Searing orange sparks spat from the air, slicing through the midnight gloom of Hell's Kitchen. Panic seized Arin's chest like a freezing fist. His newly acquired bio-electric senses flared, sending sharp, static-filled alarms straight to his brain. Sparks flew from his fingertips, completely out of his control, as he scrambled backward. He knew that ring of spinning fire. Sorcerers. Masters of the mystic arts were already searching for him. Perhaps the Ancient One herself had felt the ripple in the timeline when he copied Jack's power. He was a foreign entity, a virus in her neat, scripted universe. If she found him, she would strip him of his stolen powers and exile him to some forgotten corner of the multiverse. Or worse, she would erase his very existence to preserve the timeline. Kicking a rusty iron sewer grate, he threw his weight onto it, forcing the heavy metal lid to screech open. Smells of rot, stagnant water, and damp chemical waste rushed up to meet him. Without a second thought, he plunged into the black void below. Water splashed high, soaking his jeans in freezing, filthy sludge. Above him, the circular orange light of the portal cast flickering, distorted shadows onto the wet brick walls of the tunnel. He ran. Sludge dragged at his knees, but the raw, chaotic energy pulsing in his veins drove him forward. Using his new bio-electric sense, he mapped the dark. It wasn't sight. It was a buzzing, vibrating map of static that hummed in his teeth. He could feel the power lines running through the concrete ceiling above him. More importantly, he could feel a sickening, swirling void of energy tracking him from the surface. Mystic energy tasted like ozone and burnt sugar on the back of his tongue. It was hunting him, searching for the anomaly. Sprinting deeper into the labyrinth, he turned left, then right, seeking the deepest, most heavily shielded subterranean channels. Water dripped onto his neck, cold and filthy, but he didn't care. Every step away from that portal felt like a reprieve from execution. His heart hammered, a frantic, irregular rhythm that didn't feel entirely normal. Copying Jack's power had done something to his physiology. Electricity was a wild beast, and his human heart was a fragile cage. He pressed on, his boots splashing through the dark, guided only by the electric hum of the city's underbelly. Getting as far away as possible was his only option. --- Minutes bled into hours before he finally clawed his way back to the surface. Stepping out into a desolate alleyway three miles from where he started, Arin collapsed against a brick wall. Rain washed the sewer grime from his clothes, but it couldn't wash away the terror. He was in a ruined sector of the Bowery. Derelict buildings stood like hollowed-out skulls against the grey sky. Slipping through a broken basement window of a dilapidated apartment complex, he found temporary sanctuary. Dust-laden air filled his lungs. Inside, the apartment was a tomb of forgotten furniture and peeling wallpaper. He dragged his trembling body to the corner of the room, furthest from the window. Shivering violently, he pulled his knees to his chest. His muscles twitched with residual static. Blue sparks danced across his knuckles, completely out of his control. He closed his eyes, trying to find the center of his own mind. Memories of his past life were already hazy, like photographs left out in the rain. He couldn't remember the color of his mother's eyes anymore. No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, her face remained a blurred, faceless outline. That was the price of his cheat. Every power he copied chipped away at his identity, leaving him a little more empty, a little more hollow. But vulnerability meant death. In this universe of gods and monsters, weakness was a sin punished by erasure. He would pay any price to survive. Sacrificing every memory was a small price for existence. --- Sitting in the dark of the dilapidated apartment, he watched the shadows shift. Dust motes floated in the pale moonlight cutting through the cracked window. Arin stared at his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the power he had stolen from Jack. Jack had been a low-level mutant mercenary, but his bio-electricity was potent. Arin focused on the warmth in his belly, pulling it upward into his arms. Tiny, erratic blue sparks leapt between his fingers. They hissed, smelling of burnt air. He tried to guide the current, to shape it into a steady flame, but it was like trying to hold water in a sieve. Energy wanted to ground itself. It wanted to escape. A sudden spike of current shot up his arm, causing his shoulder to violently twitch. He grimaced, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out. Each stolen ability wasn't just a plug-and-play program. It was a foreign organ grafted onto his soul. His nervous system had to adapt to it. But his human nervous system wasn't built for high-voltage output. Pain was a warning. If he pushed too hard, he would burn out his own synapses. He needed to find a way to stabilize the energy. He picked up a discarded copper wire from the floor. Grasping one end, he tried to channel a steady micro-current into it. Wire glowed red-hot instantly, melting into a puddle of copper. Arin hissed, dropping the molten metal. His fingertips were blistered and black. He stared at the burns, waiting for them to heal. They didn't. He didn't have a healing factor. He was still just a fragile human shell playing with the fire of gods. Fatal flaws haunted his copy ability. If he copied a power that his physical body couldn't support, he would destroy himself. He needed to copy a passive physical-enhancement power next. He needed durability. He needed regeneration. Lacking physical reinforcement, any subsequent high-tier power would turn his organs to ash. He needed to find someone like Luke Cage, or a low-level mutant with enhanced biology. But New York in 2007 was a dangerous place to hunt. Tony Stark was currently in Afghanistan, or about to be. S.H.I.E.L.D. was watching everything, and Hydra was sleeping in its shadows. He had to move carefully. One wrong step, and he would end up in a laboratory, vivisected by scientists. Suddenly, his heart skipped a beat. Then another. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Pain returned, not as a dull ache, but as a stabbing iron spike driven through his chest. His chest tightened. Breath caught in his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his shirt. His heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. It was ventricular fibrillation. Stolen bio-electricity was backfiring, disrupting his heart's natural pacemaker. He was dying. World spun around him. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision. "No," he whispered. He hadn't survived reincarnation just to die in a dusty, forgotten room. Jump-starting his own heart was the only option. He closed his eyes, ignoring the sheer terror screaming in his mind. He searched for the spark of Jack's power. Wild, thrashing energy writhed inside his chest. He grabbed it. He forced the energy to pool at his fingertips. Pressing his right hand flat against his left chest, he gritted his teeth. He channeled the current. "Now!" he roared in his mind. A massive burst of electricity discharged directly into his chest. His body arched violently off the floor. Sparks erupted from his skin, scorching the floorboards beneath him. Pain, blinding and absolute, tore through his senses. He screamed, but no sound came out. His heart gave a violent, desperate thud. Then, silence. For a terrifying second, he hung in the balance. Then, another thud. A steady, heavy rhythm resumed. Gasping for air, he collapsed back onto the floor, his skin glistening with sweat and soot. Every nerve ending was on fire. His muscles felt like they had been shredded and stitched back together with copper wire. A brutal realization hit him with cold clarity. His human body was too weak. Copying active powers like electricity would kill him if he didn't reinforce his physical vessel first. He must copy a passive physical-enhancement power next if he wanted to survive his own stolen arsenal. Slowly, the agonizing heat subsided into a dull, throbbing ache. He forced himself to stand, using a rotting wooden table for support. His legs shook, but they held. He needed to see his face. Knowing if he was still himself was vital. Slowly, he dragged his feet toward the dilapidated bathroom. A cracked, dusty mirror hung crookedly over a stained sink. He wiped the grime away with a trembling hand, staring at the stranger looking back at him. His eyes were bloodshot, and faint blue veins pulsed visibly beneath the skin of his throat. He barely recognized himself. While staring into a broken mirror, his reflection briefly flickers into a golden, multi-faceted prism that whispers in a dead language, and his bathroom door is suddenly blown off its hinges by a SWAT tactical breach.

Chapter 2: A Spark in the Dark