of caution—he recalled that Oscorp's CEO was Norman Osborn, or had been, a figure known for villainous acts in the comics of certain timelines. The possibility of crossing paths with such a figure made Albedo uneasy. He needed to tread carefully, as Marvel Earth's power players might surpass even his cunning.

After a few hours of wandering, hunger gnawed at him again. He had no money for food. The day-old sandwich from the gas station was long gone, and the water bottle was empty. Normally, he might have stolen something, but again, that risk was too great. So he pressed on, resolved to find a legitimate way to feed himself. Maybe he could do odd jobs—like the local day laborers. But those were typically done by big, strong men—he was physically unimpressive in his normal form, unless he used the watch.

He turned a corner onto a quieter side street. Rows of small shops lined the sidewalk, interspersed with restaurants. One unassuming diner displayed a sign reading "Help Wanted: Busser/Dishwasher, Inquire Within." The moment Albedo saw it, his mind recoiled. Working in a diner? That was menial labor beneath him. Yet, it was a quick way to earn some money. Could he swallow his pride long enough to do it? His stomach growled, reminding him that he had no illusions about how he'd eat otherwise.

Stepping closer to the window, he peered inside. The place was modest, with a red vinyl counter, a few booths, and a short order cook in a grease-stained apron. Not many customers at this hour, just a couple sipping coffee. Albedo exhaled sharply. He had to start somewhere, or else end up rummaging in alleys. He opened the door, a small bell announcing his entrance.

A sturdy woman with short gray hair stood behind the counter, wiping it down. She looked up with a brisk nod. "Sit anywhere, hon."

Albedo cleared his throat. "I saw the sign. About needing help?"

She arched an eyebrow. "That's right. We could use someone to wash dishes, help bus tables, things like that. You interested?"

He hesitated, feeling as though the entire cosmos was mocking him. Yet what choice did he have? "Yes," he said. "How does it work?"

She set the towel down. "Well, do you have any previous work experience?"

He might've laughed if it weren't so ridiculous. His prior "experience" included building an Ultimatrix, trying to enslave the universe, and dying in an explosion that killed Vilgax. "Not in this line of work," he managed truthfully. "But I learn quickly."

She studied him for a moment, taking in his unusual hair color, his slightly ragged clothing. "We pay minimum wage, plus you get a meal each shift. Hours can be flexible. You lookin' for something temporary or more permanent?"

He shrugged, unsure how to phrase it. "I'm… new to the city. Trying to get on my feet."

She nodded, seeming to accept that. "Name's Doris. I run this place with my husband, Frank, who's in the kitchen. If you wanna give it a try, I could start you today for a few hours. You prove yourself useful, we can talk about keepin' you on."

Albedo blinked. "Just like that?"

Doris smiled thinly. "It's hard to find folks who actually want to wash dishes. People come and go. If you're willin' to work, I'll give you a chance."

It was shockingly straightforward. Albedo swallowed. "I'm… Albedo." He stopped short of offering a handshake. "I'll try not to disappoint."

She motioned for him to follow her to the back, passing through a swinging door that led into a cramped kitchen. Steam hissed from a huge dishwasher, and stacks of dishes waited on metal counters. A thick, balding man with a spatula in hand eyed Albedo skeptically. "This the new kid?" he asked. Doris nodded. "Better get him an apron, then."

Before he knew it, Albedo found himself wearing a cheap white apron over his black and red attire, the material stained with spots of sauce. Doris showed him how to scrape leftovers off plates, stack them carefully, and load the industrial dishwasher. The machine roared with hot water, leaving the plates steaming. She explained where the clean dishes should go, how to handle cups, how to bus tables and wipe them down properly. It was mind-numbingly basic, but the repetition actually helped distract him from the swirl of cosmic regrets and unstoppable transformations that haunted him. For a while, he was just Albedo, the new busboy in a small Manhattan diner.

At first, he resented every moment—this was beneath his dignity. But then, as an hour passed, he realized it wasn't quite as demeaning as he'd imagined. Sure, it wasn't enthralling, but Doris and Frank were straightforward and fair. When the lunch rush hit, the orders came flying in, the dishes stacked up, and Albedo found a certain satisfaction in swiftly managing them, employing his keen mind to organize the tasks. He recognized that, ironically, for all his intelligence, he had never engaged in typical work. The novelty was strange.

When the rush subsided, Doris placed a plate of hot food on the counter—an omelet, toast, and fries. She beckoned him over, giving a faint smile. "Your shift meal. Go ahead, take five."

Hunger clawed at him, so Albedo wasted no time. The savory smell was far more appealing than the stale sandwich from the night before. He took a stool at the counter, tasting the first bite. His eyes almost rolled back with relief. For a moment, it was as though he were a normal, if oddly dressed, new hire in a typical diner. The cosmic meltdown, the White Hot Room, and the quest to find Spider-Man all felt like distant illusions.

After finishing his meal, he continued working for a few more hours. By the end of the shift, his arms ached from the repetitive motion, and his hair was damp from the steam. But he had survived. He stepped out of the kitchen as Doris tallied up the day's receipts.

"Good job, Albedo," she said without looking up. "If you want to come back tomorrow morning, we can use you again. Then we'll settle up your pay at the end of the week. That okay with you?"

He hesitated. Being tied to this place for a week meant he'd have daily obligations, but it would also provide him with some honest money and regular meals. Another part of him felt ridiculous for even contemplating it. Yet he nodded. "Yes, that's fine. What time?"

She glanced at him. "Let's say eight in the morning, bright and early."

He left the diner around late afternoon, stepping back into the swirl of Midtown traffic, feeling a mixture of confusion and calm. He had a job—an actual job. That alone was bizarre. But he also still had nowhere to sleep. The meager pay, once he received it, might cover a cheap hostel bed at best. For tonight, he might have to scrounge a solution.

He wandered the streets as evening fell. Neon signs and glittering advertisements illuminated the city. Crowds surged around Times Square, where towering billboards displayed everything from phone ads to superhero merch. Albedo paused to observe a kiosk selling Spider-Man souvenirs—action figures, T-shirts, coffee mugs with the hero's red and blue mask. Tourists hovered around, some praising Spidey's feats, others complaining about property damage. From their chatter, Albedo gleaned that Spider-Man was a local favorite, often seen swinging through the city battling criminals. This hammered home the fact that the hero truly existed here, not just in theory. The cosmic tribunal's instructions echoed in his memory: find your path, let it unfold organically.

He turned away from the kiosk, wandering until he found a small library branch that was still open. Libraries often offered free internet access, a potential way to learn more about the city. Once inside, he discovered a row of computers near the back. He signed in as a guest, using the simplest sign-in form, and was given a thirty-minute slot by an uninterested librarian. While waiting his turn, he roamed the shelves, noticing volumes on local history, cookbooks, and bestsellers. Everything about human culture here seemed so mundane, yet mesmerizing.

When his time came, he settled at a computer, ignoring the suspicious glances of a man in a tattered coat nearby. Albedo typed in "Spider-Man sightings" and was overwhelmed by countless articles, videos, and blog posts. Some hailed Spider-Man as a hero, others called him a menace, echoing the sensationalist headlines of a man named J. Jonah Jameson. There were phone-recorded clips of the hero swinging down to stop purse snatchers, fighting costumed villains in broad daylight, even rescuing cats from trees. Albedo had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. A hero indeed, but also grounded in daily problems. That was quite unlike Ben Tennyson, who had faced cosmic threats left and right.

Still, something about Spider-Man's story intrigued him. The hero wasn't an alien or a cosmic entity; he was an ordinary young man bestowed with extraordinary powers. He balanced that life with real-world struggles, from paying rent to maintaining relationships. Albedo recognized that such a precarious balancing act might be the key to understanding how these Marvel heroes managed to live among humans while still bearing great responsibilities. Perhaps learning from Spider-Man was indeed the first logical step in navigating a path of redemption.

After his session ended, Albedo left the library, glancing at the darkening sky. He needed a place to sleep. He considered an all-night café, but that would require money. He considered the streets, but that was less than ideal. Then he remembered the city's tradition of budget lodgings—hostels and youth dorms. But again, that required money he didn't yet have. The diner wouldn't pay him until the end of the week, and he had zero credit to fall back on.

He continued walking, eventually stumbling upon a twenty-four-hour internet café with cheap rates posted on the door. People sometimes dozed in corners while paying for minimal access. Could he remain inside for the night if he found a few coins? He rummaged in his pockets, discovering nothing. He was about to give up when he saw an uncollected aluminum can near a garbage bin. It struck him that people occasionally gathered cans and bottles to collect recycling refunds. The practice was menial, but it could yield some small cash. Another wave of humiliation crashed over him: Albedo, collecting cans in an alley? He felt a primal urge to scream at how far he'd fallen.

But he remembered the meltdown, the White Hot Room. The alternative to this life was an eternity of oblivion. So he swallowed his pride and walked down a quieter side street, scanning for discarded cans or bottles. A few turned up near overflowing trash bins. Carefully, to avoid the stench, he gathered them in a plastic grocery bag he found flapping in the wind. He realized with a grim humor that this was the absolute bottom. He was rummaging through garbage for a few cents, while wearing one of the most powerful devices in existence on his wrist.

After a while, he had a small stash, enough to approach a corner store that advertised a five-cent deposit per bottle. The bored clerk counted them out, handing Albedo a handful of coins. It was barely over a dollar, but that might pay for some coffee or partial access to an all-night café. Maybe he could find a cheap sandwich, too. That would at least fill his stomach until morning. He accepted the money in silence, ignoring the clerk's indifferent stare.

Night deepened, the city lighting up in a kaleidoscope of neon and LED. Albedo found a small hole-in-the-wall café offering a bottomless cup of coffee for two dollars, free refills, and a quiet booth. He was short by some cents, so in a moment of desperation, he carefully used the Ultimatrix, turning the dial to see if it still contained Grey Matter's form—another Galvan, but an even smaller, more specialized version. He reasoned he could slip under the seat to search for dropped coins. With a hush of swirling light, Albedo shrank into Grey Matter, a minuscule frog-like alien with advanced intelligence. Under the booth, he spotted a few quarters and a dime amid dust bunnies. Swiftly, he reverted to normal (hoping no one saw the weird red flash) and pocketed the coins. Now he had enough to buy the coffee.

He handed over the coins to the bleary-eyed barista, who didn't question it. The coffee was bitter, but he needed the warmth. He found a corner seat and settled in, planning to doze between sips, as some other patrons were doing. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. His feet ached from hours of walking. The day's events rushed through his mind: the generosity of the cashier at the gas station, Bill's ride, Jenny's ticket, Sam and Brianna's willingness to help, and finally Doris giving him a job. It all ran contrary to his long-held belief that humans were irredeemable. Granted, he'd also run into indifferent or suspicious ones, but he was no longer sure that the majority were as vile or greedy as he'd assumed. Maybe this dimension had some effect on them—or maybe he'd just never bothered to notice back in his own dimension.

As he sipped the coffee, he realized that tomorrow, he'd return to the diner, earn a little more money, maybe enough to find a cheap place to sleep by the end of the week. In the meantime, he could explore more about Spider-Man's neighborhood, perhaps gather sightings or patterns, and eventually figure out how to approach him. The city was vast, though, and the hero was elusive. That would take time and planning. Yet something about the prospect didn't fill him with resentment, as it might have before. It was strangely refreshing to think of doing things carefully, methodically, and on neutral, even friendly terms.

He felt a pang of nostalgia for the battles he'd waged, the cosmic games he'd tried to play. But he also remembered how those ended—in humiliation, in repeated defeats by Ben Tennyson, in betrayal by Vilgax, culminating in that final meltdown. Perhaps the bigger battles were best left in the past—at least, for now. He had a second chance, something so many never receive. It would be a slow process, but if he played it right, he might eventually earn enough trust to glean whatever he needed about this universe's technology, its heroes, and its secrets. And if the cosmic tribunal was watching, they might see that he wasn't just repeating old patterns.

Hours passed, and despite the noisiness of the café, Albedo drifted into an uneasy slumber, head propped against the window. He dreamed again, but the images were different this time: small acts of kindness, open roads, a battered pickup, a diner's bustle, a handshake from Jenny. There was still violence in his memory—Vilgax's sneer, the meltdown—but those images were faded, replaced by cautious hope. When he awoke, dawn was creeping into the sky outside, painting the tall buildings in pale orange. The barista had changed shifts, but no one had bothered him. He rose stiffly, cringing at the ache in his spine, and left the café to return to the diner for his second day of work.

Over the next several days, Albedo fell into a pattern that astonished him: he worked morning to mid-afternoon at the diner, washing dishes, busing tables, occasionally learning to chop vegetables or mop floors. Doris and Frank were tough but fair bosses, and once they saw he showed up on time and did his job, they asked fewer questions. He learned the difference between taking orders from humans who barked or snapped and from those who politely asked. He also discovered that although some customers were rude or impatient, many were friendly enough to chat briefly. Some recognized that he was new, but he didn't elaborate on personal details, and they respected that.

When his shift ended, he'd scrounge for cheap meals or use the free shift meal to sustain himself. With the tips he sometimes received for helping out, plus the small wage from Doris, he managed to pay for a cot in a shared hostel in a less expensive neighborhood. It was cramped, with half-broken lockers and a communal bathroom that reeked of mold, but it beat sleeping upright in a café. Each night, he told himself it was only temporary. He'd gather enough money to rent a tiny studio eventually, then figure out how best to approach Spider-Man.

During these days, he also started reading local news, gleaning what he could about local heroes. The Daily Bugle ranted about Spider-Man, claiming he was a menace who swung around the city on webs, causing property damage. Other newspapers praised him for saving civilians during a recent bank heist. Albedo even discovered references to the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and the X-Men. So many teams of superhumans, it was overwhelming. This world had a density of costumed heroes that rivaled or exceeded the Plumbers' ranks back in his old dimension.

Yet Spider-Man remained his focus, perhaps because Paradox had nudged him in that direction, or perhaps because the hero was rumored to be more approachable. The first time Albedo glimpsed a fleeting figure darting across rooftops one evening, he was sure it was Spider-Man. The silhouette soared from building to building, webs glistening in the faint light. Albedo froze in awe, but by the time he thought to follow, the hero was gone. Instead of giving chase, Albedo realized it might be wise to observe from afar a while longer. If he rushed into an introduction without a plan, or if the hero perceived him as a threat, that could end badly for everyone.

Gradually, Albedo's initial plan—to storm into New York and seek out Spider-Man in a direct confrontation—evolved into a more cautious approach. He realized that forging some semblance of a stable life might better position him for that encounter. If he had a place to live, a legal identity, and some friendly acquaintances, he wouldn't stand out as a suspicious drifter. He'd also have fewer reasons to resort to criminal acts for survival, thereby keeping the cosmic tribunal off his back.

He spent the rest of that week quietly applying the intelligence that once let him hack advanced alien technologies to something as mundane as navigating bureaucracy. He discovered, with some eavesdropping in the hostel, how to apply for a state ID—though he lacked proper documentation, which was tricky. He considered forging documents but decided that might be too risky. For now, he'd operate in a gray area. If it came down to it, maybe he could pass off an "alien shapeshifter" story to certain authorities, but that seemed unwise. Instead, he kept his head down, saved money from the diner, and gleaned bits of local knowledge from coworkers who were happy to share.

By the time Doris handed him his first paycheck—minus taxes, which introduced him to the concept of American payroll—Albedo had enough to consider renting a cheap room. He walked through a few slum-like neighborhoods, eventually stumbling upon a cramped basement studio for rent by a landlord who didn't ask too many questions. The place smelled musty, had a single tiny window facing an alley, and came with questionable plumbing. But it was a step up from the hostel. Albedo used his paycheck for the deposit, leaving him nearly broke again, but at least he wouldn't be living with five strangers in bunk beds.

Moving in consisted of exactly one battered duffel bag that he'd scrounged at a thrift store, filled with a few clothes gleaned from discount racks. He had no furniture, so he slept on a thin sleeping bag he'd found at the same thrift store. The first time he lay down in his new space, staring at the cracked ceiling, he couldn't help but think of Vilgax. In his old dimension, he'd commanded warships, stormed strongholds, and unleashed doomsday devices. Now, he was living in a dingy basement, working at a diner. Was this humiliation or liberation? He couldn't decide.

Yet day by day, he found a small sense of rhythm. Some nights, he'd climb to rooftops and watch for Spider-Man, or scan local police reports online for sightings. Occasionally, he glimpsed a red-and-blue blur swinging several blocks away, but the hero never came close enough for a direct encounter. Albedo told himself to be patient. Even the cosmic tribunal couldn't expect him to transform overnight into a paragon. He was still deeply conflicted. He craved the power and the respect he'd once commanded—however fleeting—but he also understood that chasing that path had brought him nothing but ruin.

Weeks slipped by, and he gradually earned enough to furnish his basement with a secondhand futon and a small table. The diner job became routine, though he found ways to amuse himself by reorganizing the inventory with unnerving precision. Doris didn't complain—she appreciated his efficiency. A few coworkers teased him about his monotone personality, but some found it endearing that he never complained and simply did his job well. Albedo was polite but kept them at arm's length, not wanting to forge friendships. The memory of everything he'd lost was still too raw.

All the while, he collected fragments of news on Spider-Man. He was a local hero, patrolling multiple boroughs, rumored to keep a special eye on Queens, which was his home turf. The city's official stance on him was mixed: the police sometimes cooperated, sometimes called for his arrest. One day, while on a short break from the diner, Albedo overheard a conversation between two men who were discussing a nearby community center event that Spider-Man had attended. Intrigued, Albedo pressed them for details, pretending to be a curious fan. They mentioned a youth charity event in Queens that the hero apparently swung by to greet kids. He'd come and gone quickly, leaving a strong impression on the neighborhood.

That gave Albedo an idea: if Spider-Man had some kind of local area he frequented, perhaps Albedo could volunteer there or linger around. He remembered how the cosmic beings had said "organically." Volunteering or doing charitable work was about as "organic" as it got. Granted, Albedo had no real desire to help random humans, but if the end goal was forging a non-hostile relationship with the hero, it might be a start. He could at least gather intelligence. So the next day, he used an old library computer to search for community centers in Queens that had spider-themed events. He found a half-dozen possibilities, most with no direct references to the hero, but one center's newsletter featured a small photo of Spider-Man posing with kids. It was the Jackson Youth Center in Forest Hills.

That evening, after finishing his shift, Albedo took the subway to Forest Hills—a neighborhood that, to his surprise, was a mix of older houses, apartment buildings, and tree-lined streets. It felt calmer than the bustle of Midtown. He wandered until he found the Jackson Youth Center, a modest two-story building with a colorful mural on the side depicting children playing sports. The lights were still on, and a few kids trickled out with adult supervisors. Albedo hovered in the background, observing from across the street. Through the windows, he could see a bright gymnasium, a small rec room with tables for arts and crafts, and a few offices.

It occurred to him that he didn't know how to volunteer. Normally, one would sign up, undergo some background checks, possibly. That might be tricky without proper identification or references. But if he could just speak to the director, maybe offer to do cleaning or minor repairs using his intelligence, they might accept. He inhaled and crossed the street, stepping inside. The walls were painted bright colors, the floors tiled and scuffed from years of kids running around. A front desk was staffed by a tired-looking woman.

"Can I help you?" she asked, politely but with a note of wariness. It was late for visitors, perhaps.

Albedo tried to look harmless. "I was wondering if you accept volunteers. I can help with cleaning or maintenance. Anything you need."

She frowned, eyeing him up and down. "Do you have an appointment or anything? We typically have an application process. Are you associated with a local group?"

"No," Albedo admitted. "I just moved here recently. I heard the center sometimes had special events, like that day Spider-Man showed up?" He saw her expression shift slightly, maybe recognizing that he was a fan or something. "I'd like to help out, if you'll have me."

She tapped a pen on the desk, obviously unsure. "Well, the volunteer coordinator is Ms. Bailey, but she's gone home for the night. We do background checks, references, the usual. You can come back tomorrow, fill out a form." She paused. "We also don't have a budget to pay volunteers. It's strictly volunteer-based."

"That's fine," Albedo said quickly. "I'll come back tomorrow then."

She gave a slow nod, handing him a simple flyer about volunteering that listed the center's website and application instructions. "Tomorrow's schedule starts at nine in the morning. Ms. Bailey can meet with you if you show up. She's in her office on the second floor."

He thanked her and left, feeling strangely relieved. It was just a piece of paper, just a small step. But it also felt like the start of forging a connection with the environment that Spider-Man sometimes frequented. If the hero visited events for kids, Albedo might eventually cross paths with him under nonthreatening circumstances. The very idea of calmly introducing himself to a hero was foreign to him. Yet it was better than an ambush or a battle.

Walking back to the subway, he mulled over the plan. He'd continue working at the diner to earn a living, attempt to volunteer at the youth center in the evenings, and patiently wait for the chance to speak with Spider-Man on neutral ground. Of course, it was possible the hero might not appear for weeks or months, or that he only showed up for big events. But for the first time in his life, Albedo felt a flicker of patience. Perhaps it was the White Hot Room's influence, or Paradox's watchful eye, or simply his exhaustion with grandiose villainy.

He took the train back to his dingy basement apartment, turning the Ultimatrix dial over in his hand. The device glowed softly, as though in approval. He wondered if Azmuth had built in some new features—like a morality monitor—that responded to his actions. A wry grin tugged at his lips. He might be paranoid, but then again, he wouldn't put it past Azmuth or Paradox to ensure Albedo's compliance.

That night, he had difficulty sleeping, wrestling with a sense of surrealism. Had he truly spent weeks in this city without wreaking havoc, without threatening a single life, without stealing anything beyond a few coins from under a booth? It was almost mind-boggling for someone who once set out to surpass Ben Tennyson and master the Omnitrix. Yet ironically, it made sense. He had no illusions that the path of redemption was quick or easy, but neither was it as unbearable as he'd feared. Yes, it was humbling, even humiliating, but for every moment that stung his pride, there was also a moment of small gratification—like a kind word from Doris for a job well done, or a kid in the diner who smiled at him. Perhaps he was learning that there was power in forging honest relationships, a power that came not from conquest but from something else.

On the cusp of sleep, he recalled the meltdown that had killed him. Visions of Vilgax's final sneer haunted him, but instead of fueling hatred, the memory now fueled caution. He'd died once from his own destructive choices. This time, he might choose differently. That wasn't to say he intended to become a naive do-gooder like Ben Tennyson. But the White Hot Room had extended an opportunity, and if Albedo had learned anything from his years of cunning, it was to seize an opportunity when it appeared.

The next morning, after finishing an early shift at the diner, he headed back to the Jackson Youth Center. Ms. Bailey, a short, energetic woman in her fifties, greeted him with a polite but formal air. She handed him forms to fill out—name, address, references, and all the typical volunteer requirements. Albedo's heart pounded when he saw the questions about ID and background checks. He had to lie or be turned away. But he was careful, forging an address in another state that no one was likely to scrutinize, referencing the diner as his workplace, and leaving the ID section blank by stating he'd lost his wallet. Ms. Bailey eyed that with skepticism, but seemed sympathetic enough not to press too hard.

"All right, Albedo," she said, scanning his form. "We do appreciate volunteers. We often need help setting up events, cleaning up after them, maybe helping kids with homework if you can pass a simple screening. You do have some references. I'll call Doris and Frank at the diner, I suppose, to verify you're not just off the street."

Albedo nodded, relieved that Doris might vouch for him. He'd earned some level of trust there. Ms. Bailey asked him to wait while she made a quick call, stepping into her office. He sat in a small waiting area, noticing posters urging kids to "Say no to drugs" and celebrating cultural festivals. The walls were decorated with colorful art drawn by children. He couldn't help but find it nauseatingly wholesome, but he also recognized it was a far cry from the destructive labs and fortresses he'd inhabited back home.

Soon Ms. Bailey returned. "Doris says you're a solid worker, though quiet." She seemed pleased enough. "We'll do a quick orientation, then I can have you help with setting up an after-school event today. Think you're up for it?"

"Yes," Albedo said. "I can help however you need."

Thus began his introduction to volunteering. He spent the afternoon in the gymnasium, helping unfold chairs and tables, then arranging them for a small program where a local police officer was set to talk about neighborhood safety. He felt a flicker of annoyance—he had no interest in this. But Ms. Bailey was delighted to have an extra pair of hands. He was strong enough, thanks to his toned (albeit modest) Galvan-based physique, and after months of hauling dishes, even manual labor no longer felt as menial. If anything, it was another puzzle to be solved efficiently.

He observed the kids filing in, some chatty and excited, others bored. They teased each other, listened half-heartedly to the talk, and eventually partook in snacks at a nearby table. Albedo lingered near the back, picking up discarded cups and tidying stray chairs. The entire scene was so mundane, so ordinary, that he almost forgot he was an alien clone from another dimension. Then a teenager approached him, wearing a T-shirt with Iron Man's face on it.

"Hey, you work here now?" the teen asked, munching on a cookie.

"Sort of," Albedo replied. "Just volunteering."

"Oh. That's cool. Better than being at home, right?" The teen shrugged and walked away, rejoining friends.

Albedo turned that thought over in his mind. Better than being at home. For him, home was either a dimension he'd almost destroyed or a cosmic oblivion. Yes, volunteering here, menial as it was, was arguably better than either. Ms. Bailey caught his eye, giving him an approving nod. The event wrapped up without incident, and he helped fold chairs, placing them back in storage. She thanked him and said they could use his help again later in the week. He agreed, noticing that it was already evening.

As he left the building, the night air felt refreshing, free of the gym's stale smell. Albedo looked up, scanning the rooftops. On a distant building, he saw a faint shape perched near the ledge—perhaps a gargoyle or some architectural flourish. But for a moment, he imagined it might be Spider-Man, silently watching. If the hero was around, he gave no sign. Albedo exhaled, a mix of anticipation and nervousness swirling in his gut.

A few more weeks passed in much the same way, with Albedo juggling diner shifts, volunteer hours at the youth center, and careful observation of the city's superhero news. Each step felt excruciatingly slow, but also increasingly natural. He rarely used the Ultimatrix, except for minor transformations to help him retrieve lost items or occasionally to test a new form in private. He half-expected cosmic watchers to appear and judge his progress, but they remained silent. Maybe that was a good thing.

One evening, as he was cleaning up the youth center, Ms. Bailey approached him with a grin. "We've got a bigger event coming up next month—a fundraiser for new sports equipment. Sometimes local heroes show up for these things. Who knows, maybe Spider-Man will swing by. He's known to pop in on events for kids." She laughed lightly. "You should definitely be there if you can."

Albedo forced himself to remain calm. "I'll do my best to attend," he said, his heart pounding. This might be his chance to meet the hero face-to-face under positive circumstances, not as a villain or even an outsider, but as a volunteer. It felt surreal, even nerve-wracking. But for the first time, Albedo had the sense that he'd found a stable platform from which to approach a Marvel hero. No battles, no stolen doomsday devices, just a conversation and maybe a handshake.

He walked home under the glow of streetlamps, lost in thought. He remembered the meltdown that had claimed him, the White Hot Room's judgment, and Paradox's final words about a new chance in a new world. He realized that, in a twisted way, he was building a life here. A humble, unremarkable life, but one in which he wasn't at constant war with himself or others. He had a place to sleep, a job to earn money, a volunteer gig that might open doors to meeting a friendly hero. It wasn't glorious or grand, but it was sustainable.

By the time he reached his basement apartment, he felt an odd sense of contentment. He could approach Spider-Man organically, in a manner that wouldn't raise alarms, and possibly show that he wasn't a threat. That was exactly the opposite of his old approach to conflict. This slow infiltration felt… well, it felt better than living as a hunted criminal or performing an evil scheme. He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and looked around at the modest furnishings. Then he set his keys down, took off his shoes, and stared at the Ultimatrix. He remembered the old times, the unstoppable power at his fingertips. But now, for the first time, he felt no immediate urge to harness that power for conquest. Instead, he felt curiosity and, dare he admit it, a small sense of hope.

Tomorrow was another day of work at the diner. After that, volunteering at the center again. He'd keep watching the rooftops, reading the local news, waiting for the right moment to introduce himself to Spider-Man. And if it didn't happen soon, that was fine—he had nowhere else to be. He was going to do it the "right" way, carefully and respectfully. Not just because the cosmic tribunal was watching, but because, strange as it sounded, it felt like the right choice. The concept of "redemption" still tasted odd to him, but it was growing less bitter by the day.

He thought of Vilgax, now gone, destroyed in that same explosion that had claimed Albedo's old life. Perhaps that final act had purged something from Albedo's soul, or perhaps the cosmic watchers had intervened at just the right time. Either way, Albedo was alive here, and every day he continued on this path without reverting to old habits was a day he moved further away from the darkness that had once defined him. Approaching Spider-Man organically meant building something real, even if it was slow. He pressed a hand over the Ultimatrix, feeling its quiet hum. Then he lay down on his futon, closed his eyes, and allowed himself, for the first time, to imagine a future that wasn't consumed by hatred and revenge.

He decided, in that moment, that forging a life in this new world—even if it was menial and unremarkable by cosmic standards—would be his priority. If, along the way, he could learn from the famed Spider-Man, so be it. He would not barge into the hero's life demanding a duel or brandishing cosmic power. He would simply be Albedo, the diner busboy, the youth center volunteer, who happened to have a cosmic watch hidden under his sleeve. In time, if fate allowed, he and Spider-Man might meet, and that meeting would not be one of enemies, but of two individuals. And if the cosmic tribunal was indeed watching, they might see that Albedo, at least for now, was attempting to live up to the terms of his second chance.

In the stillness of the night, as traffic murmured overhead, Albedo let these thoughts settle. This was the path he chose: humble, cautious, and unremarkable, but with the potential for genuine transformation. One day soon, he would step from the shadows and meet the city's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man on even footing—without deception, without hostility. And in that choice, for the first time in his life, he felt the faint stirrings of acceptance, of a new identity that might yet outgrow the old.