Draft: Meditations

Author's note: this is something that's been stuck in my head for a while. It's not a chapter, and not even a proper draft, but maybe a snippet. I just thought I should write it down, and once that was done, I just had to share it with you all. Anyway, it might not be anything more than a draft, or well, a snippet, so yeah, do tell me what you think if you decide to give it a look.

Yes, I know, you can't give an opinion based on a few paragraphs, so I'll tell you what I had in mind for the story, if it will ever be one. Basically, our guy, the dude you see in the attatched pic, died a violent, rather excrusiating death. He wakes up in an orphanage in Marvel (haven't decided on comics, MCU, or an AU mixh of both). Determined not to die again, he goes to all sorts of shenanigans, but the story doesn't start there. It starts from the middle where the MC decides he's had enough time to prepare and inserts himself into the story, basically somewhere around his late twenties. The mc at this point is a regular human, but he's a bonafide badass, having been desperately training himself, to avoid dying again, cause that shit traumatised him.

Anyway, good old Fury, is well, understandably furious that just some guy crawled out of the woodwork and decided that he'll start medsling in these types of affairs. Fu4y sends his people to figure out, who and what, the hell the mc is. From there, maybe Mariah Hill, or any of the SHIELD cronies go around meeting people who knew the mc, trying to piece togather who he was, what he's trying to do, and why. Through that, I'd narrate his past, bit by bit, and the so called preperations he made before insertting himself into the story.

Of course, the story would go on in the present, but here and there, there will be a bit of interview with someone, maybe the orphanage caretaker, someone the mc worked with, and you can't forget about flashbacks, cause, why not?

Anyway, that's the gist of it, so I'll just leave you with the snippet.

...

Nathaniel Cross sat on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots with slow, deliberate movements. The dim bulb overhead flickered, casting shadows that danced across the cracked walls of the room. His clothes were simple but purposeful—a dark jacket with reinforced stitching, black jeans, and boots scuffed from years of wear. A few faint burns marred the leather of his gloves, and his jacket had patches sewn in where time and wear had taken their toll. Practical, unassuming—just the way he liked it.

A dusty mirror leaned against the wall, and Adrian glanced at his reflection. Short, dark hair, a face lined with faint scars, and a pair of sharp, gray eyes that didn’t miss much. He stood, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and stepped closer to the mirror.

Then it happened.

The reflection changed. Burn scars crawled across his skin, twisted and raw, reaching up his neck and arms like living things. Flames flickered at the edges of his vision, and the room blurred into something else—crumbling walls, heat pressing down on him like a living weight, the choking stench of smoke. He was back in that fire. That fire. The one he couldn’t escape. The one that had swallowed him whole and spat him into this world where little made sense.

His breath quickened, hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the sink. Memories clawed their way to the surface—the agony, the fear, the sound of his own screams drowned out by the roar of the flames. He shut his eyes tight.

A muffled boom from outside shook the room, breaking through the haze. Explosions. They were closer now.

Nathaniel exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. His voice was barely a whisper as he muttered, “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

When he opened his eyes, the scars and flames were gone. His reflection stared back at him, pale but composed.

He turned and walked to the desk. A battered copy of an old book sat on top, its cover faded, its pages creased and worn. He picked it up, running a thumb along the spine, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. The weight of it was familiar, grounding.

The room was bare, almost Spartan. A bed with a hard mattress, a rickety stool, and a small desk cluttered with scraps of paper. But it was the board on the far wall that caught his gaze—a web of pictures, newspaper clippings, and notes pinned with red string. Tony Stark’s smug face stared back at him from a magazine cover. A snapshot of Steve Rogers was tacked beside it. Other names, lesser-known but no less important, were scribbled on scraps of paper. The connections were clear, even if the purpose was known only to him.

Nathaniel lit a match, the tiny flame casting shadows across his face. He dropped it to the floor, and the gasoline he’d carefully poured earlier caught instantly. Fire roared to life, devouring the bed, the desk, and the board.

He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the night.