[Brooklyn ~ 1939]
The first thing I realized upon waking up, was that I for damn sure ain't in Kansas no more.
Not that I was before...
But now, I most definitely am not.
But now that I can really see my surroundings... yeah. I'm not even in the 21st century, let alone Kansas...
Looks like something straight out the goddamn Mary Poppins movie. The original, not the remake. It's bad enough I had to see the original, let alone shaving ten years of my life to watch a goddamn remake...
And now, I'm living it. Grime and dust clinging to a brotha like I owe 'em money. A nasty thick, stench of coal smoke, like the sweat you get in humidity but grimy and chalky instead of soggy and wet.
Fuck!
If this is a dream, I better wake my ass up soon. If it's not a dream, I pray to whatever deity sent me here... send me back and I'll never skip church again, not even for work–... not even for fun.
Ain't no way I'm skipping work for church. Sorry Jesus, but even a Bible cost money, my man.
If only this WAS a dream, because besides the clingy smoke, and the stale tobacco, not like a BLK and more like the nasty cigars them rich brothers use in the movies and shit, there was the subtle, metallic tang of the nearby elevated train tracks, giving me a permanent taste that's like blood, but not really.
This is some uncivilized bullshit, I can't even front. Why do the Boomers always reminisce about this with that dreamy ass look in their face?
The way I see it, the copper they'd been breathing messed up their heads or something.
Rumble. Rumble, Rumble.
Snapping me out of my reveries, a passing train rattled the very bones of the tenement building I was currently occupying, Damn near shaking the ears off a YN.
Goddamn! The Fuck they got a train that loud for?
Don't get me wrong. I've ridden on trains, I'm from the Southside of Chicago, born and muthafuckin' raised. But our trains don't sound like they going to war. They definitely don't sound like my Uncle Luthor when the Bears lost to the goddamn Rams when we coulda won.
My point is, it's not that loud from what I remember of trains. And I'm guessing that it's due to the technological differences of... whenever this is, and 2026. But I never really thought of trains as 'Technological' until now, so it isn't too surprising that simple stuff like that shocks me.
Anyways, as I lay on the mattress that felt like it had been stuffed with everything it wasn't supposed to, staring up at a ceiling where the plaster was peeling in the shape of a star, I start to really process how fucked up this is if It's not a dream.
Because I don't live anywhere I recognize anymore, I thought, the realization hitting me with the force of a Ryan Garcia right hook.
I sit up, my head spinning.
Shit. Shit, shit, SHIT! It's fucking real, isn't it! I'm in the past, have no identification I can count on, and didn't get past junior year Multicultural Studies, let alone whatever classes would help me adapt quickly...
Worst of all, I can't see Cardi B's perfect booty till years in the future. Talk about horrible goddamn luck.
My hands which are way smaller and calloused than my previous body, although strangely steady, clutched the thin, moth-eaten wool blanket that smelled like what Quagmire's Sweat Towel might smell like.
Think, DeMarr, THINK!
My last memory was a blur of white light and a sensation of being stretched like taffy... No Diddy, though.
Now, I was in a body that felt years younger than my previous 27 years, and was vibrating with a nervous energy that wasn't just adrenaline.
Then, it hit me. That energy...
It was The Gift. The Transmigrator Perks! The... Golden Finger!
"Hahaaaaaa!" A manic laugh that made my own hairs raise on end escapes from my throat, making my body involuntarily shiver. I'm just glad I can't see my expression. I feel like the Joker would approve, and that isn't a very comforting thought. But... Golden Finger MWHAHAHAHA!
"Hahahaaaa!" Calming down slightly, I try to activate my powers, even thoughI don't know what they are exactly.
In most situations, the MC delves into his mind on some Ancient Chinese Cultivation Mumbo Jumbo, so I'll try that. Asians are usually smart. Correction, Asians in real life are smart. In Fanfics or Web novels, they're just straight up sociopathic, but I digress.
Delving into the back of my mind, I find something.
(A/N: It's... it's... China Numba Wan!!! Just kidding lol. Too soon? (ーー;)
In the depths of my conscious, nestled behind my memories of my application to Blacked.com, and the engineering textbooks I'd devoured in my previous life after being rejected for the p*rn industry, sat a crystalline structure of pure information in the shape of the Fortress of Solitude from the show Smallville.
It wasn't a phyiscal manifestation, and it wasn't even the fortress, but a manifestation of the way that would make it easier for me too access.
My 'Golden Finger' that had rewritten my DNA the moment I touched down in this era, whatever or rather... whenever that may be...
Atomic Synthesis. That's my power that I was granted. And as I realize what it entails, my jaw goes slack.
Holy Shit! This is like a scaled up version of of Momo Yaoyorozu's Quirk in BNHA!
For those who don't know how broken that is, let me explain my newfound powers.
Think of Atomic Synthesis as an advanced, more efficient version of small scale matter creation and manipulation.
Like Momo Yaoyorozu's quirk, it allows me to transmute matter into objects—but with fewer physical limits and greater tactical flexibility.
Atomic Synthesis grants me direct control over matter at the molecular level. The key improvement is efficiency: less personal energy is wasted, and external matter can now be used as fuel. In short, I can create more, faster, and smarter than before in multiple areas.
How it works is simple.
Basically, I now have two sources of raw material.
Whereas Momo Yaoyorozu's version requires her to use her own fat, I can use an external source, and even if my own body fat is still used, I'd only need about 70% less mass is needed per object compared to Momo.
As for the external source...
Just by touching inorganic materials lile metal, plastic, or stone etc..., I can absorb and store them. This creates a temporary matter reserve, allowing me the ability to enact large-scale creations without immediate physical exhaustion.
In addition, my ability to create is no longer purely memorization-based. When I touch a living or non-living object, I instantly understandsl its basic molecular structure/DNA. This allows quick replication of simple items, and once an object is successfully created, its design is mentally stored. Recreating it later requires much less focus.
As if that's not crazy OP already, objects I create no longer have to emerge from one place. Multiple items can be created simultaneously from different parts of my body.
But Wait! There's more!
If I maintain contact with a solid surface like the ground or a wall, I can create objects directly from it within a 2-meter radius. This enables traps, barriers, or tools to appear exactly where I need them.
And for more combat oriented scenarios, I can instantly create a lightweight, hollow framework and fill it in to full strength a moment later. This allows near-instant shields or structures, even if its full durability comes slightly afterward.
Another upside compared to Momo Yaoyorozu's version is lower physical strain. Because of better efficiency and external fuel, I won't suffer from extreme weight loss and risk Anorexia. Normal high-quality nutrition is sufficient. In other words, I'll eat more than Usain Bolt, but less than Barry Allen.
I also have an application counted as a sub-ppwer to my creation 'quirk'. It allows me to briefly harden my skin at the moment of impact, forming a thin protective layer. This is fast and low-cost, but not meant for sustained heavy damage.
I also was granted improved mental endurance, meaning stress no longer causes complete failure. Under pressure, I can simply default to simpler, pre-learned creations, rather than none at all like in MHA, where Momo freezes multiple times, rendering her quirk useless since it requires her active and conscious concentration.
Some of the more advanced applications include a few techniques like:
Scaffold Rush: Rapidly forming platforms, poles, or handholds from nearby surfaces to enhance movement or control terrain.
Disassembly Tap: Touching a man-made object to partially break it down, disabling it while absorbing its materials into the reserve.
Composite Fabrication: Creating multi-material objects such as insulated wiring in a single step rather than assembling layers.
But the greatest difference is that, unlike the original quirk, Atomic Synthesis can create organic matter, including food, medicine, and biological tissue. My intuitive understanding also applies to living or once-living materials down to their smallest level of particles.
However, high-risk materials, such as radioactive elements or highly unstable compounds—require enormous energy and remain extremely dangerous, though technically possible.
My stored external matter loses effectiveness after about one month if unused, which isn't bad, but still kind of sucks that I can't hoard matter like Sebastian Shaw hoards energy.
But, oh well.
Remote creation, that is to say contact less creation from outside my body usingmaterials in the environment nearby, requires intense focus and forces me to remain stationary.
It is situational, not something that can be used repeatedly in rapid succession, unfortunately.
And truly advanced or alien technology still requires deep study, bevause my power works off of Earth's periodic table and understanding of the branches of science, and has to re-learn foreign sciences and applications. Kimlnd of like, it has to update manually.
After all, my intuition provides only basic, modern material science, not instant breakthroughs in Alien technology.
To sum it all up, Atomic Synthesis trades raw material for intelligence, efficiency, and adaptability. I'm no longer limited by my body alone, but by preparation, knowledge, and strategic use of resources...
This is cracked, ain't gon lie. Or as a kid on a bicycle would say to a certain Parr family: That was totally wicked!
Bringin my focus back, I close my eyes, and the world doesn'tgo dark. Instead, I see a HUD-less blueprint of my own biology.
I felt my body's lipids, the fat stores I'd inherited from this teenage frame, shimmering like liquid gold.
They were fuel.
But there was something else. As my bare feet touched the floorboards, a hum traveled up my calves.
Dayum! That feels weird as fuck! Not bad, but just... wrong...
Inorganic Absorption.
I can feel the carbon in the wood, the traces of varnish, and even the iron nails driven into the joists.
Of I had to describe it, I'd say it's like... having a thousand microscopic fingers reaching out into the room, tasting the molecular structure of everything I touched.
(A/N: Hey, hey! I'm not a teacher, okay! Don't blame me for being bad at describing it, okay! I have very little writing experience due to my tendency to get bored fast. I only started this one because I have wanted to do this idea since 2017! BTW, thanks for reading. Means a lot.
d=(^o^)=b ...)
"This shit is co-ool," I whispered, my squeaky voice cracking embarrassingly with a bit of mid rasp.
Dammit! It's like goddamn middle school all over again. I better find a cure for puberty... and soon.
(A/N: I wish it was a thing. I kid you not, I'm 19, almost 20, and I just went from 5'11" to 6'4" these last 4 months. It's literally winter. Not even a summer growth spurt lol. So now, I'm learning to walk all over again, spending obscene amounts of money monthly on new clothes and shoes just to give them to my Lil bro when I outgrow them 3 weeks later if I'm lucky. Plus, my voice sounds like a rubber ducky, to the point where the Chat in Warzone thinks I should be in school. Life is good guys lol...)
I stood up and walked to the cracked mirror hanging over a chipped porcelain washbasin.
The face staring back was most definitely not mine.
W-what the FUCK!!! No, No, NO!!!! What happened to my perfect Chocolate skin? My perfect taper fade? No, I'm... WHITE!!!!!!
Yes, you guessed it. Instead of the good looking Dark-skinned brother I was before, I'm now, a slightly anorexic looking white boy, with light brown hair, and even lighter brown eyes, flecked with hazel gold.
I can SEE my potential to be an Adonis, but I still can't handle going from being a dark-skinned good looking guy who clapped 9's and 10's on a daily basis, to this... white boy who looks like the next few gusts of wind would pull a Tyson on him. Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against white people.
But it's like Donald Trump being reincarnated in the 1800's in Texas as a black guy. It just... doesn't seem right. But alas, this is my new life, and I sure as shit ain't gonna complain with these OP powers.
Just then, I'm jostled from my thoughts by an unexpected development...
"Kameron?" a muffled voice called from the hallway, followed immediately after by a heavy, rhythmic thumping of a fist on the thick wooden door that serves as both the entrance and exit of my... abode, for a lack of better term. The truth is, other than having powers, I'm not sure of shit else, so I don't even know if this apartment is mine.
"You awake in there, kid? Or did the bedbugs finally carry you off to their queen? I should warn them you don't pay rent, so they'll be better off eating you."
I freeze.
Okay... what the fuck? I can tell she's trying to be endearing, but that was fucking weird.
No way people actually talk like that, right? And what was that subtle dissing about the rent?
Just as I'm about to panic at not knowing what to do without context, my brain scrambles through a sudden influx of 'inherited' memories.
The woman at the door is Mrs. Gable, apparently. And as I kinda guessed, she's the landlady.
Well, she's actaully the wife of the Landlord. Mrs. Gable is portrayed in the former Kameron's memories as having a 'Heart of gold, but breath of gin', her obsession with gin most likely a recent development as Kameron's memories remember a scene of Mr. Gable gettimg head from a cute young woman two floors down in broad daylight to 'lower her rent'.
Poor Mrs. Gable...
"I'm up, Mrs. Gable!" I shouted back, trying to use a tone and way of speaking that sounded like I belonged here, and not that I stole a body of the actual Kameron and am from the 21st century.
"Just... getting my bearings!" I add, tweaking my inflection a bit to match the previous Kameron's as best as I can based off of his memories.
God, please don't tell me granddad actually talked like this. Or is this just the way white folks talked back then? Not sure. I'm guessing there was some differences, otherwise stereotypes like 'Valley Girls', 'Ebonics', and 'Country Accents' wouldn't have been able to come to be, right? Eh, whatever...
"Well, get 'em fast! You're three days late on the rent, and the butcher's been asking after that nickel you owe him. Don't make me come in there and shake it out of you!" Mrs. Gable shouts through the door with a hearty chuckle.
The footsteps start to recede, and I let out a breath I didn't even realizeI was holding.
Money.
It was the same story in 1939 as it was in 2026. The world was built on it, and right now, I was a teenage transmigrator with exactly zero cents to my name and a power that could make me a literal god, and infinite wealth.
Should I just change my name to Midas? Could make it easier down the line. But then those brats would make me into a Fortnite character, and I might buy Epic games just to destroy it. But... that's practically a public service with how much it's been declining since it peaked in the early 2020's.
(A/N: If you're a Fortnite kid, shout out in the comments section. I was 13 when it came out. Still waiting for GTA 6 tho, 😭😭😭)
I looked down at the toilet, or washbasin as my Grandma called it. It was cheap porcelain, probably manufactured in a factory in Jersey. I reached out and touched the rim.
In hindsight... that's nasty. I just touched a toilet rim in some random ass apartment I woke up in. Three cheers for my last remaining brain cell!
Structural Intuition: Activated.
The words from the monotone AI sounding voice in my head snaps my attention to my power just as a flood of data surges into my mind.
Suddenly, I didn't just see the basin; I saw the kaolinite, the feldspar, the quartz it contains, despite not having known prior it contains those materials, much less their atomic structure and compatibility with each other on a subatomic scale.
I also felt the crystalline lattice of the glaze. It was a simple pattern, primitive, really, although I realize that I wouldn't have even known that before my Pattern Recognition sub-power began to highlight different areas in the mesh of atoms and electrons in my vision, suggesting ways to reinforce the structure of the toilet, ways to make it harder, smoother, better, and increase it's productive longevity, or it's lifespan as a product.
Whoa! And not Lil Baby Whoa, but a WTF kind of whoa. This is insane. Just from the first usage of my powers, I can feel my IQ rocket from what it was.
I was rather... unsophisticated in the past, wasn't I? I think, as my brain analyzes my entire previous life and files all the information into different areas of my brain, putting knowledge from all my classes in school from daycare to Sophmore year at ISU (Indiana State University) into the 'easy access' portion, in order to utilize it easier.
Yes, yes I was, I deduce. I had all that knowledge and all those opportunities, but I never took advantage of them completely.
But this opportunity... won't be wasted. I guarantee it. But goddamn am I missed I won't get to goon to Cardi B's fine ass everyday anymore...
Turning back to the utilization of my powers, I feel more confident thanks to my massive boost in my intelligence, and... well, having cheat code level Superpowers helps too.
I could make this, I realized. I could create this from my own body.
But the cost flashed in my mind and creating, let alone improving this toilet would require significant portion of my body fat.
It's not like in the 21st century where machines mass produce literally everything. This is 1939, where mom & pop shops are still the majority, with some having generations of reputable service, even in 1939.
Add that to the fact that I was already a skinny kid to begin with, and yeah.
It's safe to say I don't have the 'lipo-reserves' to be making porcelain sinks for fun. And that leaves only one option. External matter. I need raw materials.
I looked around the room, but wince inwardly.
Jesus, kid. You actually survived living in this place? You got a pair on you, that's for sure for sure.
Yeah, conservatively speaking... It's a dump.
A broken wooden chair sits in the corner, it's shadow cast over a stack of old newspapers, and a lead pipe running along the wall toward the radiator which looks like an extremely problematic health risk. Conservatively speaking, of course...
But... The lead pipe.
I walk over to it and place my palm against the cold, dull metal, hoping I don't get cancer and grow a second willie or something.
Hey, it's Marvel. Where radiation doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger. Hulk, Spider-Man, Captain Marvel.
(A/N: Specifically Carol Danvers, not Mar-Vel or Kamala Khan, although If you WANNA get technical, the Terrigen Mist could be considered radiation not of Earthly Origin...)
Lead. Pb. Atomic number 82.
I felt my power reach out and cane to the deduction that this wasn't just "understanding" the knowledge. It's mote like "downloading" said knowledge, and it can be improved in my hands.
Anyways, I focus on the "Secondary Fuel Source" mentioned in my intuition and will myself to absorb it.
Almost instantly, a strange, tingling sensation crept up my arm, and no, I'm ain't Spider-Man. Although the tingling doesn't hurt, it is extremely unsettling, like my skin was becoming a vacuum, but I didn't lose my normal senses, allowing me to vividly feel the added mass in my body.
I watch, in slight awe, as a small patch of the lead pipe lost its luster, turning into a brittle, grey powder that flaked off onto the floor, before that too is absorbed into me.
In my mind's eye, a cylindrical storage 'tank' fills up. I have successfully converted the inorganic matter into a stored energy state, a molecular 'slurry' I could reshape.
(A/N: So I actually came across this word in my initial research for this fic, and so I wanted to share it with yall. A slurry is a semi-liquid mixture, typically of fine particles suspended in a liquid (usually water). The key idea is that it's thicker than a simple solution or suspension but still fluid enough to be pumped, poured, or sprayed. So think lotion, oil, grease, or... *ahem* nevermind (o_O* )
"Okay," I mutter, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Let's see if the legends are true."
I need something small, yet something inarguably valuable. But not too valuable. It's not too difficult to imagine what woyld happen if a sixteen-year-old kid walked into a pawn shop or a bank with a bar of 24-karat gold, I'd be in a police station or a dark alley within the hour.
Especially given that it's 1939, less than a decade after the Great Depression, on the cusp of WWII, and in the Marvel Universe no less. The MCU if he had to guess, but dangerous as muthafucka nonetheless.
I needed a 'seed.' figuratively speaking. The seed that would sprout into my wealth and grow into an immortal empire across the multiverse.
You might be thinking: that's a bit too ambitious, right? Right?
Wrong.
It's kind of a shame if I don't achieve less than that with these powers. No cap on intelligence and the power to create without limits? I'll be possed if I can't access the Omniverse at some point.
Anyway, I search through my jacket pockets, but the literal hole in the bottoms got me feeling like lil buddy from Polar Express.
After coming up empty in my- ... the previous Kameron's, pockets, I decide to search the dresser drawers.
The reason I said 'previous Kameron's' pockets, is because there is no way I'm claiming this raggedy ass fit when I have a watered down version of Reality Manipulation(or maybe even full blown Creation because there's a fine line between the two, even though I'm leaning towards the latter), as a goddamn superpower.
You can bet your last swisher I'm gonna be dripped the fuck out, but I'm getting off topic again.
Hmmmm. Now that I think about it, I'm getting sidetracked quite often for a guy with boosted intelligence, aren't I?
Anywhoo, finally after God knows how long of searching for something that isn't a fixture of the apartment that would be noticed if it went missing, underneath a loose floorboard in the northcorner of the room, a cliche trope, trust I know—I find a single, tarnished Indian Head penny bearing the date 1890.
And guess what it's made of? If you guessed Copper, you're right! If you didn't, don't enter Jeopardy. For your own good... and mine. I like that show...
Ahem...
I hold the penny in my palm, feeling it's atomic structure, and other material components.
It's made of Copper and a little bit of tin and zinc, with scant traces of aluminum a a negligible amount of iron.
I almost immediately feel the blueprint 'downloading' in my mind and being stirred in the 'database' for later retrieval.
Having now found material, I wanted to change its form, so I focus on the lead slurry I'd just absorbed.
Lead is heavy and dense, but with my Atomic Synthesis I can rearrange the subatomic particles.
Its a way more efficient, and possible, version of the alchemy the ancients dreamed of back in the 13th and 14th century on Earth— my Earth, despite its not being achievable without extremely advanced technology currently centuries if not millennia ahead of anything in the 21st century, although we've already begun experimenting with it.
However, unlike the pipe dream of my previous reality, this one makes it seem almost elementary in the fact that there are probably many people who could achieve it, some of which possess the ability alter reality on a multiversal scale, let alone the atomic structure of Lead to Gold.
And speaking of lead to Gold...
I grip the lead powder I'd collected, which is now stored as potential energy in the 'Slurry Tank', and focus on a tiny speck on the tip of my finger.
I don't try to make a coin, I try to make a grain. A single grain of 24-karat gold, and almost instantly I feel a sharp drain that isn't just the stored lead.
I can feel that my body heat spikes, and a wave of hunger hits me so hard my stomach audibly growls.
Fuck. That isn't pleasant at all. I thought I had reduced Lipid Conversion rates. And shouldn't that lead pipe have prevented this?
Then I realize, I don't even know how it feels for Momo, so how, and why am I comparing my ability to her, letting alone using her as a benchmark. She's a fictional character.
(A/N: >Insert Face Palm Here< Imao)
And even then, 70% efficiency is great, but "greater efficiency" does not in any shape or form mean "free."
Despite the myriad of thoughts swirling around in my head, I open my hand.
At this rate, I might gain parallel thinking capabilities with another boost in my intelligence, I think, all the while staring at the jagged fleck of gleaming yellow metal, no bigger than a grain of sand, sitting in the center of my palm, the morning light filtering in through the grime-streaked window making it glow like a fallen star.
"Holy fuck..." I say out loud. I did it. I actually did it. I am a walking, cheat code to wealth and power.
I know I did other things with my power beforehand, but to be honest, it hadn't really sunk in till now.
But the awe is quickly overshadowed by the cold, hard reality that to make enough gold to be wealthy, I'll have to either eat an entire cow a day to keep my lipids up, or I'll have to strip the city's plumbing bare.
And since obviously neither is a sustainable business model for a teenager in 1939 Manhattan, nor anybody quite frankly, I need a different gameplay to make the most of my power in the shortest amount of time possible, considering WWll begins in months, and to avoid being drafted, I have to be a person of importance or wealth, and neither apply to me right now.
Although, a burger don't sound half bad right now if I'm being honest...
(A/N: It's January 31st, 3:20 a.m. rn, and I put some ground beef out to thaw to make some burgers. At exactly 6:00 a.m., I'll start my morning run through Indiana's snow wrecked streets, all the way to the store. Then, I'll be walkimg back with the groceries, and put them in my fridge. Then I'll finish my workout, today's leg and core day, and hop in the shower, then, I'll cook the shit out of that ground beef, and eat enough burgers to make my ancestors spit blood in the spirit realm as they worry I might get diabetes. Then, I'll go to work, and eat the other burgers I couldn't eat before. I'm a 19 in a growth spurt, who's also an athlete. Full? WTF is that? I'm going all day long... no Diddy. I'm sorry guys, I'm just wakimg up and I'm hungrier n a muthafucka lol)
So as I sit back on the lumpy bed, the gold fleck feeling heavy despite its negligible size.
"Think, Kameron. You're in Marvel. You're in 1939."
What's the best play here?
Gotta be something...
I look at the newspaper on the floor. The headline reads: HITLER THREATENS POLAND; EUROPE ON BRINK. Below that, a smaller, local headline catchesmy eye: STARK EXPO TO SHOWCASE "THE WORLD OF TOMORROW" IN QUEENS.
That. That right there. That's the answer.
Howard muthafuckin Stark.
The name sends a jolt through me as I realize that right now, Howard Stark is probably the most famous inventor in the world... or at the very least, he's getting there...
He is, however, the man who will help build THE shield for an Icon, and S.H.I.E.L.D after that. He is the man who will lead the S.S.R., and right now, I'd bet anything that he is probably looking for better materials, better alloys, better everything, or at least wouldn't reject them.
I don't need to be a gold-maker. It's obvious that being a gold-maker without the ability to protect yourself gets you killed or kidnapped, and in the Marvel Universe... possibly much worse than either of those.
No, I need to be an innovator. Only innovators mark history in any meaningful way.
Innovator is synonymous with success, which also suggests wealth and status.
And all are things I desperately need if I want to avoid being drafted into WWll to combat Hitler and his Nazi Party's fascist regime, speak less of the horrors Hydra will toil in, either behind closed doors or on the battlefield, and probably both.
And so, looking at the tarnished penny again, I get to thinking.
What I will do...
Well, fir starters, I need to eat, and then I need to get Mrs. Gable off my back, and then, I need to get to Brooklyn for that Stark Expo.
I tuck the tiny grain of gold into a small piece of newspaper and fold it carefully, before tucking it into my shoe.
It is essentially my "break glass in case of emergency" fund, although for now, I'll use my Pattern Recognition for something more mundane.
I walk over to the broken chair in the corner that has one of the legs snapped clean off. I touch the wood and instantly identify and download the molecular structure.
Slightly fibrous Oak, and it's only damage consists of a clean break due to a stress fracture...
I don't need to create new wood, I essentially just needed to re-synthesize the break, and following that logic, I place my hands over the fracture.
I feel a tiny, almost imperceptible drain on my energy, hardly any lipids at all, and after just a bit of me focusing on rebonding the fractured molecular structure, the wood fibers start to vibrate slightly.
To any onlooker, it will just look like I was just holding the chair, but in actuality, beneath my palms, the molecules are vibrating at random intervals o s before slowing down abruptly, giving the appearance that they're dancing.
As unbelievable as it sounds considering who was yesterday, I am actually weaving the lignin back together and fusing the molecules until the previous spot of the break didn't just disappear, instead becoming the strongest part of the chair.
I stand the chair up and sit on it, smiling as it doesn't even give so much as a creak.
"Step one," I whispered, a smirk finally tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Fix the chair. Step two... fix my impoverished status debuff."
God, I hate being poor. Been there, done that. Now I'm doing it again. But this WILL be the last time. I'm making sure of it...
I grab previous Kameron's worn tweed cap and head for the door, cringing at the notion that I'm even okay wearing such a hideous shit stain on underwear that is fashion's history, but also comforted by the fact that It almost seems abnormal for me to not wear one, meaning... I'm not the only one.
As I step up into the hallway, the smell of frying onions coming from the room two doors down assaults my nose, causing my stomach to do its version of puppy dog eyes as my appetite rears its head once more.
Gritting my teeth and ignoring the tantalizing smell, I walk down the stairs, my boots clattering on the wooden floor as I do so.
"Kameron!" Mrs. Gable shouts from her apartment on the second floor, her eyes following me, temporarily leaving her imported bottle imported gin, and causing me to jump in the air like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
Jesus! Scared the fuck outta my ass. Is she just sitting there heckling her tenants? Nah. She probably just noticed me now. Thanks a lot, Lady Luck...
"You going out to find work, or are you just going to whistle at the girls on 42nd Street?" She hollers from the balcony, causing me to wince.
Fuck! I can't even get mad, can I? Everything about my new body and its looks screams: horny virgin loser jonesin for some hoo-ha! If you know what I mean...
"Finding work, Mrs. Gable!" I yell back, my annoyance worn on my sleeve like an iced out Patek while I swing around the banister and to the ground floor lobby.
"I think I'm going to be a scientist!"
She laughs, but it quickly turns into a scoff as she shoots back, though without malice, a passable comeback considering that it's only 1939, and the art of the comeback is yet to be delved into by intellectuals, such as myself, dedicated to studying it and mastering its wisdom.
"A scientist?" She guffaws, "Ha! You'll be lucky if you're a ditch- digger by sundown! Don't forget my rent, you little scamp!"
"Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Gable, lay off the gin, yeah?" After saying that, I step up out onto the sidewalk, and the city hits me like... well, a wrecking ball.
New York in 1939 is like living in those old black and white movies or sitcoms, except without the humor and good nature that permeates perpetually.
Instead, Model Ts and early Buicks honk and sputter, their exhaust mingling with the horse manure still present in the gutters.
This would give those hard- core environmentalists an aneurysm, wouldn't it...
Men in federas and wool suits hurry past, looking grim, while newsies stand on the corners, shouting about the "German Menace gaining power in Europe."
It's strangely beautiful, yet at the same time terrifying. But I know that it is but clay in my hands, ready to be shaped and molded by me, and my power that will trump all... eventually...
God, when did I start talking like a cheesy He- Man villain?
Anyways, it is the Marvel Universe, and I am sixteen years old with the power of limitless creation at my fingertips. My future is all but set in stone. Or gold if we're being specific. Valuable yet still malleable.
With that thought in my mind, I start walking toward the subway.
Things are looking good so far. Howard Stark was at the Expo, and I had a good feeling he take me on as a partner.
Ain't no way a guy that smart would be stupid enough to reject me, even if I'm not going to let him know I have powers.
There's only one World's Dumbest Smart Guy, and Reed Richards hasn't been born yet....
And my game plan is idiot proof. I'll surprise him with my knowledge, and create things on the down low to keep up my boy genius persona. I'll also talk about ideas and concepts from the 21st century subtly, in order to pass myself off as having unorthodox, but genius nonetheless, ideas, which also helps with my plan to start building my legend one step at a time.
And what better start to the legend of Kameron Kestis than the boy genius who thought of smartphones In 1939?
As I walk, I keep my left hand in my pocket while the other touches everything I can includimg but not limited to: A brick wall, cast- iron lamppost and a glass window.
Clay, silica, iron, carbon.
Each touch adds a page to my internal library abd each material becomes a tool in my toolbox.
And by the time I reached the subway station, my head is swimming with "Blueprints."
"Let's take Mary J Blige's wonderful advice, and get it started up in here. I, for one, cannot wait..."
To be continued...