I didn't have a destination in mind. I just wanted to exist in the neighborhood for a while.
As I walked down the driveway, I noticed a large, rented moving truck parked haphazardly in front of the Dunphy house. The back ramp was lowered, and Phil was currently standing in the street, sweating profusely as he tried to single-handedly maneuver a massive, intricately carved antique oak armoire toward the ramp.
Claire was standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking like a woman on the absolute brink of a nervous breakdown.
"Phil, push from the bottom! If it tips over, it's going to crush you, and I do not have time to plan a funeral this week!" Claire shouted, her voice tight with panic.
"I've got it, honey! Center of gravity! I'm basically a human fulcrum!" Phil grunted, his face turning a distinct shade of plum as the heavy wooden wardrobe wobbled dangerously on its edge.
I crossed the street at a brisk, silent jog.
"Phil, hold it steady," I said, stepping up beside him just as the armoire began to tilt backward toward the asphalt.
I didn't activate the vibranium ring. I didn't use gravity manipulation. I just planted my feet, engaged the dense, super-soldier muscle fibers in my core and shoulders, and placed my hands flat against the back of the heavy oak furniture.
With a controlled, smooth exhale, I absorbed the shifting weight. The armoire had to weigh at least three hundred pounds, but against my enhanced physiology, it felt like pushing a heavy shopping cart. I stabilized it instantly, easing it flat onto its base.
Phil let out a massive, wheezing gasp, dropping his hands to his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
"Arthur!" Phil panted, looking up at me with wide, grateful eyes. "Sweet mother of nature, you have the hands of a lumberjack. Thank you."
"Anytime, Phil," I smiled warmly, keeping my breathing perfectly even. "Where are we putting this?"
"In the truck," Claire sighed, walking over and dragging a hand through her blonde hair. She looked exhausted, the kind of deep, bone-weary stress that came from carrying the mental load of an entire family. "We're organizing a community charity drive for the school. Half of this stuff has been sitting in our garage since Haley was in diapers. I thought it would be a simple drop-off, but the volunteers cancelled, the rental place gave us the truck late, and my dad is conveniently ignoring my phone calls."
"It's a logistical nightmare," Phil agreed solemnly, still breathing heavily. "We're in the trenches, Arthur. The suburban trenches."
I looked at the massive armoire, then at the cluttered driveway filled with boxes, old bicycles, and lamps.
My immediate instinct—the Tinker instinct—was to tap my neural lace, summon a swarm of microbots, and have the entire driveway perfectly packed and loaded into the truck in exactly fourteen seconds.
I pushed the instinct away.
"I've got some free time," I said, rolling up the sleeves of my jacket. "Let me give you a hand. Phil, grab the bottom left corner. I'll take the right. We'll walk it up the ramp together."
Claire blinked, looking at me in surprise. "Arthur, you don't have to do that. You're in nice clothes, and you just moved in. You must have your own work to do."
"My work is handling itself today, Claire," I said, offering her a quiet, reassuring smile. "Besides, Jay brought me a very nice bottle of scotch yesterday. Consider this me paying it forward to the family."
For a second, the tight, frantic tension in Claire's shoulders seemed to melt. She looked at me, really looked at me, and let out a soft, genuine laugh that lacked her usual neurotic edge.
"You're a lifesaver, Arthur. Truly."
For the next two hours, I didn't think about zero-point energy. I didn't think about FBI agents or multibillion-dollar shell companies. I just lifted boxes. I helped Phil navigate a notoriously stubborn sofa through their front door, laughing genuinely when he miscalculated a pivot and ended up trapped against the wall for five minutes. I listened to Claire vent about the PTA, offering mild, grounding responses that seemed to talk her down from her stress spiral.
I used my enhanced strength subtly—never enough to look supernatural, just enough to ensure Phil didn't throw his back out, carrying the brunt of the weight while making him feel like he was doing half the work.
By noon, the truck was fully loaded, perfectly organized to maximize space.
"I cannot believe it fits," Claire muttered, staring into the back of the truck, her hands on her hips.
"Every time I try to pack a trunk, it looks like a game of Tetris played by a blindfolded person."
"Spatial awareness is a hobby of mine," I joked lightly, wiping a smear of dust off my forehead.
Phil emerged from the house, carrying three ice-cold bottles of water. He handed one to me and one to Claire.
"To Arthur Hastings," Phil declared, holding his plastic bottle up like a champagne flute. "The strongest neighbor on the block, and the undisputed king of moving day."
"To Arthur," Claire agreed, tapping her bottle against mine. Her smile was soft, stripped of the frantic energy from earlier. "Seriously. Thank you. It's... it's really nice to have someone around who doesn't just add to the chaos."
"I like the chaos," I replied, taking a drink of the cold water. And to my own surprise, I found that I meant it. "It keeps things interesting."
As I stood there in the driveway, covered in dust, my muscles carrying the dull, satisfying ache of manual labor, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
Atlas: Mr. Specter has successfully initiated the acquisition of Pied Piper. Richard Hendricks has accepted the terms. Furthermore, Agent Burke has requested a routine financial disclosure from our new holding company. Mr. Specter is burying him in legitimate, exceptionally boring tax documents as we speak.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket without typing a reply.
The empire was secure. The fortress was safe. The feds were chasing shadows in Silicon Valley.
But looking at the Dunphys, bickering lightly about who was going to drive the moving truck, I realized that the greatest cheat I had wasn't the ability to build fictional technology.
It was the ability to finally live a normal life, completely unafraid of what tomorrow might bring.
"Need a co-pilot for the drop-off, Phil?" I asked, walking toward the passenger side of the moving truck.
Phil's face lit up. "Arthur, strap in. I'm going to tell you all about my theory on competitive cheerleading."
I laughed, climbing into the cab.
'Progress,' I thought, pulling the heavy door shut.