Greetings, True Believers!
Welcome to Earth-9920, a fan-created alternate universe affectionately known as the Midwestverse. In this unique setting, familiar Marvel characters are reimagined as alternate versions of their Multiverse counterparts, brought together in the heart of Kansas City. While they share the names and legacies of their originals, their stories, motivations, and dynamics are tailored to fit this fresh narrative and explore the power of second chances.
I do not own Marvel or any of its characters, settings, or storylines. All rights to Marvel properties belong to their respective creators and owners. This work of fiction is created purely for entertainment and as a tribute to the creativity and impact of the Marvel Multiverse.
This story is a love letter to the Marvel Multiverse, celebrating its rich history, timeless characters, and infinite possibilities. Through these alternate takes and original storylines, the Midwestverse seeks to honor the spirit of Marvel while offering a fresh perspective rooted in the heartland of America.
If you enjoyed this story, please don't forget to rate and review (R+R)! Your feedback inspires future adventures and helps this universe grow.
Excelsior!
NEW ROOTS
The pristine halls of Essex Biomedical Innovations shimmered under fluorescent lights, the air tinged with the sterile scent of antiseptics and ambition. Dr. Elaine Mercer, a sharp-featured woman in her mid-40s, walked briskly through the corridor, her clipboard clutched tightly as she struggled to match the effortless poise of the man beside her. Nathaniel Essex, the company's enigmatic CEO, exuded an aura of calculated charm.
Essex's human guise was disarming—gray hair slicked back immaculately, a thin mustache framing his soft smile, and sharp, discerning eyes that twinkled with hidden cunning. His tailored black suit, accented by a crimson tie, gave him the air of a showman—a visionary blending the charisma of Walt Disney with the self-assured authority of a tech mogul.
"As you'll see in the latest report," Dr. Mercer began, flipping through pages of dense charts, "our breakthroughs in cellular regeneration are meeting—and in some cases, exceeding—our projections. The CRISPR-enhanced subjects have demonstrated remarkable tissue repair capabilities. Recovery rates are exponentially higher than anything previously documented."
Essex nodded, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked, every step precise and deliberate. "Ah, the beauty of innovation," he mused, his voice smooth and warm. "To think, the human body so eager to heal itself. All it takes is... the right encouragement."
Mercer hesitated before continuing, her voice faltering slightly. "However, there are... complications. Neural instability persists in approximately forty percent of our volunteers. And we've observed increased aggression in a small subset of subjects—severe enough to require isolation. We're monitoring them closely, but..."
Essex paused mid-step, turning his gaze to her. Though his expression remained calm, there was a sharpness in his eyes that seemed to pierce through her. "But?" he prompted, his tone gentle yet commanding.
Dr. Mercer shifted uncomfortably. "If this data leaks, it could raise concerns with the board. Some might call it reckless."
Essex's lips curved into a smile, faint but unmistakably predatory. "Progress, Doctor, is not reckless. It is relentless. And every masterpiece—every stroke of genius—requires sacrifice. Minor inconveniences, nothing more."
The two approached a private elevator, its polished steel doors gleaming. Mercer pressed the call button, glancing nervously at the reflection of Essex beside her.
"We've had adequate volunteer participation for Phase II," she said quickly, eager to move on. "Recruitment hasn't been an issue so far, especially with the financial incentives we've offered to participants."
"Ah, adequate," Essex said, almost whispering the word as if tasting it. He chuckled softly, the sound unnervingly smooth. "Such a small word. Sufficient, perhaps, but far from satisfying."
The elevator doors slid open, and Essex gestured for her to enter first, bowing slightly with a practiced politeness that felt performative. She stepped inside, followed by Essex, who pressed a button labeled "B-4." The elevator hummed as it descended.
Mercer frowned slightly, unsure of his meaning. "What are you suggesting?"
Essex turned to her, his grin widening. "Doctor, have you considered the fertile opportunities available at Pioneer State University? Thousands of bright young minds—hungry, ambitious, and perpetually short on funds."
She blinked, taken aback. "College students? Are you suggesting we recruit them as subjects? That seems..." She searched for the right word. "Exploitative."
Essex chuckled, the sound low and rich, like the purr of a predator. "Exploitative? No, no, my dear Doctor. Practical. Think of it as an investment. A modest stipend here, a scholarship there... They'll be lining up at our doors, eager to participate. And the diversity of subjects? Invaluable for our research."
Mercer's unease deepened, but she tried to mask it. "I'll... bring it up with the outreach team," she said cautiously, scribbling a note on her clipboard.
"Excellent." Essex's voice was smooth as silk, but there was an edge to it that made her feel as if she'd just made a deal she didn't fully understand.
The elevator slowed to a stop, and as the doors opened, Essex stepped out first. For a brief moment, the shadows of the dimly lit basement clung to him, giving him an almost spectral quality. He turned back to her, his crimson eyes glinting faintly in the low light, his smile now unnervingly wide.
"Progress demands sacrifice, Doctor," he said, his tone soft yet chilling. "And Kansas City... is ripe with possibilities."
Mercer followed him into the lab, her unease growing as she tried to focus on the data in her hands, but her thoughts kept drifting back to his words.
/ / /
A gust of wind rippled through the quad, lifting stray leaves and scattering the edges of colorful flyers pinned to bulletin boards and taped to lamp posts. Among the myriad of announcements for study groups, open mic nights, and club meetings, one name stood out prominently: Shuri von Doom.
Banners stretched across the main walkway leading to the university's largest lecture hall, their bold letters impossible to miss.
"Special Guest Speaker: Shuri von Doom – 'Bridging Technology and Humanity: The Future of Ethical Innovation.'"
The posters beneath the banners featured a striking photo of Shuri in her Latverian diplomatic attire, a fusion of her Wakandan heritage and the regal influence of Latverian design. Her posture was confident, her expression both thoughtful and determined, as if daring the onlooker to meet her intensity.
Students passed by the banners, some stopping to glance at the posters. Conversations floated through the air:
"I heard she's a genius. Like, legit genius."
"Yeah, but why is she here? Kansas City seems kinda random."
"Does it matter? If she's taking the time to speak here, we're lucky."
In the background, a janitor climbed a ladder to adjust one of the banners hanging from the university's iconic clock tower. A stray gust nearly sent it flapping loose, but he secured it just in time, revealing the bold Pioneer State University logo alongside Shuri's name.
Near one of the lampposts, two students stood beside the poster, debating whether to attend.
"I mean, her name's von Doom now, right? That's intense."
"She married Doom! Of course she's intense. But still, she's, like, one of the smartest people on the planet. I'm definitely going."
The scene lingered for a moment longer, the posters fluttering softly in the breeze, a quiet but unmistakable reminder that something momentous was on the horizon.
The campus of Pioneer State University hummed with life on a bright, breezy day. The sprawling quad was a lively tapestry of movement, dotted with vibrant clusters of students making the most of the warm weather.
A student on a skateboard weaved expertly around the brick pathways, his headphones over his ears and a carefree grin on his face. Near a shaded oak tree, another student strummed an acoustic guitar, singing softly as a small group of friends lounged nearby, swaying to the melody. Across the quad, a spirited game of hacky sack drew laughter and cheers from a circle of students dressed in tie-dye and cargo shorts.
Closer to the university library, a trio of young women in lab coats huddled together, flipping through a thick chemistry textbook, their conversation rapid and peppered with occasional bursts of laughter. In contrast, a solitary student sat on the library steps with earbuds in, scrolling on a tablet while scribbling notes in the margins of a notebook. The university's diverse, lively energy painted a picture of potential and discovery.
The scene shifted to a quieter corner of campus, where a row of picnic tables sat under the dappled shade of elm trees. Ben Reilly sat alone at one of the tables, hunched over a sketchpad with a pencil in hand. His worn backpack rested against the bench beside him, its zipper slightly open to reveal a faint hint of red and blue fabric—just a sliver, but unmistakably part of his Scarlet Spider costume.
Ben's brow furrowed as he studied his latest design, the page covered in rough sketches of potential upgrades to his suit. A sleek variation of his hoodie stood out, complete with reinforced gauntlets and a more streamlined mask. He sighed, spinning his pencil between his fingers before jotting down a note beside one of the sketches.
"Too flashy," he muttered to himself. "Needs to stay simple. Practical."
A pair of students passed by, laughing and talking about an upcoming exam, but Ben paid them no mind. His focus remained on his sketches, though his hand occasionally strayed to the strap of his backpack, as if checking to make sure it was still there.
Across the campus, Jubilation Lee sat perched on the wide stone steps of one of the older university buildings, surrounded by a group of friends. She wore a bright yellow jacket over her casual outfit, a subtle nod to her personality that matched her sunny demeanor. One friend sat cross-legged beside her, gesturing animatedly as they told a story, while another leaned against the railing, nodding along.
Jubilee listened with an easy smile, occasionally tossing in a playful quip that sent her friends into bursts of laughter. She held a notebook in her lap, doodling absently in the margins of her class notes while her friends chatted. Her sketches were whimsical and carefree—tiny fireworks, cartoonish stars, and the occasional caricature of a professor.
"Okay, but seriously," she said, cutting into the conversation with a grin, "if I have to read one more essay about why Shakespeare was 'totally radical for his time,' I might actually lose it."
Her friends laughed, one of them tossing a crumpled napkin at her, which she caught mid-air with a dramatic flourish. "And that's why we love you," one friend teased.
Jubilee leaned back on her elbows, glancing out at the lively quad. Despite the cheerful atmosphere, a flicker of restlessness crossed her face—gone as quickly as it appeared. For now, she was content to bask in the moment, her laughter blending seamlessly with the vibrant energy of campus life.
/ / /
The low hum of a blues guitar drifted through the dimly lit bar, mixing with the faint clink of glasses and the occasional murmur of conversation. It was the kind of place that had seen better days but still held onto a quiet charm. Faded neon signs buzzed faintly in the windows, their glow casting soft colors on the well-worn bar top.
Rick Jones sat at the far end of the counter, nursing a glass of something amber. He wore oversized 80s-style aviator shades, reflecting the flicker of a small television above the bar that played a sports highlight reel. His clothes were loud and dated—an electric blue jacket with sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a graphic T-shirt underneath, and faded jeans that had seen better days. His style screamed casual defiance, but his body language told another story—broad shoulders hunched slightly, fingers drumming idly against the glass.
There were only a handful of other patrons scattered across the room: a couple deep in conversation at a corner table, an older man at the jukebox flipping through the same songs he'd probably picked for years, and the bartender, wiping down glasses with a precision born of boredom.
Rick swirled the drink in his glass, leaning back against the bar stool. Despite the relaxed pose, his blue, hulking form drew an occasional glance from the other patrons. Most had gotten used to him after a few visits, but there was always a first-timer whose eyes lingered too long. Today, no one said anything, and Rick appreciated the silence.
"Another one, big guy?" the bartender asked, gesturing to Rick's nearly empty glass.
Rick shook his head. "Nah. Gotta keep a clear head, you know?" His voice was calm, almost lazy, but there was a tension beneath the surface, like a coiled spring waiting to snap.
The bartender shrugged, turning his attention to another customer. Rick's hand drifted into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled pamphlet. Essex Biomedical Innovations was printed across the top in bold letters, accompanied by a polished tagline: "Redefining the boundaries of human potential."
Rick's lips curled into a wry smile as he read the fine print for what must have been the tenth time. Promises of "genetic restoration" and "revolutionary therapies" were enough to catch his eye, but he wasn't stupid. He'd been around too long, seen too much. If something sounded too good to be true, it probably was.
Still, the whispers he'd heard about Essex Biomedical Innovations offering hope for "unique conditions" had been enough to pull him to Kansas City. Now, sitting in this bar, he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out if the rumors were true.
"Guess we'll see," he muttered under his breath, folding the pamphlet and tucking it back into his pocket. He glanced at his reflection in the bar's polished surface, the shades obscuring his eyes but doing nothing to hide the faint shadow of doubt that lingered on his face.
The bartender leaned over. "You waiting on someone?"
Rick tilted his head, grinning faintly. "Nah. Just passing through. Figured I'd enjoy the vibe for a while."
The bartender nodded, leaving him to his thoughts. Rick leaned back again, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. But in his mind, a single question lingered: Is this the break I've been waiting for, or just another dead end?
The door to the bar swung open with a creak, letting in a blast of cold air and a man who looked like trouble the moment he stepped inside. He was tall and wiry, with the kind of swagger that came from either confidence or too much alcohol. His leather jacket hung loose on his shoulders, and his boots clunked heavily against the floor as he made his way to the bar.
His eyes landed on Rick almost immediately, lingering on the hulking figure at the end of the counter. A faint smirk curled his lips as he nudged one of his buddies, muttering something under his breath. They both chuckled before the man took a step closer to Rick's table.
Rick didn't look up, still idly spinning his nearly empty glass in his hand, but his posture stiffened slightly, his sharp senses already reading the situation.
"Hey, big guy," the man drawled, his voice thick with bravado. "You take up two seats everywhere you go, or is this some kinda special occasion?"
Rick sighed, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. "Just enjoying my drink, pal. Why don't you do the same?"
The man grinned, emboldened by Rick's calm response. "What's the matter? Too cool to talk to us regular folks? Or is it true what they say—big guys like you always got something to prove?"
Rick leaned back, folding his arms over his broad chest. His shades reflected the dim light, hiding his expression but not the tension building in the air. "I don't want any trouble," he said evenly. "So why don't you take your seat, enjoy a beer, and leave it at that?"
But the man wasn't interested in de-escalation. He took another step forward, his voice rising. "You think you're better than me? Sitting here like you own the place, acting all tough 'cause you're... whatever the hell you are."
Rick slowly stood, towering over the man with ease. The bar fell silent as conversations stopped, all eyes turning to the confrontation.
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second but quickly covered it up with a sneer. "What, you gonna hit me? Let's see what you've got, freak."
Rick didn't flinch as the man swung a clumsy punch, aiming for his jaw. The fist connected, but it might as well have hit a brick wall. Rick didn't even budge, the force of the punch absorbed effortlessly by his dense form.
The man yelped, clutching his hand and stumbling back, his bravado evaporating. Rick removed his shades, folding them with a deliberate calm, and tucked them into his jacket pocket.
"Okay," Rick said casually, reaching out and grabbing the man by the back of his jacket with one hand. "You're done."
With almost no effort, Rick lifted the man off the ground and carried him toward the door. The man sputtered protests, his legs kicking uselessly. Rick pushed the door open with his foot and, with the same easy motion, tossed the man outside.
The man landed in a heap on the pavement, groaning as Rick leaned against the doorframe, looking down at him. "Next time, keep your mouth shut," Rick said, his tone more tired than angry. He adjusted his jacket, slipped his shades back on, and turned to the bartender.
"Sorry about that," Rick said, pulling a few crumpled bills from his pocket and tossing them onto the counter. "For the inconvenience."
The bartender nodded, his expression a mix of relief and admiration. "No harm done, big guy. You take care now."
Rick gave a faint nod, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stepped out into the night. The cold air hit him, but he didn't seem to notice. He walked away without looking back, the soft glow of the bar fading behind him as he disappeared into the city.
/ / /
The maximum-security prison stood like a monolith against the skyline, its high walls and razor wire casting long shadows over the barren fields beyond. The gates creaked and groaned as they slid open, and Fred Dukes stepped out, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The late afternoon sun bathed the road ahead in a warm glow, but Fred stood still for a moment, staring out at the world he hadn't seen in over a decade.
The wind ruffled his faded flannel shirt, which barely stretched across his massive chest. His jeans were threadbare, cuffs frayed from years of wear. Even standing alone, he seemed to fill the space, his sheer size making the vast emptiness around him feel smaller.
Fred sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Guess this is it," he muttered. "Home sweet nowhere."
Down the gravel road, an old sedan idled near the edge of the prison property, its engine coughing faintly. A man in a wrinkled suit leaned out the driver's side window, waving.
"Fred Dukes!" the man called.
Fred started walking toward the car, his heavy boots crunching the gravel with each step. The man, likely in his late 50s, stepped out as Fred approached, straightening his tie nervously.
"Name's Charlie," the man said, holding out his hand. "From the reintegration program. I'm here to take you into Kansas City—your halfway house is all set up, and I've got the paperwork—"
Fred glanced at the car, then back at Charlie. The sedan looked small enough for Charlie to drive, but putting Fred in it was another matter entirely. The front seat wouldn't just be cramped—it might break under him.
Fred raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, almost amused smirk. "No offense, Charlie, but I think you're gonna need a bigger car."
Charlie hesitated, looking between Fred and the sedan, before giving an awkward laugh. "Yeah, uh... I can see how that might be an issue."
Fred slung the bag higher on his shoulder and gestured toward the road stretching toward the city skyline in the distance. "Tell you what. I've been stuck behind those walls for ten years. I could use the walk."
Charlie blinked. "You... you're sure? It's a good ten miles to the city."
Fred chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Ten miles ain't nothin'. Don't worry, I'll make it. You can head on back, tell 'em I'm doin' fine."
Charlie hesitated, but Fred had already started walking, his broad frame casting a long shadow over the gravel road. Charlie opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. He climbed back into the sedan, muttering under his breath as he drove off, leaving Fred to his thoughts.
The wind picked up as Fred walked, carrying with it the faint sounds of the city ahead. He adjusted the strap on his duffel bag and kept moving, each step steady and deliberate.
Kansas City, he thought, glancing up at the faint outline of the skyline. Here we go. One step at a time.
The scene flickered to Fred's parole hearing a few months earlier, the sterile room filled with uncomfortable tension.
A stern-faced parole officer had reviewed Fred's record. "Ten years served, reduced for good behavior. No major infractions during your time here. And... you've expressed remorse for your past actions." The officer's eyes narrowed slightly. "But tell me, Dukes, why should we believe you've really changed?"
Fred had sat there, massive hands folded in front of him, his expression calm but weary. "Because I don't want to be that guy anymore," he'd said simply. "I've made mistakes—plenty of 'em—but I'm not lookin' to go back to who I was. I just want to do right, for once."
The memory faded as Fred walked away from the prison gates, the wind carrying away the sound of the doors clanging shut behind him.
The gravel crunched under Fred's heavy boots as the distant hum of traffic grew louder. He spotted a gas station ahead—a lone oasis of fluorescent lights and worn signage along the empty road. The sign buzzed faintly: "Wilson's Quick Stop - Deli, Snacks, Cold Drinks."
Fred pushed open the glass door, the little bell above it jingling as he ducked slightly to fit through the entrance. The cramped aisles and low ceilings made him feel even bigger than usual, but he ignored the stares of the cashier, a kid no older than twenty who blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
"Just lookin' for somethin' to eat," Fred muttered, his deep voice rumbling as he browsed the shelves.
He settled on a pre-wrapped sandwich and a microwave burrito from the deli section. Carrying both items to the counter, he set them down carefully, his massive hands dwarfing the tiny packages.
The cashier rang him up, still staring. "You, uh... you just get out of the joint or somethin'?"
Fred gave the kid a tired smile, sliding a few crumpled bills across the counter. "Yeah, somethin' like that."
The cashier mumbled a nervous "have a nice day" as Fred walked out, the bell jingling behind him.
Fred found a bench near a small park, half-hidden by overgrown bushes and an old lamp post that flickered faintly. He sat down carefully, the wood groaning under his weight. For a moment, he paused, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. Then, with a quiet sigh, he unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, chewing slowly as he stared at the horizon.
The burrito sat untouched beside him as he leaned back, letting the cool breeze brush against his face. The sounds of the city were closer now—cars honking, distant chatter, and the faint hum of streetlights—but this little corner felt removed from it all.
His solitude didn't last long. A soft rustling in the bushes caught his attention. He turned his head to see a small, scrappy dog—a mutt with wiry fur and one ear flopped over—creep out from the shadows. The dog hesitated, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air.
Fred chuckled, taking another bite of his sandwich before glancing at the burrito. "Well, ain't you a brave little guy," he muttered.
The dog took a cautious step forward, its eyes locked on Fred's meal. Fred held up the untouched burrito, inspecting it for a moment before tearing it in half.
"Here," he said, tossing the bigger piece onto the ground.
The dog flinched, then sniffed the burrito cautiously before devouring it with quick, desperate bites. Fred watched, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You remind me of me," he said softly, breaking off a piece of his sandwich and tossing it down too. "Scrappy, hungry, and too dumb to keep your nose outta trouble."
The dog finished its meal and looked up at Fred, tail wagging tentatively. Fred reached down, his massive hand dwarfing the little mutt, and gave it a gentle scratch behind the ears.
"Don't get used to it," he said with a smirk. "This is a one-time deal."
The dog let out a soft bark, wagging its tail harder as Fred leaned back against the creaking bench. He stared at the city lights in the distance, the dog settling at his feet.
"Guess we both could use a second chance," Fred muttered, breaking off another piece of his sandwich.
The dog's tail thumped against the ground in quiet agreement as the two sat together, sharing the moment in silence.
/ / /
