A Free Radical [SI in Marvel/MCU]

Levi's sneakers pounded the cracked sidewalk in a steady rhythm, each staccato strike and breath adding to the familiar clamor of Hell's Kitchen. The morning light bathed the tenements in a muted gold, providing an optimistic glow to the dreary buildings. Each jog around the neighborhood revealed new discoveries: faded murals on walls, a group of kids playing stickball in the street, the distant hum of a radio spilling Sinatra out of an open window.

This morning was no different.

He turned a corner onto a block where stoops were stages for a dozen little dramas. A woman in a headscarf called out in rapid Arabic, scolding a trio of children who gleefully ignored her to chase a stray dog. Two doors down, an elderly man in a battered recliner waved to Levi, steam billowing from a chipped Mets mug. Levi returned a chipper two-fingered salute.

"Wilder!" An accented voice called from the battered fruit stand near the corner, where Nita, the elderly Puerto Rican owner, stood framed by neat stacks of apples and bananas. The stand, its peeling paint and mismatched bracing, was a stubborn relic of decades past. Yet every piece of fruit gleamed under her care—a spotless point of pride amid the street's grime. She watched Levi approach with her usual 'resting scowl face', softened by laugh lines that spoke of better days and the faintest tug of a smile.

Levi slowed, pulling his earbuds out. "Good morning, Nita, my dear. How's business?"

"More of the same," she said, shrugging. "Though, some snot-nosed mocosos tried to steal some apples earlier. Can't blame them. These rent-hiking gringos don't leave us enough to give the niños anything for themselves."

Levi snorted, fishing a few 20-dollar bills from his pocket. "For the apple fund—it should let you look the other way when any ankle-biter's hands start to wander." he quipped, sliding the cash onto her counter and grabbing a newspaper from the stack. The cover article caught his eye, 'Citigroup Admits Subprime Investments Were Losers,' matching up verbatim with his delved memories. He folded the paper and looked back up to Nita.

"You're gonna make me soft, Wilder," she said, shaking her head as she surreptitiously moved a few apples to the blind spot at the corner of her stand, a small smile breaking through despite herself. "Stay outta trouble, Levi."

"Don't ask for the impossible," he replied with a wink, slipping the paper under his arm before resuming his jog.

The newspaper was a tether to another life—early mornings of spilled cereal, crayon marked countertops, and childlike laughter that once filled a home now silent. He'd lost that, but maybe he could plant some seeds here, and one day grow something to fill the void. Hell's Kitchen, for all of its pressures and struggles, had heart. He liked that.

On the final stretch, as he turned the corner, a subtle prickling sensation bloomed at the base of his skull.

[DETECTION]

> Environmental abnormality detected.

​> Trace levels of airborne compounds inconsistent with standard urban pollutants​.

Levi slowed, his pace shifting from brisk to cautious. His gaze swept the street, cataloging faces with a practiced calm. His attention settled on a couple seated on a park bench.

The man leaned back with a casual confidence, his suit sharp and crisp. As he adjusted his sleeve, the morning sun reflected off his golden watch. Beside him, the woman sat unnaturally still, angled toward him in a posture that almost looked reverential. Her wide, unblinking eyes were locked on him—not the surroundings, not her child's stroller tucked to the side, but him.

A romantic moment? Maybe, but the longer Levi watched, the stranger the scene became. The stroller's purple blanket shifted in the faint breeze, a quiet reminder of the infant inside. Yet, the mother's focus never wavered, and her body language felt wrong somehow. Like something out of Uncanny Valley.

Hey, Al, talk to me.

[ANALYSIS]

> Trace presence of aerosolized compounds.​

> Volatile organic molecules detected.​

> Likely neurochemical manipulation: heightened suggestibility, suppressed critical reasoning.​

Levi paused, making a deliberate gesture: his left hand held palm up, while his right fist dropped into it with a soft clap. A wry grin tugged at his lips.

Got it. Mysterious brain magic.

Keeping his gait casual, he gave the man one last look over, the lazy arrogance on full display. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

Resuming his jog, he kept his head on a swivel as he rounded the corner, putting distance between himself and the couple and the stroller with its unseen occupant. Whatever was happening, it was none of his business—at least that's what he wanted to say. But the scene stayed with him, the woman's hollow eyes and mannequin-like stiffness unable to leave his mind.

By the time he reached his brownstone, the faint smell of freshly ground coffee beans drifted through the air. His brow furrowed as he climbed the steps, noticing the slight gap in the front door. Unlocked. Again.

Felicia. He grinned and shook his head in amusement.

Inside, the scent of coffee grew stronger. Felicia Hardy sat perched before his kitchen table. Her slender frame was draped in an oversized gray sweater that slipped from her shoulders, baring the elegant curve of her collarbone and the graceful line of her neck. She cradled his favorite mug in both hands, her fingers absently tracing its rim. Her gaze tracked the birds flittering around the feeder he'd hung outside his window, her stillness enhancing the beauty of the scene.

Soft morning light streamed through the window, illuminating her like a spotlight. It caught the faint silver threaded through her platinum blonde hair, tied up in a loose, messy bun, and danced along the exposed skin of her shoulders and throat. The light softened the edges of her usual feline grin, revealing an unguarded serenity. The ever-wary Black Cat seemed at once both human and something more.

"Morning, sunshine," Levi drawled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, and one foot propped casually against it. "Looks like a stray wandered in and made herself at home. Even picked a nice sunbeam to stretch out in, like she owns the place."

Felicia turned, a slow smirk curling her lips. "I always do." She raised the mug in a mock toast. "Figured you wouldn't mind me helping myself. Your coffee always tastes better than mine."

"Of course it does. Pilfered coffee would taste better to a thief." He nodded toward the door she'd obviously picked. "You know, I've offered you a key before. If you are letting yourself in anyway, might as well avoid some concerned citizen phoning in to New York's finest."

Her grin grew fuller as she set the mug down. "But where's the fun in that?"

Levi sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Seeing a woman sneaking in and out of my window at every hour. What will the neighbors say?"

Felicia shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "Let the nosy old ladies have something salacious to gossip about. Every girl needs a little spice."

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, poured himself a cup, and slid into the seat across from her, placing his newspaper on the table. "So, what's the occasion? Or did you just come to soak in the ambiance of Hell's Kitchen?"

She arched an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "Do I need a reason to visit my favorite finance bro?" Her tone dripped with amusement. Gesturing to the headline of the paper, she added, "Speaking of which, heard you made quite the killing with that Citigroup short. How bold."

"Don't act so surprised, I told you about my crystal balls," Levi quipped, waggling his eyebrows as he swirled his coffee. "Besides, it's not exactly sporting when I can see what's coming."

Tilting her head, Felicia's gaze lingered on him, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "You're unusually good at that. As if you've read the script."

Levi grinned, leaning back in his chair. "What can I say? I'm the Wizard of Hell's Kitchen." He waggled his fingers theatrically, as if casting a spell.

Their conversation flowed easily, sunlight spilling across the table as they bantered. But even as Levi played along, the couple from the park lingered in his thoughts. The unease refused to fade. For now, though, he pushed it aside and let himself be fully immersed in savoring the moment.

---

Levi sat in the heart of his command center, directing his war on Wall Street. Several monitors curved around him, each alive with numbers flickering in real time. From real-time stock data to the 24-hour news, information was coming in from various sources. On the central monitor, he saw simulated buy and sell orders from a trading bot he'd been working on since the day he moved in. A scrolling wall of green and red that reported wins and losses in the simulated environment. Beneath the desk, a humming server housed the heart of the operation, its status lights blinking steadily like a heartbeat.

On the wall beside him, a corkboard was covered in a red web of strings and pins. At its center hung a printout of Stark Industries' logo—a nexus of power, wealth, and technology—surrounded by concentric layers of preceding events and dates. Strings radiated outward, connecting related events in chains of cause and effect: Jericho Test, Tony's Fall, Q3 Earnings 2008. A visitor might mistake it for the set of InfoWars, but to Levi, it was a treasure map rife with opportunities.

Levi leaned back and glanced at the data from the bot's initial test run. Programmed to monitor live streams, compare prices to a dataset he'd reconstructed from memory, and simulate trades, the bot was a work in progress. For now, the bot's orders were still fake—sent to this feed he could monitor and compare for accuracy. Real trades would come later, once he was confident it wouldn't blow millions due to a missing semicolon.

AL, How's it looking?

[REPORT]

> Simulated trades align with dataset.​

> Slight divergence in short-sell thresholds.

> Refine short-sell margin by reducing aggressiveness during volatile trends until the base dataset is more complete.​

Don't get too smug, AL. You're just a glorified spreadsheet, one that can get a bit mouthy.

[RETORT]

> Host must admit that AL-69… Excels in this medium.​

They grow up so fast…

Levi wiped a tear of pride from his eye, turning back to the dataset on his central monitor. It was a grid of stock ticker symbols, timestamps, and prices that cascaded down his screen in thousands of rows. Some cells were filled in with exact figures, reconstructed from his knowledge of the market's history. Others were blank, like missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. These gaps needed filling before he'd be comfortable unleashing his fleet of bots upon the unsuspecting NYSE, like tossing piranhas in the pool at fat camp.

Levi leaned back, letting the hum of the server and the glow of the monitors fade into the background. He needed to concentrate. It was time to delve.

---

The first memory appeared in his head, like a VHS that needed it's tape tightened back up. Details sharpened with effort as he focused. Levi found himself seated in a cramped, wood-paneled waiting room. The air smelled a bit moldy, and a clunky television hung precariously on a wall-mounted bracket. It was the kind of rural doctor's office where outdated Reader's Digests and Highlights magazines littered the coffee table, untouched by anyone but bored kids.

The TV flickered with muted news coverage, a stock ticker crawled along the bottom of the screen. Levi had barely noticed it at the time, too engrossed in a game of Pokémon Fire Red, but now he lifted his head from the GBA and looked at the screen. He focused on the ticker, the numbers scrolling by: STK 145.23... NYE 36.78.... The parade of prices marched on, like tiny fragments of gold flowing through the stream of his mind, and he was read with his prospector's pan.

Back in his office, Levi's fingers twitched as he typed the figures into the spreadsheet. The once-empty cells slowly being filled, dialing in the accuracy of the bot's data model.

---

The second memory surfaced with a rush of sound and movement. He was walking briskly through his university's student center, dodging a cluster of students debating political theory over coffee and bagels. The hum of vending machines and the smell of the panini press filled the air. His backpack, slung over one shoulder, was hefty with the weight of textbooks for his Philosophy 101 class—an elective he'd taken on a whim, thinking it would be interesting and an easy A. Instead, it had roped him into late night discussions about determinism and the ethics of power—once hypothetical, but in his new reality, all too relevant.

As he passed the newspaper stand by the entrance, a bold headline caught his eye: "Dow Hits Record High". Beneath it, a column of stock tickers listed prices from the previous day. He hadn't stopped to read, more focused on making it to class in the tight window his schedule gave him, but the numbers had stuck in his peripheral vision.

Delving deeper, Levi visualized the front page, letting his memory pull the figures into focus. Slowly, methodically, he reconstructed the prices across numerous memories—seemingly inconsequential details now vital to his work. He opened his eyes and added the data to the spreadsheet, the gaps filled in one by one.

Minutes ticked by, and Levi remained hunched over his keyboard, eyes scanning for any remaining holes in the dataset. Sweat covered his temple and a headache was building from the effort of delving. Memory reconstruction wasn't instant; it required intense focus, like piecing together a shattered vase from shards scattered across the floor. He leaned back, stretching, and rubbed his temples as he rested his eyes. The spreadsheet's glow cast across his face, almost complete.

AL, how's the model shaping up?

[REPORT]

> Key dataset completeness at 98.7%.​

> Remaining gaps fall outside high-confidence parameters.

​> Continue filling values for optimal automation.​

> Delegate anomaly handling to bot's alert system.​

Levi let out a big breath. The spreadsheet wasn't just a collection of numbers—it was the blueprint to succeeding from this once in a generation financial opportunity. Every figure represented an opportunity, a pathway for the bot to automate trades with inhuman prediction. If the market matched his reconstructed model, the bot would act with full confidence, placing orders for options, shorts, and buys. If deviations occurred, it would trigger safety measures and ping him across all channels: phone, email, and a blinking alert on the server's primary screen.

He clicked over to the bot's output terminal. A live stream of market data scrolled by. Beneath it, the result of the bot's decisions played out in real time. Simulated orders matched the reconstructed dataset with uncanny precision. Prices hit the exact thresholds Levi had set, triggering fake trades that executed flawlessly in the test environment.

Behold, the peak of humanity's achievements.

The bot wasn't just working—it was perfection. He watched as it analyzed a sudden spike in a tech stock, confirmed its alignment with the model, and placed a simulated limit order without hesitation.

Levi allowed himself a moment of pride. This wasn't luck. It was the result of planning, his memory delving perk, and the skills he earned in his past life. The bot was more than a collection of bytes to him, it was proof that he had what it took to make something of himself in this universe.

AL broke the silence.

[COMMENTARY]

> Host demonstrates rare alignment between preparation and execution.​

> Suggest savoring the moment before Host reverts to his typical, suboptimal self.​

Levi smirked. You know me so well.

The monitor pulsed as the bot logged another successful simulated trade. Levi leaned back in his chair, watching the data flow by him in a meditative state. Tomorrow the bot would go live. Tomorrow, he would start filling his Scrooge McDuck vault. Tomorrow…

Hmm… Wonder how long before S.H.I.E.L.D. or someone worse takes notice? Meh. It'll be fine.

---

Fogwell's Gym carried the same smell it always had—mildew, liniment, and the metallic tang of sweat. Time had chipped away at its edges, but the place was still standing, full of fighters pushing themselves in some quest to prove something—to themselves, or to others.

Matt Murdock rested on a bench by the free weights, a towel draped around his neck and his cane resting beside him. The noise and smells of this place brought old feelings to the surface. Memories he hadn't sought out, but didn't care to push away either.

This was the gym his father had trained at, becoming one of Manhattan's rising prospects, before it all fell apart. He could practically hear the thundering rhythm of Jack Murdock's fists hammering away at the heavy bag. His old man's unrelenting pace had drawn eyes, even at a place like this.

It had been years since Matt had lost him, but Fogwell's still transported him back in time to his childhood, when his father was his hero and was strong enough to carry the world on his back. It felt like his father was still here—in the grooves worn into the floorboards, the frayed ropes of the ring, the ghosts hanging in the corners.

Matt tilted his head, allowing his heightened senses to blanket the gym.

In the ring, Levi Wilder squared up against his third opponent of the day. Over the past couple of weeks, he'd become a familiar face at the gym, starting with fitness drills before quickly graduating to daily sparring. Now, he faced off against a man who had him beat in both size and reach.

Levi's movements weren't exactly smooth, but they weren't sloppy either. His footwork landed with purpose, each step sending faint vibrations through the floor. Matt tuned into the rhythm of his breathing—steady, controlled, too calm for someone going three hard rounds.

Levi ducked a wide right hook, slipping inside with precise technique that didn't make sense for someone this green. The sharp thwack of his glove connecting with ribs echoed across the gym. His opponent stumbled back, gloves coming up too late to block. Levi didn't press, though. He reset, his weight balanced, his stance loose.

"Stop waiting for permission!" the coach barked from the ropes. "Boxing's not about being polite. Get in there!"

Levi grinned, his lips tilting in a cocky, mock-innocent way. "But coach, my momma raised me good and proper. You don't want me disappointing her, do ya?" he said, his tone dripping with false earnestness that earned a groan from the coach.

But despite his flippancy, Levi adjusted. Matt's senses could pick up on it through minute tells: the shifting of his weight, the adjustments in his stance, the change in his heartbeat. He was listening. Learning. Too fast.

The next combination came quicker, sharper. Levi pressed into his opponent's guard, landing a clean one-two that sent the man stumbling into the ropes. The coach called the round, muttering about annoying geniuses under his breath.

Matt leaned forward slightly, honing his full attention in on Levi. His breathing hadn't changed—not a single hitch or strain. His heartbeat was maddeningly steady, like he hadn't just gone three rounds full boar. And the bruises Matt had tracked earlier—one on Levi's ribs, another under his left arm—were gone. Not fading. Gone. The faint crackle of fibers knitting themselves back together beneath Levi's skin was audible to his enhanced senses.

Even the smell was wrong. Matt's nose twitched at the absence of stress hormones. No sour tang of adrenaline. No cortisol thickening the air. Levi's sweat smelled clean, cleaner than any he'd ever smelled, like his body wasn't even working hard.

"That guy's got something," came a low, gravelly voice from nearby.

Matt didn't need to turn to know it was Frank Castle. The man leaned against the wall, his heavy boots scuffing faintly against the floor.

"Yeah," Matt said, keeping his voice neutral.

Frank stepped closer, his presence deliberate, measured. He was self-assured and sharp, measuring himself up against Levi. "You aren't just born with endurance like that," Frank said quietly. "Think he's one of them?"

Matt didn't answer immediately. Levi wasn't the first anomaly he'd noticed lately. Hell's Kitchen had seen a surge of them—people who healed too quickly, moved too fast, or hit too hard. Some were mutants. Others weren't so easy to categorize.

"Could be," Matt said finally.

Levi had climbed out of the ring, grabbing a towel and slinging it over his shoulder. He sipped from a water bottle, his eyes scanning the room, pausing for just a moment to stop on him. On Frank.

Frank's voice came again, lower this time. "Trouble?"

Matt stood, grabbing his cane. "Not yet." He paused for a moment, letting his senses sweep over the gym one last time. It still felt the same, like it had been frozen in time while the world kept moving. But now something else hung in the air, something new.

Whatever Levi was, whatever he was becoming, Hell's Kitchen wouldn't let it stay hidden for long. Sooner than later he'd be causing trouble, or attracting it.

The steady beat of Levi's heart remained as Matt stepped outside and made his way down the street. Calm. Too calm.

Thump. Thump. Thump.