Brooklyn always had a rhythm—concrete beating under sneaker soles, subways rumbling like a restless heart, lights blinking in defiance of the dark. But tonight, the rhythm was off.
The clouds were too still. The city too silent. And for Rhea Carter, the very air felt like static waiting to snap.
She stood on the roof of her foster home, a modest brick building wedged between auto shops and bodegas, wrapped in her black hoodie like armor. The wind pulled strands of dark hair from her face as she looked out at the glimmering skyline beyond. Neon signs blinked in soft Morse code. Helicopters buzzed distantly like metal insects. Life continued, oblivious.
But inside her, something was shifting.
Not fear. Not exactly. More like... recognition. A sensation she couldn't name, as if reality were humming around her and she was the only one who could hear the tune.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Not in this apartment. Not in this life.
Not in this universe.
Rhea Carter had been erased before she even existed.
The dreams came every night now—flashes of circuitry and metal, a warm hand guiding hers over a tangled mess of wires, a voice both sharp and kind.
"This isn't about saving the world, kid. It's about building one worth saving."
She didn't know the man's name the first few times. But eventually, the memories sharpened. The goatee. The glowing chestpiece. The smirk that hid grief like cracks beneath gold plating.
Tony Stark.
To this world, he was a fallen Avenger. A genius. A savior. A martyr. But to Rhea, he was something else. Someone who mattered in a way that transcended timelines.
Because in another life—a life not permitted to exist—he had been her father.
No one knew her here. No records. No photos. No fingerprints. Her very existence was wrapped in redacted files and bureaucratic erasure. When she'd hacked her way into an old S.H.I.E.L.D. archive buried beneath layers of encryption, all she found was a single document:
> PROJECT 17-A – CLASSIFIED
SUBJECT STATUS: NONVIABLE. PRUNED. ACCESS TERMINATED.
She hadn't slept since. Not properly. Not with the truth burning behind her eyes.
She was a living paradox. A child born in a timeline the TVA had deemed unnatural. Clipped. Deleted. But somehow, she'd slipped through—a crack in the Sacred Timeline no one had patched.
And now, they'd found her.
The air trembled. Not with sound, but with intent.
Behind her, the sky tore open—not with thunder, but with golden light, spiraling outward like a divine scalpel slicing through existence.
A portal.
Two figures emerged in step. Tall, armored, their faces obscured by TVA-standard helmets. Sleek and impersonal, like walking verdicts.
"Rhea Carter," one said, voice tinny through its filter. "You are in breach of temporal regulation. Surrender for reset."
Her pulse kicked. She didn't move. Not yet.
"I didn't do anything," she said, the words cold on her tongue.
"You exist," the second agent answered. "That is the anomaly."
Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched, faint sparks dancing beneath her skin. Machines had started reacting to her lately—screens shorting out, elevators halting mid-floor, drones misfiring. Like electricity remembered her, even if no one else did.
But panic wasn't her first instinct. She'd been running since she was twelve.
So she turned and bolted.
Down the fire escape. Boots clanging against metal. Across the alleyway, vaulting over dumpsters and fences with practiced grace. The agents followed, precise and methodical, not even pretending to hurry. They didn't have to. The TVA always caught up.
But Rhea Carter was done being caught.
As she turned the corner onto 16th Street, the air fractured again—this time not gold, but chaotic purple and green, wild and untamed.
A second portal bloomed like a wound in the night.
From it stepped a girl around Rhea's age—maybe older by a year, but younger in spirit. She wore a leather jacket with a star emblazoned over her heart, and confidence like armor.
"Hey!" the girl shouted. "Come with me if you like breathing."
Rhea skidded to a halt, eyes wide. "What—?"
"No time!" The girl grabbed her hand.
Behind them, a baton slammed into the ground where Rhea had stood seconds ago.
And then—
They jumped.
The multiverse tore past them in colors that didn't exist in any known spectrum. Glassy skies, inverted skyscrapers, oceans suspended in midair, time itself ticking across the bones of giant floating clocks.
And then it all stopped.
They hit the ground—hard—on a rooftop of another world entirely.
Rhea gasped, winded, clutching her ribs as her knees hit soft grass. Around them, a surreal city stretched upward, buildings shaped like spirals and triangles, stars visible even beneath clouds.
"Where... are we?" she croaked.
"Safe-ish," said the girl, dusting herself off. "Alternate Earth. No TVA reach. Not yet."
"Who are you?"
"America Chavez. I punch star-shaped holes in the multiverse. You're welcome." She grinned, like this was all just part of a very weird Tuesday.
Rhea stared at her. "Why help me?"
America leaned against the planter box beside her. "Because someone told me you matter. Said you were more than just some glitch. Said the TVA was afraid of you."
"Who told you that?"
"Guy with a British accent and serious costume drama vibes."
Rhea blinked. "Loki?"
America smirked. "He's better now. Kind of. On Tuesdays."
Rhea sat back, staring at her palms. "They said I wasn't supposed to exist."
"Yeah, well," America shrugged. "I wasn't either. Doesn't mean we don't."
The arc reactor pendant at Rhea's neck glowed faintly—just a replica, built from scraps she scavenged in a junkyard—but it warmed under her skin like a heartbeat. She wrapped her hand around it.
"I don't know what I am," she whispered.
America knelt beside her. "You're not just a forgotten Stark experiment. You're the next phase. The multiverse isn't broken. It's evolving. And you?"
She smiled.
"You're gonna help shape it."