My eyes snap open, and I'm greeted by the lovely sensation of a rope digging into my neck. I'm hanging, feet dangling, like so twisted Christmas ornant. Panic slams into , and I claw at the noose, trying to widen the damn thing. My fingers fumble, clumsy and useless. What the hell is going on?
I kick, thrash, anything to get so leverage. The rope burns against my skin. Just when I think I'm about to black out, there's a cracking sound above. Plaster rains down, and the entire section of the ceiling holding the rope gives way.
I fall.
The air rushes out of my lungs as I slam into the floor, the noose finally loosening its grip. I cough, gag, and scramble away from the rope, gasping for breath. My throat is raw, my head is spinning, and my body aches.
I sit up, shaky and disoriented, trying to figure out where I am and how I got here. This isn't my room. The walls are grimy, the air is thick with the sll of decay, and there's a single flickering light bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. It casts long, dancing shadows that make everything look even more ssed up.
"Okay," I mutter to myself, "definitely not Kansas anymore."
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the throbbing in my head. Where the heck am I? I stumble towards the window, pulling aside a tattered curtain.
My jaw drops.
New York. It's definitely New York. The skyline is unmistakable, even from this dump. But how? Last thing I rember, I'm parked in front of my gaming rig, pounding away at so MMO, a wave of sharp pain in my chest... Did I actually kick the bucket? Was it a heart attack? And if so, is this the afterlife? So seriously ssed-up version of it, anyway.
Across the street, a billboard catches my eye. It's got the Stark Industries logo plastered all over it. Huh. Is there a new Iron Man flick coming out? They're really going all out with the guerrilla marketing.
I gotta figure this out. I limp over to a desk in the corner. A dusty old laptop sits on top, miraculously still intact. I flip it open and hit the power button. To my surprise, it sputters to life, the screen flickering before settling on a familiar Windows interface.
"Alright, Google, do your thing," I mutter, typing furiously. I search for the latest Marvel trailers, but the results are… weird. Instead of movie news, I'm bombarded with articles about Tony Stark's disappearance during a weapons demonstration gone wrong in Afghanistan.
What in the actual...?
I click on one of the articles, and my confusion deepens. The writing is all serious, talking about Stark as if he's a real person, not just so character played by Robert Downey Jr. The details are granular, talking about Obadiah Stane taking over as CEO, the potential impact on the stock market...
This is either the most committed ARG I've ever seen, or sothing seriously strange is going on.
I close the article and start throwing darts at the internet. I search for "Stark Industries," "Oscorp," "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." Each search returns results that are way too detailed, way too real. News articles, corporate websites, even academic papers discussing the implications of mutant rights.
My heart starts to pound. No, no, no... This can't be happening.
My breath hitches. My mind races. I frantically search for anything debunking what I'm seeing, any shred of evidence it's a hoax. Conspiracy theories, alternate reality gas, anything. But every search, every link, confirms the impossible.
Holy crap.
I died. I actually died. And sohow, impossibly, I've been reborn... in the Marvel Universe.
But now what? I'm just… . A glorified light novel writer with a penchant for strategy gas. What am I supposed to do in a world filled with super soldiers, genius billionaires, and literal gods? I don't have any powers, no special skills. I'm just so random schmuck who got a cosmic lottery ticket to the most dangerous place imaginable.
Great.
My mind starts spinning with the possibilities, all of them terrifying. I could get caught in the crossfire of so superhero battle, vaporized by a stray laser beam. I could beco collateral damage in an Ultron-level event. Or worse, I could get mugged in an alley by so two-bit crook with a souped-up taser.
I needed a plan, and fast. But first, I need so information. Who am I in this world?
I start ransacking the room, looking for anything that can give a clue. Drawers are filled with junk, clothes are either ripped or covered in stains, and the only book in sight is a tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye. Seriously? Even in the Marvel Universe, teenage angst is a thing.
Finally, tucked under a loose floorboard, I find a small, worn wallet. I flip it open, my hands trembling. Inside, a faded driver's license stares back at . The picture is of a scrawny kid with ssy hair and a vacant look in his eyes.
The na on the license reads: Ethan Kepler.
Huh. At least they didn't saddle with a stupid na. But that's it. No address, no family, no ergency contact. Just a na and a picture. I check the other cards, but all that's there is a library card, a student ID, and a social security card.
Just my luck. Not only am I in the Marvel Universe, but I'm apparently an orphan scraping by in so derelict corner of Queens. Seriously, could this get any worse? I was already bracing myself for supervillains and alien invasions, now I have to worry about eviction notices, too?
My mind races. I gotta get out of here. New York is a death trap waiting to happen. Maybe I can hitchhike my way out west, find so remote cabin in the mountains, and just... hide. Yeah, that's the plan. Lay low, avoid anything remotely resembling a superhero, and pray I don't get snapped out of existence when Thanos decides to redecorate the universe.
A pang of sadness hits . Mom, Dad… are they even doing okay? Are they grieving? Do they know what happened? Probably think I died in my sleep, controller still in hand. I won't get to see their faces, to tell them I love them one last ti. Man, this sucks.
Then, the world decides to get even weirder.
A bright, blue screen pops into existence right in front of , hovering in mid-air like so kind of dented notification. Text scrolls across it in blocky, pixelated letters.
[System 100%]
[Hello Ethan]
[Welco to the Digimon System]
"What?"
***
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