Chapter 2: Sympathetic Surge
The garage door slammed shut with a finality that vibrated through the concrete floor. Kevin stood in the sudden, dusty silence, his chest heaving. The image of Ben’s pale, terrified face was burned onto the back of his eyelids. Pregnant. The word echoed, a stupid, impossible joke that wasn’t funny.
His workshop, usually a sanctuary of greasy order and half-finished projects, felt like a cage. The scent of oil and old metal, usually so comforting, was suffocating. He kicked a stray toolbox. It skittered across the floor, scattering sockets and wrenches with a loud, satisfying clatter.
“Mine?” he muttered to the empty air, the word tasting like ash. He’d asked. He’d actually asked. As if Ben… No. He couldn’t even finish the thought. The doubt felt like a betrayal, but it had been instinct, a defense mechanism honed by a lifetime of things going wrong.
He stalked over to the old sedan he’d been cannibalizing for parts. His hands, still trembling with a strange, staticky energy, gripped the edge of the open driver’s side door. The cold metal was a shock against his skin.
Pregnant.
With a guttural roar that tore from somewhere deep in his gut, he wrenched the door from its hinges. The sound of tearing metal screeched through the garage. He held the heavy door for a second, muscles straining, then hurled it across the room. It crashed into the sedan’s windshield, webbing the glass into a million fractured stars.
He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the destruction. It didn’t help. The anger was still there, a white-hot coil in his stomach, but now it was tangled up with other things. Fear. A dizzying, nauseating fear. And beneath that, something else, something small and terrified that sounded an awful lot like… hope? He crushed it immediately. Now was not the time.
That’s when it happened.
A surge of energy, raw and unfamiliar, flashed up from the concrete through the soles of his boots. It wasn’t like absorbing steel or plasma. This was different. Deeper. It felt like the planet’s own heartbeat, a low, resonant thrum that shot up his legs and into his core.
His absorption powers, always a part of him he could control, ignite, and snuff out, flared to life without his command. A dull, orange glow flickered under the skin of his hands and forearms. The metallic taste of old pennies flooded his mouth. The garage walls seemed to pulse in and out of focus.
“What the…” he gasped, stumbling back from the car. He looked down at his hands. The orange energy wasn’t solidifying into armor or blades. It was just… there. Crawling over his skin like agitated insects, humming with a frequency that made his teeth ache. It felt… familiar. It felt like the faint, warm pulse he’d sometimes sense coming from Ben’s wrist. From the ghost of the Omnitrix.
A cold dread, entirely separate from the rage, washed over him. This was connected. It had to be.
Across town, in the stark white silence of his own bathroom, Ben flinched.
A sharp, twisting cramp seized his lower abdomen, so sudden and intense it stole his breath. It was different from the nausea. This was a deep, internal wrenching, a band of fire tightening around his core. He gasped, his knees buckling. He caught himself on the sink, his knuckles white.
“Ben?” Gwen’s voice was sharp with alarm. She was at his side in an instant, her hand on his back. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
The pain receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a throbbing, hollow ache. Ben panted, staring at his wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. The pale face staring back was beaded with a fresh layer of cold sweat.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice shaky. “A cramp. A really bad one.” He pressed a hand to his stomach. The usual, low-grade warmth was gone. In its place was a strange, resonant thrum, a deep vibration that felt like it was shaking his very bones. It was unsettling. Alien.
It felt like an echo. An echo of Kevin’s anger.
“We need to get you to a doctor. A real one. Not just a Plumber medic,” Gwen said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “This is beyond morning sickness, Ben. Something’s happening.”
Ben didn’t argue. The pain had been too sharp, too specific. It felt like a warning. He looked down at his stomach, a new, more primal fear taking root. What was growing inside him? And what had his confession just triggered?
Back in the garage, the orange glow under Kevin’s skin was fading, the hum receding back into a faint buzz at the base of his skull. He leaned heavily against a workbench, his head spinning. The connection was undeniable. His powers had reacted to… to what? To the baby? To Ben’s stress?
The baby.
The thought was no longer an abstract, impossible concept. It was a physical reality that had just sent a jolt of raw planetary energy through his body. His body. His… kid?
A fresh wave of panic, cold and clear, washed over him. He saw it again: Ben’s face in the bathroom. The terror. The way he’d said “I was scared.” Scared of him.
He’d just stood there. He’d asked that horrible question. And then he’d walked out. He’d left him.
“Oh, god,” Kevin breathed, the words a hollow ache in his chest.
The rage was gone, evaporated like mist, leaving behind the wreckage of what he’d done. The shattered windshield winked at him in the dim light, a testament to his spectacular failure. Ben was in there, pregnant and terrified, and he’d responded by throwing a tantrum and running away to break his own stuff.
He pushed off the workbench, his body feeling both heavy and electrified. The faint, residual hum of the energy still lingered in his bones, a constant, physical reminder of the tether between them. He had to go back. He had to fix this. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what to say. The whole thing was still a terrifying, universe-sized problem.
But Ben was in there. And he’d left him.
He took a step toward the garage door, then another, his boots crunching on scattered tools. The path of destruction led right back to the house. Back to Ben. His hand closed around the cold metal of the door handle. He took one last, shaky breath, and pulled.
The door swung inward, revealing the dim hallway. The air inside the house felt different now—charged and thin, like after a lightning strike. Kevin’s boots were lead weights as he crossed the threshold, the memory of his exit a fresh stain on his conscience.
He found them exactly where he’d left them, frozen in the bathroom’s yellow light. Ben was leaning heavily against the sink, his face the color of chalk. Gwen stood sentinel beside him, one hand on his arm, her expression shifting from concern to sharp vigilance as Kevin appeared in the doorway.
No one spoke. The faucet’s plink, plink, plink was the only sound, a tiny hammer against the silence. Kevin’s gaze was locked on Ben, on the way his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. The angry glow under his own skin had faded, but a phantom hum remained, a silent resonance that seemed to pull him across the room.
“The cramp,” Kevin said, his voice rough. It wasn’t a question. “I felt… something. A surge. Like my powers got a jump start from a live wire.”
Ben’s eyes widened, a flicker of understanding amidst the fear. He gave a tight, jerky nod. “It hurt.”
“I know.” The admission cost him. He took another step into the cramped space, the scent of bile and soap clawing at his throat. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his jacket pockets. “I shouldn’t have left.”
“You threw a door,” Gwen stated flatly, her tone devoid of judgment, just fact.
“Through a windshield,” Kevin confirmed, his eyes never leaving Ben. “Then the floor tried to fuse with my skeleton. It was a whole thing.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Are you… I mean, is it…?”
“I’m still pregnant, Kevin,” Ben said, his voice thin with exhaustion. “That doesn’t just stop because you had a tantrum.”
The direct hit should have made him angry. It didn’t. It just made him feel tired and stupid. “Yeah.” He finally let his gaze drop to Ben’s stomach, to the place where his hand still rested. The reality of it was a physical pressure in his own chest. “So. A baby.”
“Apparently.”
“An alien baby.”
“Mostly?” Ben offered weakly. “The percentages are… fuzzy.”
A bizarre, choked sound escaped Kevin’s throat. It was almost a laugh. The entire situation was so profoundly, cosmically screwed up. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, the wood cool and solid. “Okay. Okay. We need a plan. And before you say anything, the plan is not ‘hide it under a bigger hoodie.’”
“That was my plan A,” Ben mumbled.
“It’s a terrible plan.” Kevin looked at Gwen. “You’re the brains. What’s plan B?”
Gwen’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “We find a doctor. A real one who knows about extraterrestrial biology. My contacts at the Plumbers might have a lead, but it’ll be off-book. This stays between us.”
“My parents can’t know,” Ben said quickly, a fresh wave of panic in his eyes. “Or your dad, Kevin. Nobody.”
“My dad thinks I’m still figuring out how to change a tire without absorbing it,” Kevin snorted. “His comprehension ends at internal combustion.” He pushed off the doorframe, the decision solidifying in his gut. The fear was still there, a cold knot, but it was being slowly encased in a layer of grim purpose. This was his problem. Theirs. “So we find your witch doctor. We get you checked out. We figure out what… this is.” He gestured vaguely at Ben’s midsection.
“And then?” Ben asked, his voice small.
“Then we deal with it.” Kevin met his eyes, and for the first time since he’d walked back in, he held the gaze. “Together. No more walking. No more throwing stuff.” He paused. “Mostly.”
A faint, almost imperceptible relief washed over Ben’s features. He nodded again, more slowly this time. The oppressive tension in the room didn’t vanish, but it shifted, redistributing its weight among the three of them.
Then Ben’s face contorted. He turned back to the sink, his body tensing. “Oh, not again,” he groaned, his knuckles white on the porcelain.
Kevin didn’t think. He was across the small space in two strides, his hand coming up to rest tentatively between Ben’s shoulder blades. The fabric of his t-shirt was damp with sweat. Ben flinched at the initial contact, then seemed to sag into it, a shudder running through him.
“Just breathe, doofus,” Kevin murmured, the old nickname feeling strange and right on his tongue. His palm tingled where it touched Ben’s back, that strange energy humming just beneath the surface of his own skin, a silent answer to the life stirring within.
The tingling in his palm intensified into a sharp, sympathetic vibration. Ben’s whole body went rigid, a low groan escaping his clenched teeth as he slid down the cabinet, his grip on the sink failing. Kevin caught him under the arms before his head could hit the tile, the weight sudden and terrifying.
“Whoa, easy! I’ve got you.” He lowered them both to the cold floor, cradling Ben against his chest. Ben was breathing in short, ragged pants, his face pressed into Kevin’s jacket. The vibrations coming from him were a distorted mirror of the energy humming under Kevin’s own skin.
Gwen was already on her phone, her voice low and urgent. “Yes, the one on Elmwood. We’re coming now. Tell him it’s a Code Anodyne. He’ll know.” She snapped the phone shut. “We need to move. Now.”
“Can you stand?” Kevin asked, his voice rough. Ben shook his head, his fingers digging into Kevin’s arm. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” He shifted his grip, one arm under Ben’s knees, the other supporting his back, and stood in a single, fluid motion. Ben was lighter than he expected, a worrying fragility to his frame.
He carried him out of the bathroom, through the quiet house, and out the front door into the cool night air. Gwen held the door, her face a mask of controlled panic. The Tank was still parked haphazardly by the curb, its driver’s side door missing and the windshield a crystalline web of cracks.
“My masterpiece,” Kevin muttered, maneuvering Ben carefully into the backseat. He laid him down as best he could, propping his head up with a greasy jacket balled from the footwell. Ben’s eyes were screwed shut, his hand fisted in the fabric of his own shirt over his stomach.
Kevin slid into the driver’s seat, the mangled door frame a stark reminder of his earlier meltdown. The engine roared to life with a thought, a surge of energy he directed into the ignition system. He didn’t wait for Gwen to fully close her door before he slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The Tank peeled away from the curb, tires screeching. He drove with a frantic, focused intensity, weaving through the late-night traffic. The streetlights strobed through the shattered windshield, painting jagged lines of light across Ben’s pale face in the rearview mirror.
“How’s he doing?” Kevin’s voice was tight.
Gwen was twisted in her passenger seat, her hand on Ben’s leg. “Breathing’s a little easier. I think the worst of it passed.” She looked back at Kevin, her expression grim. “That wasn’t a normal cramp, Kevin.”
“I felt it,” he said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The memory of the garage floor surging into him was visceral. “It’s like our… everything is syncing up. My powers, his… condition.” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘baby’ again. It was too big, too real while he was running a red light.
Ben stirred in the back, a weak sound. “It felt like something… shifted.” His voice was a thready whisper. “Like something unlocked.”
“Just hang on,” Kevin commanded, swerving around a slow-moving truck. “We’re almost there.” The clinic Gwen had directed him to was in a nondescript part of town, a squat, beige building that looked more like a tax accountant’s office than a medical facility. He pulled into the empty parking lot so fast the Tank rocked on its shocks.
He was out of the car before it fully settled, yanking the rear door open. Ben was trying to sit up, his movements slow and uncoordinated. “Don’t even think about it,” Kevin grumbled, leaning in and gathering him up again. Ben didn’t protest, just let his head loll against Kevin’s shoulder.
A side door to the clinic buzzed and opened before they reached it. A tall, slender man with tired eyes and gloves that shimmered with a faint energy field stood there. “Gwen,” he said, his voice calm. “Code Anodyne. Bring him in.”
The room inside was cold and smelled of antiseptic and ozone. It was filled with equipment that looked half-medical, half-plumber tech, with glowing interfaces and crystalline components. Kevin laid Ben down on the central examination table, its surface cool and slightly yielding.
The doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Hale, began his work with a quiet efficiency. He passed a scanner over Ben’s abdomen, its light a soft blue. The readout on the screen beside him wasn’t numbers and graphs, but a cascading, double-helix pattern that constantly shifted and rearranged itself.
“Fascinating,” Dr. Hale murmured, his gloved fingers hovering over Ben’s stomach. “The cellular structure is… hyper-adaptive. It’s reading the ambient energy signatures in the room and calibrating.” He glanced at Kevin. “Including yours, young man. Please try to keep your absorption passive. You’re agitating it.”
Kevin took a deliberate step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He felt like a reactor that was leaking. Ben watched the screen, his expression a mixture of fear and awe. “Is it… okay?”
“ ‘Okay’ is a relative term,” Dr. Hale said, not unkindly. “It is viable. Its growth rate is approximately four hundred percent faster than a human gestational timeline.” He turned to look at the three of them, his gaze settling on Kevin and Ben. “The biological catalyst was a massive, simultaneous discharge of polymorphic energy, correct? The kind that would rewrite DNA on the fly.”
The fight with Psyphon. The rapid-fire transformations. Kevin remembered the ozone smell, the blinding light. He gave a tight nod.
“The pregnancy is a side effect of that event. A unique one.” The doctor turned back to the screen. “The fetus isn’t just developing. It’s… integrating. It’s creating a biological feedback loop with both of you.” He pointed to the pulsing helix on the monitor. “It’s drawing on your residual Omnitrix energy,” he said to Ben. “And it’s using your matter-energy assimilation as a structural template,” he said to Kevin.
The truth of it landed in the silent, cold room. This wasn't just a baby. It was their powers, fused and given form, growing inside Ben. The doctor’s next words were quiet, final.
“Based on this rate of development, I’d estimate you have about three weeks. Maybe less.”
The word hung in the sterile air. Three weeks. It wasn’t a timeframe. It was a death sentence for their old lives. Ben stared at the shifting helix on the screen, his mind utterly blank. The low thrum in his bones felt like a countdown.
Dr. Hale powered down the scanner. The room plunged into a deeper silence, broken only by the hum of alien machinery. “You’ll need to monitor for any sharp energy spikes. They will be… uncomfortable for both of you.” He looked at Kevin. “Especially you. You’re the stabilizer, whether you like it or not.”
“Stabilizer?” Kevin’s voice was flat. He felt like a live wire next to a gas leak.
“The fetus is using your metabolic signature as an anchor point. Without that constant, low-level resonance, the Omnitrix-derived biology could become chaotic.” The doctor peeled off his shimmering gloves. “Unstable.”
“So I’m a human anchor,” Kevin muttered, running a hand over his face. “Great. Fantastic.”
Ben finally pushed himself up on his elbows, his movements slow and careful. The paper on the exam table crinkled loudly. “Three weeks,” he repeated, the words tasting foreign. “Then what?”
“Then you have a baby,” Dr. Hale said with a stark simplicity that was more terrifying than any complex medical jargon. “An extraordinarily unique one. I’ll compile what data I can on interspecies hybrid gestation. It won’t be much.” He handed Gwen a small, crystalline device. “This will alert you to any critical bio-fluxuations. Don’t call me unless it flashes red.”
The drive back was a silent, heavy thing. Kevin drove with a rigid focus, his eyes glued to the road. The cracked windshield made the world outside look fractured, a perfect match for his internal state. He could feel Ben in the backseat, a quiet, tense presence that seemed to pull at the very air in the car.
Gwen sat beside him, staring at the inert crystal in her palm. “A baby in three weeks,” she whispered, as if saying it louder would make it more real.
“We don’t even have a crib,” Ben said from the back. His voice was hollow. “We have a rusted-out garage and a pile of overdue homework.”
“Forget the homework,” Kevin snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He gripped the wheel tighter. “We’ll figure it out. We always figure it out.”
“We usually figure out how to punch a monster, not how to change a diaper,” Ben shot back, a flicker of his old fire returning. “This is a little different, Kevin.”
“No kidding.” Kevin swerved into their driveway, killing the engine. The sudden silence was oppressive. For a long moment, no one moved. They just sat in the dark car, the weight of the impossible future pressing down on them.
Finally, Kevin got out. He opened the back door and offered a hand. Ben stared at it for a second before taking it, his grip surprisingly weak. Kevin pulled him up, not letting go until Ben was steady on his feet.
“I’m not made of glass,” Ben mumbled, pulling his hand away.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Kevin retorted, but there was no heat in it. He watched Ben walk carefully toward the house, his posture stiff. He looked… small.
Inside, the house was dark and still. The bathroom light was still on, a yellow slash from down the hall. Ben bypassed it, heading straight for the couch. He sank into the cushions with a heavy sigh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
Gwen went to the kitchen, the familiar sounds of her making tea a small, normal anchor in the madness. Kevin stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, his hands dangling at his sides. He felt like he should do something. Say something.
“So,” he started, then stopped. He had nothing.
“So,” Ben echoed, without opening his eyes.
“Three weeks.”
“You said that already.”
Kevin shoved his hands in his pockets. The residual energy from the clinic, from the drive, from just being near Ben, was making his skin itch. “What do you need?”
Ben finally opened his eyes. He looked exhausted down to his soul. “I need to not be pregnant. I need this to be a weird dream. I need to go back to worrying about your stupid wrench.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Since I can’t have any of that, I don’t know. A sandwich, maybe?”
It was such a normal, stupid request. It broke the tension just enough. A rough, surprised sound escaped Kevin’s throat. It was almost a laugh. “I can do a sandwich.”
He retreated to the kitchen, where Gwen was steeping two mugs. She gave him a searching look. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” he grumbled, yanking the bread from the cupboard. He slammed things around more than necessary, the clatter of plates and the rustle of deli meat a welcome distraction. He wasn’t okay. He was the opposite of okay. He was a walking, talking power source for a baby that was cooking at light speed.
He made the sandwich with aggressive precision, piling on turkey and cheese. He stopped, staring at the jar of pickles. Did he want pickles? Did it want pickles? The thought was so profoundly bizarre he just stood there, jar in hand.
“Just give it to him,” Gwen said softly, reading his paralysis. “He’ll tell you if it’s wrong.”
When he brought the plate out, Ben had shifted, curling on his side on the couch. He was asleep, his breathing even and deep. In the dim light, he looked younger than nineteen. The sharp lines of anxiety had smoothed from his face, leaving behind a fragile peace.
Kevin stood there, holding the stupid sandwich. He looked at the blanket crumpled at the end of the couch. He set the plate down on the coffee table and picked up the blanket, shaking it out.
His movements were slow, deliberate. He draped the blanket over Ben, tucking the edges around his shoulders with a clumsiness that felt alien to his usual rough grace. Ben stirred slightly, a soft, unconscious sound escaping his lips as he burrowed into the warmth.
Kevin’s hand brushed against Ben’s arm through the fabric. A jolt, faint but unmistakable, passed between them—that same resonant hum, quieter now, a steady, sleeping frequency. It wasn't aggressive or painful. It just was. A connection.
He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, but he didn’t move away. He just stood there, watching the slow rise and fall of Ben’s breathing under the blanket. The reality of it finally bypassed his anger and his fear and landed squarely in his gut.
This was happening. The baby, the energy, the terrifying, accelerated timeline. All of it.
He sank into the armchair across from the couch, the springs groaning in protest. He ran his thumb over the rough denim of his jeans. The ghost of that energy pulse still tingled on his fingertips. He looked from Ben’s sleeping form to the uneaten sandwich on the table, then to the dark, silent hallway leading to the garage full of broken things.
Three weeks.
The hum under his own skin seemed to settle into a new, lower register. A constant, quiet vigil. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to be what he needed to be. But as he watched Ben sleep, he knew one thing for certain.
Running was no longer an option.