The transition from the infinite cosmos to the physical plane was anything but smooth.
As the invisible force hurled him through the void, James watched in a detached, surreal sort of wonder as his translucent, adult soul began to condense.
The edges of his spiritual form curled inward, shrinking and compacting into the tiny, helpless shape of an infant.
The sheer pressure of the cosmic drop was overwhelming.
His vision tunneled, the kaleidoscope of stars blurring into a single streak of white light, and then—blissful, silent oblivion.
James awoke to the taste of warm milk and the rhythmic squeezing of a rubber bottle nipple in his mouth.
His eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the warm, ambient light of a cozy living room.
He was swaddled tightly in soft blankets, resting in the crook of someone’s arm.
As his blurry vision slowly sharpened, he took in the face of the woman feeding him.
She had dark skin, sharp, intelligent eyes, and a weariness about her that suggested she had seen more than her fair share of grief.
She looked incredibly familiar.
James paused his aggressive suckling, his tiny brow furrowing.
Where had he seen her before?
Captain Marvel.
The realization hit him like a Thunderclap.
This wasn’t just a random woman; this was Maria Rambeau.
The former Air Force pilot, best friend to Carol Danvers, and founder of S.W.O.R.D.
If Maria was here, that meant…
“Mom, is he done eating yet?
Can I hold him?
Please?”
A little girl, no older than six or seven, popped her head into James’s line of sight.
She had a bright, inquisitive face and boundless energy.
Monica Rambeau.
Lieutenant Trouble herself.
“Hold your horses, Monica,” Maria said softly, her voice rich and grounding.
“He was starving.
Let him finish his meal first.
Support his head, remember?”
James let his eyes wander past Monica to the wall behind her.
A picturesque farmhouse kitchen was visible through the archway, and hanging on the wall was a quaint, floral calendar.
‘December 15, 1990.’
‘1990.’
That meant Carol Danvers had already crashed the light-speed engine and disappeared a year ago.
Maria was currently living through the aftermath, raising Monica alone on her farm in New Orleans, Louisiana.
Suddenly remembering his cosmic arsenal, James decided it was time to establish his defenses.
He focused his mind, reaching out to the shadows in the corners of the room to summon his loyal Shadowkhan.
Nothing happened.
He tried to mentally pull up his Degraded Gamer’s Body status panel.
Instead of a glowing blue screen, a stark, clinical message echoed directly into his mind:
> [SYSTEM ALERT]
> Host body is critically underdeveloped.
Spiritual-to-physical adaptation in progress.
Access to Powers and Status Panel locked.
> Estimated Adaptation Time: 1 Year.
>
James mentally sighed.
A whole year of being a completely helpless, ordinary baby.
“I still think he’s an alien,” Monica chattered, leaning over the armrest of the chair, her wide eyes locked onto James.
“Like Superman from the comic books!
He fell right out of the sky into our farm!”
Maria chuckled, pulling the empty bottle from James’s mouth and lifting him to her shoulder to pat his back.
“Superman came in a spaceship, baby girl.
This little guy just showed up in the middle of the pasture wrapped in a…
well, I don’t even know what that fabric is.
It looks like a fancy tablecloth.”
James stiffened.
‘The tablecloth.’ The ROB’s artifact—the unlimited food summoner.
It had actually protected him during the atmospheric reentry, acting as a bizarre, indestructible parachute of sorts.
He wasn’t born to Maria; he had literally dropped out of the sky onto her property.
He is not an orphan abandoned by parents like a novel Cliche, it’s just that He isn’t even born the normal way, He doesn’t know how to feel about that may be it’s for the better.
“Maybe his spaceship is invisible,” Monica reasoned, completely unfazed by the lack of a crater.
“Or maybe the tablecloth is the spaceship.
It’s magic!
Can we keep him, Mom?
We have to keep him.”
“We’ll see what child services says, Monica,” Maria sighed, though her gentle grip on him tightened affectionately.
“But for now, he’s safe here and Monica you shouldn’t talk about his descent in front of anybody else.”
James stared over Maria’s shoulder at the ceiling.
He was a baby.
He had no powers for a year.
He had fallen from the sky in a magical tablecloth, and he was currently residing in the house of a future S.W.O.R.D.
director.
He didn’t know whether to laugh at the sheer absurdity of his situation or cry at the terrifying vulnerability of it all.
Before he could make a conscious decision, his infant biology made the choice for him.
A loud, wet burp erupted from his lips, followed immediately by a high-pitched, miserable wail that echoed through the Louisiana farmhouse.