AN: Hi! First of all, thanks for stopping by. I'm new to writing, and I want to be clear right from the start: this work was translated using an AI, since I don't speak English fluently. If that bothers you, you're free to stop reading right now. What I won't tolerate are malicious or bad-faith reviews—if you leave a spammy or senseless comment just to criticize, I will delete it without hesitation. Of course, if you don't like the story, you're free to share your opinion—just please do it objectively and respectfully. I'm not a writer, and I don't aim to be one. I simply wanted to put an idea from my head into words. This is the result. If it entertains someone or catches their interest, that's more than enough for me.
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I was on my way to the arcade after one of those weeks that make you seriously question your life choices. My eyelids weighed like concrete, my brain in full zombie mode, and my one functioning neuron was screaming for a few hours in front of a screen.
Twenty hours of classes a week at a decent university doesn't sound that bad... until you actually live it.
My major didn't have the glamour of medicine or the mystique of the humanities, but it was essential. After all, sooner or later, everyone needs an engineer—even if it's just to fix the Wi-Fi.
My life plan was as pragmatic as it was nihilistic: study like a slave, get a decent job, climb the corporate ladder like a rabid animal, get underlings to do my work... and then, hookers and yachts. The dream.
A wonderful existence, honestly.
Sometimes, of course, I wished knowledge came in chewable capsules—or at least something you could swallow with bread. But well, I didn't have a magic blue cat.
"We're off to a good start—roads are clear today," I murmured with a half-smile. Around that hour, the streets were usually a jungle of honking, soulless cars, and decorative police officers who got in the way more than they helped. But not this time. Only a few private cars scattered around, as if the universe had given me a temporary truce.
I took advantage of it and drove along the beach route—no way I was wasting that view.
I let out a short laugh, grateful. Not the time for nostalgia. Who in their right mind misses traffic? Arcade, home, YouTube until I crash. A soul-healing routine.
"Just a few more years and life will be my bitch," I muttered triumphantly.
Then fate—that bastard—decided to intervene.
A rock the size of an industrial washing machine fell right in front of me, out of nowhere. Instinctively, I swerved, barely dodging it... but not by much.
More rocks followed, crashing down as if the sky itself was falling apart.
The impact was brutal, sharp, and had no epic soundtrack or slow motion. My car flew. I flew. And then… just pain. Intense. Burning. Slicing.
I had no idea what just happened, but it was obvious—I was screwed. I closed my eyes.
I don't know how long I stayed like that.
But I could hear things. Voices. Distant, like echoes. Blurry.
Strangely, I wasn't panicked. No fear, no freak-out. A part of me knew—with chilling clarity—that I was going to die. And that was okay. Almost... liberating.
A light blinded me, cutting through my thoughts. I managed to open my aching eyes a bit.
"He's alive—we have to help him," someone said, pointing a flashlight at me.
"I… don't think we can," another voice replied, resigned.
They debated my fate with all the emotion of a post-game analysis. I laughed internally.
At least it wasn't a cliché like getting hit by a truck. Though, yeah, I'll admit—I'd have preferred something less… rocky.
Maybe I should've been more specific when I wished for a break.
And with that final bit of irony, my mind shut down.
...
...
...
When I thought everything was over, my eyes opened again.The light that blinded me was warm. Almost… comforting.
"I'm sorry to inform you that you're dead," announced a guy with white hair and the smile of an insurance salesman.
"God of the obvious, huh?" I replied with a dry laugh, glancing at what very much looked like Heaven.
There was something familiar in the light... like the view from the beach. Almost poetic.
I sat up. I noticed sand. There hadn't been any before. Damn it.
The guy—God, or something close enough—looked at me with amusement. He offered me a drink.
I took it, because, well, I was dead. What did I have to lose?
"So, are you like a Valkyrie? Do you welcome everyone who dies?" I asked, half-serious, half-curious.
"Normally, a hot angel in suggestive clothing handles this part," said the red-jacketed God with a smirk, "but this is a special case. Let's just say… those rocks weren't supposed to be there. Heh. So… my bad?"
"My sanity is telling me not to ask, but… how the hell was that your fault?"
"I was playing marbles. One went... far," he said, scratching his head awkwardly.
"Did you win?" I asked, laughing. I was already dead—no point getting mad.
Honestly, being surrounded by half-naked angels didn't sound like the worst outcome.
But then God cut in.
"No, but that's not the point. It was my fault, and I can't let your soul go through the standard system. I owe you a reward."
"You know, Heaven doesn't sound too bad. You could just…" I started to say, but he cut me off.
"Sending you back to life is out of the question. Rules are rules. But... nothing says I can't send you somewhere else," he said, dramatically closing a huge purple book.
That book… better not to ask.
The idea sounded risky. I'd rather stick with heavenly thighs than get tossed into some post-apocalyptic world full of murder machines.
"Oh, there'll be some charming creatures," he added excitedly. "You won't be able to take your eyes off them."
"Tempting, really tempting… but it seems safer here," I tried to argue.
"I know. That's why I'll give you three wishes. Random. Based on your luck with my latest invention: the Wheel of Fortune. Technically, you could get garbage like the ability to turn on TVs with your mind, but you could also get some really good stuff."
I'll admit, I was tempted by the idea of three wishes and a new life with built-in hacks.
"All right."
God nodded like a kid, then made a glowing Wheel of Fortune appear in front of us. It shimmered like cheap neon at a rundown fair.
"Let it spin!"
I crossed my fingers… and waited… and waited… that thing spun forever. It didn't stop.
A few seconds later, it finally began to slow, and I couldn't help but mutter in my head:
What the hell is that?
God smiled like he'd read my thoughts.
"First: The Gift of the Primordial Craftsman of Tom the Cat. Hands of the first creator."
My poker face must have forced him to explain further.
"You can build almost anything from any material, no blueprint needed. You see it—you know how to make it. Of course, depending on the rules of your new universe, some things will still be impossible."
That... was actually useful. As an engineer, it was basically a golden key to heaven.
I spun again.
"Second: The Gaze of Mnemosyne. Perfect memory of everything you see—from diagrams to lock codes. The perfect companion to your first gift," he said proudly.
I almost laughed. I had the ability to build and now the memory to retain everything. The pieces fit together. Like the wish knew assembling without remembering would've been pointless.
Final spin.
God got excited. "This one needs a few tweaks—a few more meters of height, and the command center... there we go!" he said, generating a hologram of what looked like a robot.
"What the hell is that?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.
"Your lack of culture is painful," he sighed. "It's a Gundam. The RX-78-2. A giant, pilotable robot, for the uncultured."
Wow. Okay. That was... big.
"So that's it?" I asked, smiling.
I had no idea what I'd use a Gundam for, but I was going to look awesome doing it.
"One piece of advice," God added. "Your body isn't adapted. The Gundam will only last a few minutes before it disappears. And now... enjoy your second childhood!"
"Shit," was the last thing I said before the world started to vanish.
Everything dissolved like someone had flushed my reality down the cosmic toilet. First the colors, then the sounds, and finally... me.
Silence.
In the space left behind, only He remained.
God stood in the void with his hands behind his back, like someone admiring a half-finished work of art. Then he casually tossed a small white orb, which began to morph and vanished in the same direction Simon had gone.
Beside him, a girl appeared out of nowhere, her presence so natural it felt like she'd always been there. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—large, warm, inquisitive—were fixed on the spot where the boy had been just moments before.
"Do you think it was fair he didn't remember his mother?" she asked softly, not looking away from the tear in the air that still pulsed faintly.
God slowly shook his head.
"No. But it was necessary. Besides, you were the one who started diluting his memories."
She sighed, folding her arms with a touch of resignation.
"I know..." she admitted. "It just weighs on me. What we're doing to him isn't fair. Although..." —she glanced sideways at Him with a knowing smile— "you gave him more than you promised."
God gave a nearly imperceptible smirk.
"Maybe."
She stepped a little closer, tilting her head to look at him more clearly.
"And since when did you get so soft, MA?" she said with teasing sweetness, emphasizing the nickname like it was an old joke between them.
He frowned.
"I hate that name," he growled.
"I know," she replied, amused, gently brushing an imaginary wrinkle from his robe. "But I still say it. Just like when we were kids… remember?"
God looked away, murmuring:
"I'm just returning a favor."
"Sure," she said with a conspiratorial tone. "More like a risky bet than a favor."
"Details," MA muttered, as the universe behind them slowly began to take shape—flashes of light like glowing embers against a dark canvas. "I only gave him something he would've eventually created himself."
She looked at him with tenderness.
"You're a mess… but you're my mess."
And together, they stood in silence, watching as the story began to unfold.
...
...
...
[San Francisco, January 1st, 2008]
This was hard to explain.
It wasn't that I couldn't move... it was that my body wouldn't respond. Like the connection between thought and action had gone on strike. I felt like a laggy video game character—I'd move the joystick, but the avatar wouldn't react. Total paralysis. Infuriating. Almost ridiculous.
Eventually, I managed to roll over. Yes—roll, like a badly placed sack of potatoes. I had to shift all my weight just to turn to the right. And that's when I saw them: huge bars. Giant ones. Like the world had grown bigger without me. Far off, I could make out scattered toys on the floor. And right next to me... an enormous white plush dragon. It was at least half my size.
I know, because I… was small.
Was this a hospital? An experimental clinic? A prison for mini versions of myself? I had no clue. But there were bars. And a dragon plushie bigger than any dignity I had left.
Nothing made sense.
Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe...
"Mom!" someone shouted excitedly. "The baby's awake!"
Great. Could've been worse.
"Hi!" two voices called out, and suddenly two giant heads poked through the bars, staring at me like I was a shiny Pokémon.
"We're your big brothers," one declared, as if that sentence didn't deserve a dramatic pause.
And that's when it hit me.
The small body, the giant plushie, the crib bars, the sweet voices...
I was an infant. Literally. Not metaphorically. Literally.
But hey, it's all about perspective, right? Technically, I was in my prime... just with diapers. Incredibly adorable, free of responsibility, no taxes, and best of all… a socially accepted free pass to bury my face in boobs without judgment.
A blessing, if you look at it the right way.
...
...
...
[San Francisco, March 21st, 2008]
Space Log.
Life as a fully conscious baby is, honestly, an absurd punishment.
I mean, there are few things more humiliating than not being able to poop properly or having the motor coordination of an autistic panda. If this keeps up, I might become the first clinical case of neonatal depression.
Oh, right. My name is Simon Becket now. Sounds like the name of a washed-up journalist or a second-rate mystery novelist. I guess it could be worse.
I have brothers. Apparently. I think there are two of them, but I have no idea what their names are. From what I've picked up—thanks to the occasional shouting and phone calls—my parents are separated. I stayed with my mom. Her name is Jasmine. I have no clue what she does for a living aside from being my full-time caregiver. For now, it's my dad paying the bills. How chivalrous.
But anyway, I'm a baby.
Complicated, right?
Life in this state is... repetitive. Eat. Poop. Sleep. Repeat. I'm basically a duck in diapers. Although, to be fair, my sleep schedule is more like a cat's—I spend most of my time asleep. No complaints. Dreaming I'm not a baby is my only form of entertainment.
Although, to be fair, it's not all terrible. Yes, it's depressing. Yes, I'm stuck in this tiny body that can't even hold up its own head. But I'm alive. That has to count for something, right?
This is temporary torture. Or so I keep telling myself.
By my second birthday, hopefully, I'll be able to use the bathroom like a human being. That's what adults say, anyway. I'm not convinced it's physically possible. I suspect this body has its own calendar, and I have no way to speed it up.
But hey, I guess I'm about to find out.
...
...
...
[San Francisco, February 25th, 2012]
My brothers' names are Rayleigh and Yancy Beckett. They're your average teenagers—two 14-year-old boys constantly fighting over the remote or blaming each other for finishing the milk at breakfast. Or at least, that's what I can gather from the few times I've actually seen them these past four years.
The reason I hardly ever see them is because of her… the woman my father now lives with. Mom calls her "that dirty whore." She never says it out of her voice.
Honestly, I think Mom still hasn't gotten over being left.
Don't get me wrong, my mom is a good person, it's just... I haven't seen her in two years. It's my grandmother who moved in to be with me now. And well, there's one good thing about that: I have a lot of Legos. A lot. And damn, I'm amazing at building things with them.
For now, all I can do is keep growing from this corner.
Think.
Wait.
...
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...
[San Francisco, December 12th, 2012]
Today, I decided to test how good I really am at building stuff.
The old toaster in our house had stopped working, and this was my moment.
It was shocking how easy it felt—or better said, how automatic. I took it apart, moved pieces around, adjusted some screws... all with the precision of someone who'd done it for years. When I was finished, I plugged it in and prayed it wouldn't explode.
"Victory! And I'm still in one piece," I shouted when it actually seemed to work.
I pulled out two slices of bread, popped them in, pressed the lever down, and waited for that glorious crunch.
ZSSSS.
"Okay, maybe the power went out for... personal reasons beyond my control. Nothing to do with this," I said, even though I clearly heard a fuse blow.
From there, days of trial and error followed.
Until the incident occurred a few months later.
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...
[Naval Base, August 10th, 2013]
"Sir…"
Lieutenant McManaman's voice cracked the moment he crossed the threshold of the command center. He walked quickly, clutching the documents tight against his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like he was organizing his thoughts before speaking.
"We picked up a signal... from a radar. An old one. A very old one."
Commander Jonz raised an eyebrow without looking away from the monitor. He'd spent hours reviewing logistics reports, hoping for a quiet night. Over the years, he'd learned that when everything seemed too calm, that's when you needed to worry.
"How old, Lieutenant?" he asked in a deep, slightly annoyed tone—but that changed the moment he saw the pale look on the young officer's face.
"World War II, sir," McManaman replied, swallowing hard. "The waveform pattern matches those of passive sweep radars installed in 1943 to detect Japanese destroyers. We checked three times. The machines are old, but they're broadcasting something."
Jonz immediately stood up straight. His gut told him this wasn't some random glitch.
He strode toward the console, each step heavy with purpose, as the silence in the command center thickened. He stared at the monitor: a blinking signal pulsed rhythmically in the northeast, miles off the coast of Japan.
"What's in that area?" he asked without looking away.
"Nothing, Commander. No shipping routes, no authorized exercises. Just open ocean... and a storm," the lieutenant added, his unease leaking through his voice.
Jonz ran a hand through his beard. He'd spent enough time at sea to know when things didn't add up.
"Ghost echo? Atmospheric interference?"
"I thought so too. But the signal is steady, consistent. It repeats the same pattern at exact intervals. It's deliberate. Like something is moving."
The Japanese?
The commander took a deep breath. A half-forgotten conversation came to mind—some old naval instructor once mentioned how dead radars would sometimes wake up on their own, like they had memories.
"Did you try satellite visuals?"
"We did," said McManaman, shaking his head. "But the storm… it's massive. The cloud cover is so dense not even the infrared satellites can penetrate it. It's like…"He hesitated, not wanting to sound ridiculous."...like someone put it there on purpose."
Jonz let out a dry, humorless laugh and muttered:"A storm that blinds satellites. A radar signal that should've been dead for decades. This night just stopped being normal."
He turned to his officer and looked him dead in the eyes.
"Keep the signal under close watch. Don't alert the fleet. Activate Shadow Protocol and get Naval Intelligence on this. If someone's reactivating 80-year-old tech, I want to know who."
The lieutenant nodded stiffly, swallowing hard again.
As he exited the room, one strange thought crossed his mind— What if it wasn't someone?What if it was something?