##
Time: September 11th, 2001
Location: Within Leo's Mindscape
##
The first thing Leo noticed was the smell—aged wood, leather, and a faint trace of coffee. Then came the chair. Plush, comfortable. Not the cold floor of the basement. He blinked rapidly.
Where...?
He sat in a room that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a noir film. Walls lined with dark bookshelves, golden plaques glinting softly under the lamplight. Filing cabinets, certificates, and the faint hum of a ceiling fan completed the illusion. A green-shaded desk lamp cast a moody glow over the oak desk between him and the figure sitting in the detective's chair.
That chair...
Leo's heart sank as familiarity rushed in.
"I know this place" he whispered.
The detective's office. His office—Klein's office.
Leo slowly scanned the room, eyes landing on the door to his right: Archives. Behind him, another marked Exit. To his left, a third—Beyond—tightly bound in thick, iron chains.
Before Leo could gather his thoughts, a voice broke the silence.
"Well, have you observed enough?"
Leo's gaze snapped forward. The chair turned slowly. It revealed a man in his late twenties, well-dressed in a charcoal vest and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Brown tousled hair. Sharp green eyes. And that ever-present air of confidence that seemed to coil around him like a second skin.
"Klein," Leo muttered.
Klein smirked faintly. "Good to see you, kid."
Leo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What... what is this? Why am I back here?"
"You tell me," Klein replied, tapping his index finger rhythmically against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. "You're the one who fainted."
Leo blinked, mind rushing back to fragmented images—Travis catching him, the TV, the smoke, the panic—
"I passed out," he said quietly.
Klein raised an eyebrow. "Anxiety attack, to be exact. Heart rate spike. Loss of breath. You dropped your soldering tool. Ring a bell?"
Leo looked down at his hands. They weren't shaking anymore. "So… this is my mind?"
"Welcome back," Klein replied, gesturing to the office around them. "Your subconscious crafted this lovely little pocket to patch you up."
Leo swallowed, then narrowed his eyes. "But you… you're not supposed to be here."
"No," Klein said simply. "This meeting wasn't scheduled until much later. Years from now, actually."
He leaned back into his chair, arms folding across his chest. His expression, once sharp, softened into something more tired—more human.
"But plans changed."
Leo tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because you're cracking," Klein said bluntly. "Not broken. Not yet. But there's stress forming in the frame, and if we don't reinforce it—well, let's just say things could get messy."
Leo frowned. "What kind of messy?"
Klein tapped his finger again. Tap. Tap. "You're six years old, Leo. Six. And you've got the mind of someone twice that. The world isn't small anymore, and the weight you're trying to carry? It's starting to show."
Leo was quiet for a moment. He glanced again at the door labeled Beyond, the chains wrapped around it like it was hiding something dangerous.
"Why you though?" Leo asked, eyes returning to Klein. "Why bring you back?"
Klein gave a half-shrug. "Because I'm familiar. I'm structure. You trusted me once to handle your mess. Your brain figured I might be the one to help organize things again."
Leo sat back, lips pressing into a tight line. "This feels like… like a split."
"Not quite," Klein replied, his voice lower now. "It's not full-blown DiD. But it's close. That's where we were heading if your mind hadn't intervened."
Leo stared. "So you're saying… I created you to fix me."
"Smart as ever." Klein nodded approvingly. "You saw the signs, even if you didn't realize it consciously. So here I am—your old self, summoned to stop the damage before it spirals."
A quiet passed between them. The hum of the ceiling fan. The ticking of an invisible clock. Then—
"So," Leo said softly, "what now?"
Klein leaned forward. His elbows rested on the desk's polished surface, hands clasped, index finger slowly tapping in rhythm. A habit Leo finally remembered — used only when Klein was chewing through something big.
"You've got three choices," Klein said finally, voice measured. "Option one: Let the brain run its course. That means I stay. Fully. As a separate persona. I'd take on the role of a Smurf account—your subconscious protector, filled with all the memories you aren't ready for yet. It's the brain's way of shielding a developing mind."
Leo's eyes didn't leave his. He said nothing.
"Option two…" Klein's voice dropped. "You accept it all. Every memory, every loss, every crime scene, every truth. You give up childhood, Leo. Right here. Right now. No more pretending."
A beat passed.
"You don't want me to pick either of those," Leo said, gaze narrowing. "You're angling for the third."
A smile tugged at Klein's lips. "You've still got the instincts."
He sat back in the chair and motioned casually toward the ceiling with one hand. "Option three—merge. You keep what helps. Enhanced memory. Mature logic. The ability to plan far beyond your years. But you stay Leo. You stay a kid."
"That... sounds like cheating," Leo muttered.
"It's not. It's a compromise. A good one." Klein's eyes twinkled with something between pride and fatigue. "You'd gain more awareness, sure. But I'd still be here. As a final defense mechanism. A guardian."
Leo blinked. "Like a Stand."
Klein's smile grew wider. "Exactly. I'm your psychic guardian angel, minus the wings and harp. Less holy, more... noir."
Leo's lips twitched. "You're way more narcissistic than I remember."
Klein stood and gave a flamboyant bow. "I really am incredible, aren't I?"
Leo's mouth twitched even more. That smug tone… this wasn't just the old Klein. It was something new—a blend. A past self filtered through his present mind. Still Klein… but different.
Then Klein's smile faded. His hand gestured to the chained door on the left. The one marked Beyond.
"That," he said, "is where things get messy."
Leo's smile vanished too.
"That door doesn't just lead to your memories. It's a gateway. To the Dreamscape. A place where all sentient minds connect when they dream. That's how beings like Xavier, or worse, can enter."
"Dream-walking," Leo muttered. "I've read about it."
"It's real," Klein confirmed. "People think it's all in their heads—sleep paralysis, strange visitors, impossible dreams. But what they don't know is... sometimes the door gets opened. And when that happens—"
"Something can walk through."
Klein nodded. "Sometimes it's just another dreamer. Sometimes… it's something else. You know how it feels when you wake up and swear it was real? When the dread lingers for hours? That's not just emotion. That's trauma."
Leo glanced at the door again, chains still wound tight like warning signs.
"So that's why you're here," he said. "To prepare me."
Klein nodded solemnly. "It won't happen often. Maybe never. But if someone—or something—tries to break in, I'll be the one slamming the door shut. But only if you choose this."
A pause.
"I know it's a lot," Klein added, his voice softening. "I'm sorry it hit you all at once. But your anxiety attack wasn't random. It was your brain waving a red flag. And the deeper you go into this world, the more you'll need to understand how the world truly works."
His eyes flicked back to Klein, gaze calm.
"You already know what I'm going to pick," Leo said.
Klein smirked. "Doesn't mean I don't want to hear it."
Leo smiled, standing slowly. He looked down at his small hands, then back at the detective—the man he used to be.
"Isn't it obvious? I choose—"
##
Time: 11th of September, 2001. Right before the first plane
Location: Near the Twin towers.
Be warned those who are sensitive.
##
The sky was painted in streaks of ash and silver as Jean Grey stood atop a nearby building, her hands outstretched, trembling. Her eyes glowed faintly, brows scrunched in sharp concentration as the steel mammoth of a plane thundered toward the North Tower.
"Come on," Jean whispered to herself, voice cracking under the pressure. "Just a little more—"
Her mind strained against the impossible force, like holding back a river with bare hands. Sweat trailed down her temples, her knees buckled slightly as she poured every ounce of psychic energy she had into pushing the jet off course.
It groaned in the sky, veering—just slightly.
A step behind her, Cyclops braced her shoulders. "Jean, pull back! If you overextend—"
"I know!" she snapped, but not in anger. In fear.
Inside her mind, she could sense it, the chaos. Screaming voices. Desperation. It was eating away at her slowly.
On the rooftop beside her, Professor Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair, his fingers pressed to his temple. Beside him stood Wanda, no older than twelve, her small hands cupped around his temples. Crimson light flickered between her fingers as she amplified his telepathy.
Inside the tower, his mind reached hundreds. Fear, chaos, disbelief—he tried to thread his thoughts through theirs, offering glimpses of stairwells, exits, urging them to move.
Wanda flinched, her breath hitching. "You're burning up, Professor."
"I know, child," he rasped. "But we mustn't stop."
Suddenly, Jean let out a scream—not one of pain, but of helplessness—as the plane broke past her invisible grip and tilted downward. The edge of the North Tower loomed.
"No—!"
Time seemed to stretch like molasses.
Pietro's ears popped. The world dulled. Even Jean's anguished cry slowed to a whisper. His silver hair whipped in the frozen air as he turned to the tower, wide-eyed.
"What…?"
Then realization struck like lightning. It's not slow… I'm fast. Really fast.
The twelve-year-old's heart pounded as he focused on the flickering image of the building ahead.
"You've got this," he told himself. "Just run like never before.."
And he did.
The world blurred into still frames as he dashed through the tower's entrance, a silver comet slicing through frozen time. Flames were just beginning to crawl up the stairwells. Ceiling tiles hung in the air like floating snow. People screamed in silence.
Pietro became a blur of motion—grabbing, pulling, dragging office workers down stairwells, pushing them outside into paused reality. An elderly man, a crying child, a woman clutching a photo—he gathered them all.
His breath became ragged. His legs burned. Still, he ran.
Outside, time ticked once more.
The plane clipped the side of the tower, exploding in a fireball that sent smoke curling into the sky. Screams erupted. Sirens began to howl. Rubble rained down.
Jean collapsed to her knees, exhausted. Xavier slumped in his chair, Wanda grabbing his shoulder.
"What… just happened?" Storm murmured, stepping forward as debris settled.
Cyclops's visor flicked toward the tower, blinking rapidly. "It—looked like—"
Before anyone could finish, Pietro staggered out of the building's shadow, coughing, drenched in sweat. His skin was pale as snow, eyes unfocused.
"I can still—get more—" he panted.
But then a hand touched his shoulder. Warm. Steady. Strong.
"That's enough," said a gentle voice, firm but motherly.
He turned.
A woman stood behind him. Friday. Red hair, wind-kissed. Calm eyes full of grief and quiet fire. Her hand remained on his shoulder.
"You did well," she said. "You saved many. But if you push again… you'll break completely."
Pietro trembled, torn between guilt and fatigue, but he finally nodded. His knees gave out. Before he could hit the ground, Friday caught him with ease.
His head slumped against her shoulder.
Friday exhaled, brushing a lock of hair from Pietro's forehead. Her eyes turned to the tower, now engulfed in smoke. Her expression hardened..
They locked on the burning tower. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She knew who was behind this.
Hydra.
Friday's fists clenched. She had run from Hydra for years. Hid her son. Lied. Survived. But this? This was the cost of her silence.
She glanced toward the X-Men. Jean was being helped to her feet by Cyclops. Storm and Wolverine paced like a caged tiger, sniffing the air for survivors, Nightcrawler blinked in and out of the wreckage, teleporting injured to safety.
They came because she asked and because they knew the stakes.
Friday's heart ached with gratitude—and fury.
Friday's gaze then lingered towards the towering figure of Peggy Carter—no, Mrs. America now. Children stared at Peggy in awe. Her suit, reminiscent of Steve Rogers' iconic design, gleamed with red, white, and blue, but bore her own mark—an eagle spread across the chest like defiance itself.
She stood tall, gripping her shield.Her posture was unshakable, her voice clear as she directed the frightened crowd with ease.
Friday's lips curved into something between admiration and pain. Her mind pulled her back to a different time—a cold February morning in 2001.
#
Time: Early February 2001.
Location: A hidden base in America.
#
Friday stood in her white coat, adjusting the vial of violet-blue serum—Genosis Modified V3. The formula shimmered faintly, almost alive.
Peggy Carter stood across from her, silent, contemplative.
"You know what this means," Friday said softly, holding up the vial. "This version will de-age your body—rebuild you at a cellular level. You'll be as strong as Steve was in his prime."
"I trust you," Peggy replied, folding her arms. "You've always been careful. But it's the cost that still worries me."
Friday nodded solemnly. "It's not just muscle and reflexes. The Genosis strain… enhances neural recall. Permanently. Your mind won't forget anything. Ever. Every smile, every wound, every loss—all as sharp as the day they happened."
Peggy exhaled slowly, her fingers curling slightly. "You're telling me I'll remember Steve… like it was yesterday. All the time."
"Yes." Friday met her eyes. "And if you're not ready, it will hurt you. Mentally. Emotionally. That's the flaw I couldn't eliminate."
But It was this very same flaw that helped me escape... Friday kept that to herself.
A silence hung between them.
Then Peggy closed her eyes.
She could still see him—Steve, that quiet, stubborn kid from Brooklyn, standing up to the world with nothing but courage in his heart. "I can do this all day." His voice echoed like a heartbeat in her mind.
What would he have done? she asked herself What would he say if he saw this world now?
With a chuckle, Peggy thought, He'd want someone to carry the hope. Someone who remembers why the fight started.
Peggy then opened her eyes. Firm and resolute "I'll do it. I'll carry Steve's Legacy. I will make sure Hydra is eradicated no matter what. Their mere existence is a mockery of Him."
"Then let's begin."
###
Word count: 2446
Author's note:
Since I didn't want to follow the MCU plotline where Steve goes to the past, I thought why not make Peggy a super soldier herself so Steve can defrost and go on that promised Date. Is this wish fullfilment? Well sort of. Friday Evans is built to be only slightly less smart than Tony Starks, her primary talent lies in Biochemistry. So her cracking the serum code makes sense to me, especially with Hydra's resources. To her Super soldiers serums is the same as Arc reactor is to Tony basically. That's why Essex Values her so much. To the point he even asked Alexander to find her.
Anyways, Sorry for the late Chapter, I had taken a small break previously so I didn't write the chapters, merely kept a vague idea as notes. I just finished writing this and if I am not exhausted, I will probably give the promised second chapter in the next 6 to 8 hours.
Btw Should I move the fanfic to Movies or Anime & Comics? Which would give this more readers? This is more like an MCUfied comic events.