The heavy stone slab covering the basement entrance scraped open, flooding the dim space with pale noon light. Oleg and Alina descended the steps, their faces smudged with soot and exhaustion, but their eyes lit up with relief when they saw Ethan sitting up, chatting quietly with the children. In their arms, they clutched several dark, crusty loaves of bread wrapped in paper.
"You are awake!" Alina breathed, a tired but brilliant smile spreading across her face.
They looked at him not just as a boy, but as a miracle. He was the reason they weren't buried under a pile of rubble. Gratitude radiated from them, so palpable Ethan could almost taste it. He knew what was coming: a flood of thanks, questions he couldn't answer, a debt he couldn't repay.
He had to strike first.
Before Oleg could speak, Ethan winced, raising a hand to his head as if warding off a phantom pain. "I… I'm sorry," he began, his voice deliberately hesitant. He looked from Oleg's concerned face to Alina's. "I heard from Wanda that you saved me. Thank you. I don't… I don't remember anything else."
It was a classic, shameless gambit, but in the chaos of war, it was also perfectly plausible.
The couple exchanged a look, their intended gratitude instantly melting into deep sympathy.
"It is nothing, child," Oleg said, his voice a low rumble. "The fighting stopped last night. You rest. When order is restored, we will help you find your family."
They were already piecing together a story for him in their minds; he could see it in their eyes. A child of immigrants, perhaps, separated from his family in the blasts. And the powers they'd witnessed? In a world where news reports sometimes whispered of 'mutants', it wasn't entirely unbelievable. After all, their own daughter could sometimes make her toys float, and their son was already faster than any boy his age had a right to be. This boy had saved their lives; the least they could do was protect him.
"I wouldn't want to be a burden," Ethan said, lowering his eyes in a perfect imitation of youthful humility. Inside, his mind was a whirlwind of cold calculation. The plan was working.
While feigning weakness, he had been taking inventory. The first thing he noticed was the memories. Goku's life, from birth to the age of thirteen, hadn't vanished with the power. It remained, spooled in his mind like a film he could watch at will—the training, the fights, the friendships—a complete tactical database, blessedly free of the Saiyan's emotional baggage.
Second, his body was different. The panel had mentioned he would acquire the template's bloodline, and he'd found the proof tucked uncomfortably against his lower back. A tail. He now had the raw material of a Saiyan. He had the knowledge of the Kame Style. Even without the template, he was no longer just a normal human boy.
And there was the panel itself, his Golden Finger. It had a new section: Justice Points. Justice, according to the panel, wasn't some grand cosmic concept; it was a currency. A moral piggy bank he could fill by acting as judge, jury, and, if necessary, executioner, so long as he subjectively believed in the verdict. The world's opinion was irrelevant. Kill a warlord to save a town? Justice. Kill a man who wronged you out of pure spite? Worthless. It demanded action, not money; helping an old woman across the street earned points, but donating to a charity earned nothing. Best of all, there were no deductions. He could build his account of righteous deeds without fear of it ever being depleted by his more… pragmatic actions.
He already had a small balance from his one-hour rampage. It was a clear path forward. Accumulate points, draw new templates, get stronger.
"Nonsense. You are not a burden. You are a sensible, brave boy."
Alina's voice cut through his thoughts. Before he could react, she was there, kneeling by the cot and wrapping him in a warm, fierce hug. The yeasty aroma of the bread she still held filled his senses. The embrace was so full of maternal love it was suffocating.
"Mama, me too!" Pietro launched himself onto the cot, wriggling into the hug with the single-minded jealousy of a small child.
Not to be outdone, Wanda followed, her small arms wrapping around what little of Ethan's torso she could reach. Oleg chuckled, setting the bread down before leaning over and enveloping them all—his wife, his children, and the strange boy in the middle—in his strong arms.
"Do not worry," he murmured into Alina's hair. "Everything will be alright now."
Trapped in the center of this sudden vortex of affection, Ethan froze. The plan was simple: use them for shelter, for safety, for a foothold in this terrifying new world. But the warmth seeping through his thin shirt was real. The weight of Wanda's head on his shoulder was real. It was a fragile, dangerous thing he hadn't accounted for.
This is… nice, a traitorous part of his mind whispered.
He thought of his own childhood, a black-and-white film of shouting matches and slammed doors. He was a piece of luggage from a failed marriage, passed between two new homes where he never quite fit, a living ghost of a past everyone wanted to forget. This—this loving, laughing, impoverished little family—was something he'd only ever seen in movies. A bitter pang of envy surprised him.
A week later, a fragile sense of normalcy had returned to Sokovia. Oleg and Alina, swept up in the city's desperate need for labor, had both found work. And today, they took Ethan to a cramped, antiseptic-smelling office for missing persons.
After an hour, a fat, weary-looking woman in a government uniform called them into a small room.
"I am very sorry," she said, her tone heavy with practiced regret as she shuffled through a thin folder. "The war… it destroyed so much of the city's records. We have no information matching his description. No family has registered a search for a boy who looks like him." She sighed, closing the folder with a sound of stamped finality. "It is most likely his parents… his family… are among the casualties."
She looked at them with sympathetic eyes. "You have two options. He can be placed in the state orphanage, or… you can file for legal adoption."
Oleg and Alina walked out of the room with reddened eyes. They found Ethan playing a quiet game with Wanda and Pietro in the waiting area. They knelt down in front of him, their movements slow and deliberate.
"Ethan," Alina began, her voice soft, as if the question itself were a delicate piece of glass she was afraid to break. "Would you… would you be willing to be our child? To be Wanda and Pietro's brother?"
Ethan looked from Alina's hopeful, tear-streaked face to Oleg's steady, solemn gaze. A genuine smile, the first one that wasn't part of a plan, touched his lips.
"I do."
"I have a brother!" Wanda shrieked with joy, clapping her hands.
"He's my brother!" Pietro shouted, jumping up and down.
They had spent a week with the quiet, polite boy who always made sure they were safe. They already loved him. For them, this was just making it official. For Ethan, it was the closing of a contract. The first, and most critical, step to surviving Marvel.