In Marvel with the Force?

The cold morning light seeped through the cracked windows of the Helix Orphanage, painting uneven streaks across the wooden floor. Tyr sat cross-legged on his bed, his focus entirely on the broken alarm clock in his lap. His nimble fingers worked methodically, untangling the knotted wires and carefully repositioning the delicate gears.

It was a task that demanded patience, the kind of patience Tyr had learned to cultivate over the years. At sixteen, he was used to solving problems on his own. The alarm clock wasn't the first thing he'd fixed, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Tyr Helix was a boy who stood out, even in a crowd. His sharp features had an almost regal quality, as though sculpted with an impossible precision. Short, jet-black hair framed his face, and beneath his furrowed brow, his violet eyes glinted in the dim light. They were an anomaly, those eyes—bright, piercing, and utterly unforgettable.

Satisfied with his work, Tyr placed the alarm clock on the rickety table beside his bed. He clicked the button to set the time. The minute hand jerked forward, ticking with new life. A faint smile crossed his face, fleeting but genuine.

The orphanage room was quiet, save for the sound of the clock ticking. Tyr shared the small space with two other boys, but they were still asleep, their breaths slow and rhythmic.

Outside the window, the world was shrouded in mist, the dense forest surrounding the orphanage stretching endlessly in all directions. Helix Orphanage wasn't near any towns or cities. It was a relic of another time, a towering stone building with gothic spires that had long since begun to crumble. For Tyr, it had always been home.

The orphanage stood in isolation, its grounds wild and overgrown. The rusting swing set in the yard hadn't been used in years, and the gravel driveway leading up to the front door was more pothole than path. The nearest gas station was a good twenty miles away, and the children rarely saw visitors except for the occasional social worker.

Inside, the orphanage was no less dreary. The hallways were narrow and dimly lit, the flickering bulbs casting long, distorted shadows. The faded wallpaper had peeled away in places, revealing the rough stone underneath. The air carried a faint but persistent smell of mildew, and the creaky wooden floors groaned underfoot.

Despite its gloom, the orphanage housed thirty-seven children, all of them connected by the shared weight of abandonment. They were orphans in the truest sense, with no parents to claim them and no homes to return to. But they had each other, and that was enough.

For Tyr, the orphanage had always been a place of contradictions. It was both a sanctuary and a prison, a home and a reminder of everything he lacked. But it was also where he had grown up, surrounded by the only people who had ever mattered to him.

Ms. Porter, the matron of the orphanage, was one such person. A woman in her late forties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, she ruled the orphanage with an iron will. Yet beneath her stern exterior, she cared deeply for the children. She had been the one to take Tyr in when he was just a baby, left on the orphanage steps with nothing but a note: His name is Tyr. Please take care of him.

Then there was Mr. Collin, the gruff maintenance worker who doubled as a teacher when the orphanage couldn't afford outside help. He wasn't particularly kind, but he had a grudging respect for Tyr's knack for fixing things. On more than one occasion, he had lent Tyr tools and spare parts, even if he never said a word of encouragement.

The other children were a mixed bunch. Some were rowdy troublemakers, others shy and withdrawn, but they all found ways to survive together. Tyr wasn't especially close to any of them, but he had a soft spot for Emily, an eight-year-old girl with a mop of red hair and a gap-toothed smile. She often followed him around, clutching her tattered doll.

"Do you think you could fix this?" she asked one morning, holding the doll out to him. Its arm dangled loosely, held on by a single thread.

Tyr studied the doll for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I can fix it. It'll look better than new."

Emily's face lit up, her green eyes sparkling with excitement. Tyr couldn't help but smile in return. For all its flaws, the orphanage had its moments of warmth.

But that morning, something was different.

The first sign was the headache. It struck suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain that made Tyr wince. He placed a hand to his temple, trying to steady himself, but the pain grew worse, radiating through his skull.

And then the visions began.

At first, they were fragmented—flashes of images and sounds that made no sense. A blinding white room. A calm, commanding voice. A name: Theon.

Tyr staggered to his feet, his breathing uneven. His vision blurred as the fragments came faster, flooding his mind with memories that weren't his own.

He saw a man standing before an incomprehensible being, speaking with arrogance and defiance. Words spilled from the man's mouth, mocking and biting. And then there was the light—a blinding, all-encompassing light that swallowed everything.

Tyr collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving. The headache subsided, but the memories lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind. Tyr's hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the bed, struggling to process what he had just experienced.

"What... what was that?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice shaky.

Theon. The name echoed in his head, resonating with a strange familiarity, as though it belonged to someone he should know. But it didn't. Tyr had never met anyone by that name, and yet the memories were vivid—too vivid to dismiss as some strange dream.

He rubbed his temples, his heart pounding. His mind reeled with questions he couldn't answer. Why had he seen those visions? Who was Theon?

Tyr stumbled to the small mirror hanging above the dresser. He stared at his reflection, half-expecting to see someone else staring back at him. But it was still him—same sharp features, same disheveled black hair, and those same piercing violet eyes.

But something was different. He couldn't explain it, but he could feel it—a faint hum beneath his skin, like static electricity coursing through his veins. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there, an unfamiliar energy that didn't belong to him.

"What's happening to me?" Tyr muttered, gripping the edges of the dresser.

He thought back to the visions, trying to piece them together. The white room. The figure who spoke with authority, their voice calm but unyielding. The arrogance in Theon's tone as he mocked them.

And then the light.

Tyr shuddered, remembering the overwhelming brightness that seemed to erase everything. The memory of it made his chest tighten with an inexplicable fear, as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

He sank onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more absurd than the last. Was he going crazy? Was this some kind of punishment? Or was it something else entirely?

The faint hum of energy pulsing beneath his skin refused to go away. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore it, but the sensation only grew stronger, like a fire spreading through his veins.

"No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "It's nothing. Just a bad dream. That's all it is."

But even as he said the words, he didn't believe them.

Tyr forced himself to stand, his legs unsteady. He needed to focus on something—anything—to keep himself grounded. His gaze fell on the tools scattered across the table, and he moved to pick them up, his hands working on autopilot as he disassembled the alarm clock he had just fixed.

The familiar routine brought him a small measure of comfort. The rhythmic clinking of gears and the hum of his screwdriver filled the silence, giving him something to focus on besides the growing unease in his chest.

But even as he worked, his thoughts kept drifting back to the memories.

There had been a voice, calm yet commanding. The words were muffled, but the tone was unmistakable—an authority that brooked no defiance. And then there was Theon, his voice laced with arrogance as he dismissed the being before him.

Tyr felt a pang of unease. Theon had been so sure of himself, so confident in his own superiority. And yet, in the end, he had been... erased.

The thought made Tyr's stomach churn. What kind of power could simply erase someone from existence? And why did he feel as though that power was somehow connected to him now?

He set the screwdriver down, his hands trembling again. The faint hum beneath his skin had grown stronger, a low thrum that seemed to vibrate through his entire body. It was unsettling, like a presence that didn't belong.

Tyr closed his eyes, taking slow, measured breaths. He needed to calm down, to push the thoughts away. But the more he tried to ignore them, the louder they became.

"Theon," he whispered, the name tasting foreign on his tongue.

Who was he? And why did Tyr feel as though he was carrying a part of him now?

The clock on the dresser ticked softly, the only sound in the room as Tyr sat in silence, grappling with the weight of what he didn't understand.

Deep down, a part of him knew the truth.

The memories weren't his. But the burden they carried was.

And nothing would ever be the same again