The garish colors of the comic book seemed to mock him. Captain Carter. The name echoed in the silent basement, a single, dissonant note in the symphony of his plans. He thought of the film he'd once seen, of a different Wanda dreamwalking across the multiverse to a world designated 838—a world where Peggy Carter became the First Avenger. A world that, crucially, was filled with mutants.
It clicked into place with terrifying clarity. Oleg and Alina already saw their children as mutants. Wanda, who could make her toys dance in the air with a thought. Pietro, who was a silver-blue blur when he thought no one was watching. And Ethan himself, with his impossible strength and the coiled, brown secret he kept hidden at the base of his spine. In the eyes of this family, they were a complete set.
Their fear was a quiet, constant presence in the house. A nervous straightening of Ethan's shirt whenever they went out. A sharp, hissed "Pietro!" when he zipped across the room too quickly. They were terrified of a neighbor's glance, a soldier's question, a knock on the door. Here in the fractured landscape of post-war Sokovia, hatred was a luxury most couldn't afford, but they'd seen the news reports from America. They knew how the world viewed people like them.
And if this truly was Universe 838, the danger to Wanda was more specific and horrifying than simple prejudice. Ethan's mind raced ahead, to a future where a grieving Scarlet Witch from another reality would hijack this Wanda's body, using her as a puppet in a rampage that would slaughter that world's mightiest heroes.
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. It was a problem for another Ethan, a future version of himself armed with more than just a single, borrowed hour of godhood. For now, it was a distant storm cloud on the horizon; his job was to reinforce the foundations of his shelter.
More than three weeks later, the sky outside was still the color of bruised plums when Ethan's feet hit the pavement. A ten-kilometer run through the pre-dawn gloom, followed by an agonizing crucible in the basement: 300 push-ups, 500 squats, 1,000 sit-ups. He finished just as the first rays of sunlight pierced the morning mist.
Upstairs, the rich aroma of coffee, grilled sausages, and baking bread soon filled their small home. By the time Oleg and Alina stumbled out of their room, the table was laden with a breakfast fit for a small army: sandwiches, a pitcher of milk, noodles, and a mountain of golden-fried eggs.
They watched him, this boy who was more adult than child, and felt the familiar pang of awe mixed with guilt. A child his age should be worrying about scraped knees, not portion sizes and housework. It spoke of a childhood stolen, a burden they were determined their own children would never have to bear. They imagined his story: a boy whose powers had made him a monster in the eyes of his own blood, an outcast before he even had a chance to be a child. The thought only deepened their resolve to protect him.
"Wanda, Pietro, breakfast!" Alina called, her voice warm.
Her shout was answered by the thunder of small feet as the twins came barreling down the stairs, already bickering good-naturedly.
It was Sunday. After the plates were cleared—mostly by Ethan—the family crowded onto the living room sofa. Oleg put a disc into the player, and the flickering black-and-white images of The Dick Van Dyke Show filled the screen, accompanied by a wave of canned laughter. Ethan didn't care for the show, but he cherished this. The simple warmth of a family, crowded together, safe and content. It was an experience so alien to his own past that it felt like a precious, fragile treasure.
Ding-dong.
The sudden chime of the doorbell cut through the sitcom's cheerful theme.
"I'll get it," Ethan said, standing up.
He opened the solid wooden door and found two men on their small porch. One was a young man with an intense jawline, his eyes hidden behind a pair of bizarre, ruby-red sunglasses. The other was an old man, bald and serene, seated in a gleaming chrome wheelchair.
"Good morning, young man," the old man said, his voice a gentle, cultured baritone. He offered a kind smile, but as his eyes met Ethan's, the smile faltered. A flicker of profound surprise crossed his serene features, a subtle widening of the eyes, the look of a grandmaster who had just encountered a chess move he'd never seen before. "Strange," he murmured, almost to himself. "That is a first."
To his telepathy, most minds were open books. This boy's mind, however, was a closed, locked vault. Charles Xavier hadn't seen a lock like this in a very, very long time. He had come for the one young mutant Cerebro had pinpointed in this city, but it seemed he had found two.
A silent, invisible pressure brushed against Ethan's consciousness. Instantly, a cool blue panel flickered into existence in his mind's eye.
[External psychic energy has invaded the host's brain. To ensure system integrity, automatic shielding is engaged.]
The pressure vanished.
Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his expression neutral. Professor X. Cyclops. He knew them instantly. He also knew that, thanks to his Golden Finger, the world's most powerful telepath was drawing a complete blank. The immediate threat was gone.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Ethan replied, his voice even. "Is there something I can help you with?"
He wasn't a mutant. Not technically. So they couldn't be here for him. That meant they were here for Wanda or Pietro. But weren't their powers supposed to come from Chaos Magic and the Mind Stone? Or was that just another assumption he had to throw out? Was everything different in the 838 universe?
He held the door open a little wider, a calm and polite host. Inside, his mind was racing, weighing every possibility, every potential future branching from this single, unexpected moment.