Locke lay on his bed, eyes half-lidded, listening to the faint rustling sounds coming from the room next door. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed it. Over the past several nights, Emily seemed to be busy with something long after the bar had closed, moving around with a quiet persistence that stood out in the otherwise still night. The pattern had been consistent enough to catch his attention, though not yet enough to demand action.
He exhaled slowly and pushed the thought aside, letting it drift to the back of his mind. Right now, there were more important things to focus on. With a subtle shift in awareness, he activated the Ultimate Evolution Module, and the familiar dimensional interface unfolded before him like a layered projection.
Except this time, it wasn't familiar at all.
The moment the dimensional cover manifested, Locke's expression sharpened. The interface hovering before him was drastically different from anything he had seen before. Instead of the usual stable visual, this one burned with intertwining red and green flames, as if the very fabric of it was unstable or alive. The energy radiating from it felt heavier, denser, like it belonged to something far beyond the previous worlds he had accessed.
When his consciousness brushed against it, information flooded into his mind in an instant, overwhelming but precise.
Big Dimension. Multiversal Layer. Cross-Continuity Access.
Locke's gaze locked onto the figure displayed on the cover—a man clad in a blue uniform, a circular shield resting firmly in his grip, his expression steady and unyielding.
"Well… damn," Locke muttered under his breath, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension in his chest. "I thought DC was already pushing things to the limit, and now you're throwing Marvel at me?"
The weight of that realization settled quickly. If DC was dangerous, then Marvel was outright chaotic. This wasn't just a world of enhanced humans or street-level vigilantes. It was a universe crawling with entities that could consume planets, manipulate reality, or erase entire civilizations without blinking. Names surfaced in his mind unbidden—cosmic devourers, ancient architects of life, beings that had existed long before human history even began.
And now, he was being pushed into it.
A new line of information surfaced in his thoughts, cold and absolute.
Enter within three days to complete the dimensional node task… or be forcibly integrated.
Locke let out a quiet breath, his eyes narrowing slightly. "So it's not optional. Figures."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the inactive templates within his system—the vampire lineage, the partially unlocked power sets, the unfinished chains of abilities that still needed refinement. None of them felt sufficient when measured against the scale of what awaited him.
"Yeah… this thing's not even pretending anymore," he murmured, shaking his head. "Just throwing me straight into the deep end."
Still, panic wasn't an option. Locke's mind moved quickly, analyzing, restructuring, adapting. The Marvel universe wasn't something you brute-forced your way through—not without drawing attention from things that would crush you before you even understood what killed you. The key wasn't dominance. Not yet. It was positioning.
"Play it smart," he said quietly, his tone steadying as the plan began to take shape. "Stick close to the main thread. Minimize ripple effects."
His eyes returned to the figure on the cover, the star-spangled uniform standing out vividly against the burning backdrop.
"Captain America, huh…" Locke's lips curved slightly. "The golden boy of the timeline."
Originally, he had considered going after the Super Soldier Serum directly, cutting in early and taking it for himself. But now, that approach felt reckless. Too many variables. Too many ways for things to spiral out of control.
"No," he decided, his voice firm. "Better to ride the wave than fight it. Stay close, stay useful… and stay under the radar."
If there was anyone in that timeline who could act as a stable anchor, it was Steve Rogers. The so-called "son of destiny" in that era. Aligning with him would reduce the chances of attracting unwanted attention from the higher tiers of the universe—at least for now.
Locke reached out again, his will locking onto the dimensional cover. The burning interface pulsed in response, the red and green flames twisting into a vortex of shifting light.
"Let's see what you've got," he said, stepping forward without hesitation.
The moment his decision solidified, his body moved, passing through the dimensional interface as if it were nothing more than a curtain of light. The world around him dissolved instantly, replaced by a violent surge of color and motion.
Behind him, in the quiet room he had just left, a window creaked open.
Patrina slipped inside with a fluid motion, her presence silent but deliberate. She paused the moment her feet touched the floor, her brows drawing together slightly as her gaze swept across the empty room.
Something was off.
She had felt it—a strange fluctuation, subtle but unmistakable, like the air itself had shifted for a brief moment. Her instincts, sharpened far beyond that of an ordinary person, had reacted immediately. It wasn't curiosity that brought her here. It was something closer to unease.
But now, standing in the middle of the room, there was nothing.
No trace. No residual energy she could clearly identify. Just emptiness.
"…Strange," she murmured under her breath, her eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned the space again.
Then—
Boom.
The world exploded into noise.
Locke's consciousness snapped back into awareness as a deafening roar filled his ears. Pain surged through his skull, sharp and immediate, as his body reacted before his mind could fully catch up. The ground beside him erupted in a blast of dirt and fire, the shockwave throwing him sideways with brutal force.
"Shit—!"
He hit the ground hard, instinctively raising his head just enough to get a sense of his surroundings. Smoke choked the air, thick and acrid, while the sharp crack of gunfire echoed endlessly around him. Explosions tore through the battlefield at irregular intervals, each one shaking the earth beneath him.
"Yeah, this is great," Locke muttered, coughing as he spat out dirt. "Drop me straight into artillery fire. Why not?"
If not for the enhancements he had already accumulated, that first blast alone might have been enough to kill him outright. As it was, he could feel the damage—internal strain, bruising, the beginnings of something worse—but nothing immediately fatal.
His eyes scanned the chaos quickly, processing everything in rapid bursts.
Trenches. Mud. Soldiers in uniform.
He looked down at himself, taking in the yellow-green military gear and the unmistakable star insignia on his chest.
"World War II," he concluded instantly. "And I'm on the American side."
Bullets whistled overhead, tearing through the air with terrifying speed. Locke flattened himself against the ground, his body reacting purely on instinct. This wasn't staged combat. This wasn't controlled. Every second here carried the weight of real death.
He grabbed the rifle lying beside him, the metal cool and solid in his hands. Without overthinking, he adjusted his grip and aimed toward a flicker of movement in the distance.
The shot rang out.
Through his enhanced vision, he saw the result almost immediately—a distant figure jerking as the bullet found its mark.
"Huh," Locke murmured. "Guess I still got it."
The moment of distraction nearly cost him.
A sharp crack echoed right next to his ear, and something slammed into his helmet with violent force. His head snapped back, vision going dark for a split second as he collapsed onto the ground.
Voices blurred around him.
Hands grabbed at his body.
He didn't move, didn't react, letting his breathing slow as he assessed the situation through the narrowest sliver of awareness. Medics. They were dragging him away from the front lines.
Good.
He kept his eyes closed as he was lifted onto a stretcher, his body bouncing slightly with each hurried step. The sounds of battle began to fade behind him, replaced by distant shouting and the hurried rhythm of boots against dirt.
For a moment, he thought he was clear.
Then another explosion hit.
The shockwave slammed into him mid-transport, sending his body flying off the stretcher. He hit the ground hard, rolling through dirt and debris before coming to a stop against a small mound.
Pain exploded through him this time, far worse than before.
"Fuck—!"
The word tore out of his throat, raw and broken. He tried to move, but his body refused to respond properly. Something was wrong. Multiple things were wrong.
Through blurred vision, he saw the soldiers around him lying motionless, their expressions frozen, their bodies twisted unnaturally.
Dead.
"Hey—!" Locke forced out, his voice hoarse. "Get me the hell out of here—!"
Blood filled his mouth, choking off the rest of his words. He coughed violently, the metallic taste overwhelming his senses.
Somewhere nearby, a soldier who had made it farther back turned, his expression shifting into shock as he looked at Locke's mangled form.
"…Holy shit."
Darkness pressed in at the edges of Locke's vision as more voices approached, their words blending together into a distant, meaningless noise. He let his eyes close again, not out of weakness, but calculation.
If they thought he was dying, they'd prioritize moving him.
That was enough.
By the time he was fully aware again, the sounds of the battlefield had been replaced by a different kind of chaos—orders being shouted, equipment clattering, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the air.
A medical tent.
"Not gonna make it," a doctor's voice said bluntly. "Why'd you even bring him here?"
Locke didn't react, keeping his breathing shallow.
"Doctor, he asked for help," another voice argued. "He wasn't dead when we found him."
A pause.
Then footsteps.
"Still alive?" the doctor muttered, leaning in closer. "After all that?"
Hands moved quickly over his body, checking, pressing, assessing.
"…Well, I'll be damned."
Orders were given. He was moved again, placed onto a softer surface this time.
Locke forced his eyes open just a fraction.
"Oh shit—he's awake!" someone exclaimed nearby.
Another set of footsteps approached, more deliberate this time.
The doctor.
His uniform was pulled open, exposing the damage beneath. Even through the haze, Locke saw the flicker of shock in the man's eyes.
"Get me something," Locke rasped, though the words came out broken and wet.
The doctor didn't hesitate this time. A syringe appeared, and a sharp sting followed as it was driven into his chest.
The burning spread instantly, flooding through his system.
Locke's body twitched violently, pain radiating from every fractured point as his bones, muscles, and organs struggled to hold together under the strain.
Somewhere deep inside, his regenerative abilities had already begun their work.
But it wasn't fast enough.
And right now, everything hurt.
....
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