Omnitrix in MCU (Rewrite)

In a dimly lit room, the soft glow of a computer screen flickered against the walls. Ben sat hunched in his chair, his face illuminated by the vibrant colors of an movie playing on the monitor. He absentmindedly nibbled on a bag of chips, his eyes glued to the screen. It wasn't his usual habit to kick back like this. But tonight was different.

You might be wondering why Ben, the boy genius, wasn't busy working on his next groundbreaking project. The truth? He'd already done something extraordinary earlier that day—something that had left him questioning his abilities and laughing at his own overconfidence.

Earlier, Ben had decided to tackle an ambitious project: recreating the first volume of Dragon Ball Z. Fueled by a surge of creative energy, he had poured himself into the task like a man possessed. Words flowed from his fingertips as if he were channeling the legendary Akira Toriyama himself. Chapter by chapter, scene by scene.

But the real challenge was yet to come.

After finishing the script, Ben turned to Baymax, his self-built AI companion, for the generating illustrations to accompany his masterpiece. The AI had grown significantly since its creation, now capable of producing visual art based on textual input. Or so Ben thought.

"Alright, Baymax," he had said confidently, leaning back in his chair. "Let's make some magic."

 its voice calm and measured. "Understood, Creator. Initializing image generation."

The first image appeared on the screen. Ben's confident grin faltered. "Uh… what is that?"

The image was a chaotic amalgamation of shapes and colors—somewhere between an abstract painting and a fever dream. Goku looked like a malformed blob with hair resembling a pineapple, while Vegeta's iconic scouter was merged into his face like a cyborg experiment gone wrong.

"No, no, no," Ben groaned, holding his head in his hands. "This isn't Dragon Ball Z. This is Baby drawing with crayons."

He quickly opened Baymax's code to debug the issue, his fingers flying over the keyboard. After several hours of analysis, the problem became clear: Baymax didn't have enough reference material to work with. The AI's learning model was starved for data, and the limited internet of 2004 didn't help matters. Even though Baymax was self-learning, the resources available to it were primitive by modern standards.

Ben leaned back in his chair, defeated. "Guess I underestimated the amount of input you need, buddy."

Baymax's voice chimed in. "Creator, learning is a process. Mistakes pave the way for improvement."

"Yeah, yeah," Ben muttered, rubbing his temples. "Tell that to Akira Toriyama. If he saw this, he'd jump across the multiverse just to obliterate me."

Frustrated and in need of a break, Ben decided to take a step back. He scrolled through his movie library and clicked on a title that had been sitting in his backlog for ages. As the opening credits rolled, he dimmed the lights in his room until only the faint glow of the screen remained.

As I sat watching the movie, completely absorbed in the story, the door to my room suddenly slammed open. The harsh overhead light flooded the room, making me squint and wince. Standing there was my mom, hands on her hips, looking every bit as formidable as she always did when she was about to scold me.

"Ben!" she barked. "When are you going to pack your bag? Tomorrow is your first day at school!"

Oh no. How had I completely forgotten about that? I had just transferred from my old school to Midtown High, and it seemed like a distant concern until now. School—a place where time crawls and life feels like it's on pause. But I couldn't say that to my mom. No way. She'd probably smack me into next week.

"Mom, I was just about to pack it," I said, putting on my best innocent face.

She eyed me suspiciously, but didn't press further. "Good. Do it quickly and go to bed. You have to wake up early tomorrow."

"Yes, Mom," I said with a resigned sigh as she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

 I switched off the movie, rubbed my face, and looked at the pile of stuff scattered around my room. My schoolbag was half-buried under a stack of notebooks, random wires, and a dismantled circuit board. Reluctantly, I pulled it out and started cramming things inside—books.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mom banging on the door.

"Ben! Get up! You're going to be late for school!"

Groaning, I rolled out of bed, my hair a mess and my brain still half-asleep. I stumbled to the bathroom, washed up, and threw on the first set of clothes I could find. Jeans, a slightly wrinkled T-shirt, and my favorite hoodie. Good enough.

"Ben, it's getting late! How much longer are you going to take?" Mom shouted from downstairs.

"Coming, Mom!" I yelled back, trying to lace up my sneakers as I hopped on one foot.

I rushed downstairs, grabbed the sandwich Mom had made for me, and stuffed it in my mouth as I tried to tie my shoelaces properly this time.

"Ben, at least sit down and eat your food properly!" she yelled, waving a spatula at me as I bolted out the door.

I ran as fast as I could toward the bus stop, my bag bouncing against my back and the taste of peanut butter and jelly still lingering in my mouth. As I approached, I saw the bus about to pull away.

"No, no, no! Wait!" I yelled, sprinting with all the energy I had.

The driver, thankfully, saw me and slowed down. I managed to hop on just as the doors hissed shut behind me.

Breathing heavily, I scanned the bus for a seat. Most of the kids were already absorbed in their own conversations or staring at their phones.