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[b]|| Bellwood, Earth[/b]

Ben stood in front of the magazine rack, pretending to look at the crossword books while his eyes kept drifting to the covers beside them. Headlines about the rise of modern heroes. Blurry photos of flying men streaking across city skylines. A grainy shot of someone in a bulky armored suit catching a falling car. Another magazine speculating about a vigilante in black who’d taken down an entire gang in Gotham. A red‑and‑blue blur photographed mid‑swing between skyscrapers. The world had grown capes and legends and headlines. People with powers. People saving lives. People doing exactly what he wasn’t allowed to do.

He swallowed hard.

The last week had been a rollercoaster.

His parents had cried. Like, full‑body cried. His mom had hugged him so hard he thought she might crack a rib. His dad kept touching his shoulder like he was afraid Ben would vanish if he looked away. They’d spent two days refusing to let him out of their sight.

Then came the shopping spree. Apparently, when your ten‑year‑old son comes back as a teenager, your first instinct is to buy him an entire wardrobe. Jeans, hoodies, jackets, and shoes. Gwen had dragged him through every store in the mall, holding shirts up to his chest and muttering about “color palettes” and “vibes.” He didn’t know what half of that meant, but she seemed happy, so he let her. Thankfully one thing that hadn't changed in five years was his favourite hockey player staying at Bellwood, meaning he got to be the proud owner of his latest jersey, his number 10 gleaming in green on the back and front. 

School was another question. It was too late in the year to enroll. Too weird to explain. Too dangerous, maybe, with everything going on. Max had said they’d “figure it out,” which usually meant they’d deal with it later. Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to go back anyway. Not when the world felt like it was sprinting ahead without him.

He had been looking forward to getting back to the action all week. Tonight was the first time Max was letting him join a real stakeout, and he’d been buzzing about it since breakfast. Gwen insisted stakeouts required an unreasonable amount of snacks, which was how they ended up here. It wasn’t hero work, not really, but it was something. A distraction. A step toward feeling useful again.

He grabbed a soda and a bag of chips, trying to shake the feeling off. Gwen joined him at the counter, arms full of snacks she definitely didn’t need.

[color=7ea7d8]“You good?”[/color] she asked softly.

[color=springgreen]“Yeah.”[/color] He lied.

The cashier scanned their stuff. Ben was reaching for his wallet when the bell over the door jingled again.

A man in a ski mask rushed in, waving a gun with both hands like he barely knew how to hold it. His voice cracked as he shouted at the cashier to empty the register.

Ben’s heart jumped. His fingers twitched toward the Omnitrix.

He ran through options in his head. XLR8 could disarm him instantly. Diamondhead could block the shot. Four Arms could punch him through the wall. Quite frankly anyone would've put this punk in his place. He pressed the side button, activating the selector.

Before he could make his choice though, Gwen’s hand closed around his wrist.

[color=7ea7d8]“Don’t.”[/color]

He looked at her, confused and frustrated.

She stepped forward before he could argue. Calm. Controlled. She flicked her fingers and a pulse of mana knocked the gun clean out of the man’s hand. He yelped, stumbled, and Gwen swept his legs out from under him with a glowing arc of energy. He hit the floor hard, groaning.

The cashier stared. Ben stared.

Gwen dusted her hands off. [color=7ea7d8]“Let’s go.”[/color]

Ben followed her out, cheeks burning. He didn’t say anything as they moved.

All he could think about were the magazines. The heroes. The headlines. Gwen, handling everything like she’d been doing it for years.

And him, standing there, useless, with a watch that could turn him into anything.

It wasn’t fair.

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[b]|| Knowhere, Space[/b]

The warehouse lights flickered as a towering, broad‑shouldered figure stepped inside, flanked by half a dozen armored enforcers. White fur bristled beneath battered pirate leathers, the black stripes across his feline features catching the dim light like claw marks. The shattered remains of a Nova Corps chestplate clung to his torso, scorched and cracked from battles long past. As he moved deeper into the room, he reached up to adjust the heavy cybernetic cannon grafted to his right arm, the mechanism whining softly as its plates shifted. A metallic grey patch covered one of his eyes, whilst the other narrowed as it took in the wreckage around him.

Titus let out a low growl.

“[color=#f7eaea]Look at this mess,[/color]” he muttered, voice echoing off metal walls. “[color=#f7eaea]My territory. My supplies. My people. And some cloaked scavenger thinks he can stroll in and help himself.[/color]”

His men spread out, weapons raised. The only illumination came from a few dying overhead strips and the glow of exposed conduits sparking on the floor.

Titus continued, louder now, letting his voice carry.

“[color=#f7eaea]We’ve been hearing stories. Something tearing through my protection racket. Something ripping apart my crews. Something stealing tech like it’s building a damn shrine.[/color]”

He stepped over a shattered drone, its chassis crushed like paper.

“[color=#f7eaea]I don’t tolerate thieves. And I don’t tolerate chaos in my streets. Whoever you are, you’ve made a very expensive mistake.[/color]”

A dry, rasping laugh drifted from the shadows.

Every man froze.

The laugh came again, deeper this time, vibrating through the metal supports of the warehouse. A cloaked figure shifted in the darkness between two towering stacks of crates.

Titus raised a hand, signaling his men to hold.

The figure stepped forward, his cloak falling away. The room went silent in response

His body was towering and monstrous; half‑healed and half‑mechanical. The sickly green of his was fused with jagged sheets of metal and machinery. Wires snaked across his limbs. His tentacke-like limbs flexed and rippled, while his eyes burned into his onlookers like a pair of twin suns.

Titus’ men recoiled.

Titus himself took a single step back before catching himself.

“[color=#ed1c24]I’ve been waiting for you to come find me, Titus.[/color]”
Vilgax spoke, voice low yet filling the room all the same. “[color=#ed1c24]You lost your arm to a child. And now you hide in this scrap‑heap, pretending to be a king. Let me help you reclaim what was taken.[/color]”