Chapter 1: So, This Is How My Tuesday's Going
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: INITIATING TRANSMISSION... PLEASE HOLD. YOUR DESTINATION AWAITS, THOUGH WE SUSPECT YOU'LL HATE THE SCENERY.]
"Ugh, my head. What in the actual hell...?"
The first thing I registered wasn't the searing pain behind my eyes, nor the sudden, inexplicable stench of ozone and… well, alien, for lack of a better term. No, the absolute first thing was the cacophony. A symphony of screams, explosions, and the grinding metallic shriek that sounded suspiciously like a building deciding to have an argument with gravity. I blinked, my vision clearing just enough to realize I wasn't in my cozy, slightly-too-messy apartment. This wasn't the familiar, comforting sight of my half-eaten pizza and the glowing screen of my PC. No, this was... debris. Lots of it. And fire. Definitely fire.
I was lying on something hard and unforgiving, which I quickly identified as what used to be a very nice-looking sidewalk. Above me, the sky wasn't blue. It was a swirling, angry vortex of purple and blue energy, like someone had spilled a gigantic, cosmic grape soda on the fabric of reality. And through that cosmic spill, things were coming. Lots of things. Metal, angry, toothy things that looked like they'd been designed by a committee of nightmares and a rusty can opener.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I mumbled, pushing myself up onto my elbows, my body protesting every minor movement like I'd just run a marathon... after being hit by a truck. "Is this a dream? Please tell me this is a dream. Because if it's not, then my life just went from 'mildly inconvenient' to 'intergalactic catastrophe' in about zero point five seconds."
A high-pitched whine ripped through the air, and I instinctively ducked, a rusty piece of rebar embedding itself exactly where my head had been moments before. Okay, not a dream. Definitely not a dream. The adrenaline, which had apparently been napping on the job, finally kicked in, flooding my system with a jolt that sent shivers down my spine.
"Right, deep breaths, Adam. Deep breaths. You're in... New York? And it's under attack by... aliens. Aliens that look remarkably like the Chitauri from that one movie. The first Avengers movie. Oh, crap. This is the MCU, isn't it? Of course, it is. Because my life needed more 'random portals to other dimensions' and less 'binge-watching Netflix.'"*
I scrambled to my feet, my legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti. The street was a warzone. Cars overturned and ablaze, people running and screaming, and those metallic monstrosities—Chitauri, definitely Chitauri—zipping through the air on their hover-skiffs, blasting everything in sight. One of them, a particularly ugly specimen with too many teeth and glowing blue eyes, spotted me. Great. Just great. Because when you're a sarcastic, slightly-nerdy dude who spent most of his life avoiding anything more physically demanding than a heated debate about Star Wars lore, the first thing you want is to be noticed by an alien war machine.
It descended, its energy weapon powering up with an ominous hum. I didn't have time to think, to plan, to even articulate a witty, self-deprecating remark. My body, bless its clumsy heart, reacted on pure, unadulterated panic. I dove behind what looked like a ridiculously expensive, now-charred luxury sedan, the energy blast tearing through the air where I'd been a moment ago, turning the already-ruined asphalt into a steaming crater.
"Well, that was close. Too close. And yet, oddly exhilarating. Is this what 'living life to the fullest' feels like? Because I feel less 'full' and more 'about to have a heart attack and then get disintegrated by a space lizard.'"*
I risked a peek over the hood of the car. The Chitauri warrior was dismounting its skiff, its energy weapon still aimed in my general direction. It looked like a walking, armored cockroach from hell. And it was advancing. Slowly. Deliberately. Like it knew I was just a squishy, unprepared human who probably couldn't even outrun a particularly motivated snail. Which, to be fair, was mostly true.
"Alright, ugly," I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady, "let's talk about this. I'm new here. I don't even know where the nearest Starbucks is. Can we just agree to disagree and you go back to, you know, invading the rest of the planet while I try to find a nice, quiet corner to have an existential crisis?"
It didn't respond. Surprise, surprise. Instead, it raised its weapon again, the blue glow intensifying. This was it. This was how it ended. Transmigrated into the MCU, only to be atomized by a glorified space beetle within five minutes of arrival. My legacy would be "that guy who got vaporized before the opening credits." Not exactly the dramatic entrance I'd always envisioned.
"Well, at least it'll be quick. No time for dramatic last words, no time to even tell myself 'I told you so' about all those times I should have paid more attention in gym class. My only regret is not getting to see how many people I could annoy with my incessant sarcasm before my inevitable demise."*
The energy bolt lanced out, a blinding blue spear of destruction. I had no time to move, no time to scream. My vision was consumed by light, followed by a sudden, jarring emptiness. It wasn't painful, not really. Just... nothingness. Like a light switch had been flipped, and I was on the 'off' setting.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: FIRST DEATH DETECTED. KILLER: CHITAURI WARRIOR (IDENTIFICATION: UNIT 734-ALPHA). SKILL ACQUIRED: BASIC ENERGY WEAPON PROFICIENCY.]
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: IMMORTAL SYSTEM ACTIVATED. YOU HAVE 1 LIFE REMAINING AGAINST CHITAURI WARRIOR UNIT 734-ALPHA.]
Then, just as abruptly as it had ended, I was back. With a gasp, I found myself lying on the same piece of sidewalk, in the same spot, the smell of ozone and alien still assaulting my nostrils. The Chitauri warrior was still there, weapon raised, but it looked... confused. Like it had just seen a ghost. Which, I suppose, it had. My clothes were intact, though a little singed. My body felt... normal. No searing pain, no gaping hole where my chest used to be.
"Holy mother of all plot twists. I died. And then I... didn't. This is either the greatest glitch in the matrix or I'm officially the universe's most resilient cockroach. Also, 'Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency'? Does that mean I can, like, wield one of those giant laser cannons? Because I'm pretty sure I can barely operate a remote control without adult supervision."*
The Chitauri warrior, having seemingly recovered from its momentary existential crisis, snarled and fired again. This time, though, something was different. A flicker of... something went off in my brain. It wasn't knowledge, not exactly. More like an intuitive understanding. I suddenly knew, without knowing how I knew, the precise trajectory of the energy bolt. I could almost feel the flow of power within its alien weapon. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
I rolled, a fraction of a second faster than before, the blast once again missing me by inches. I scrambled to my feet, my eyes locking onto the Chitauri's weapon. A crazy, reckless, absolutely bonkers idea sparked in my mind.
"Okay, Adam, this is it. Go big or go home. Or, rather, go big or get turned into a fine mist again. And since 'home' is currently a war zone and 'fine mist' sounds distinctly unpleasant, let's try 'big.'"*
With a surge of newfound, utterly misplaced confidence, I charged. Not towards the Chitauri, oh no. That would be suicidal, even for an immortal. I charged towards its abandoned hover-skiff, which was still hovering innocently a few yards away. The Chitauri, clearly taken aback by my sudden, suicidal bravery, hesitated for a crucial moment. That was all I needed. I launched myself onto the skiff, my hands instinctively going for the controls.
"Alright, 'Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency,' don't fail me now. Or do. I mean, worst case scenario, I die again. Which, frankly, is becoming less of a 'worst case' and more of a 'mild inconvenience' these days."*
My fingers flew across the alien console, guided by that strange, newly acquired intuition. It wasn't like I suddenly knew Chitauri linguistics, but the symbols, the energy readings – they just... made sense. With a jolt, the skiff whirred to life, and I felt a connection to its systems, an almost innate understanding of its capabilities. I twisted a control, and the mounted energy cannon swiveled. The Chitauri warrior roared, apparently realizing its ride was about to be stolen by a very confused, very alive human.
I aimed the cannon, not at the warrior itself, but at the ground a few feet in front of it. A mischievous grin, definitely unbefitting of the apocalyptic scenario, spread across my face.
"Alright, buddy," I yelled over the din of battle, "lesson one: never leave your keys in the ignition. Lesson two: never underestimate a guy who's just discovered he's a walking, talking cheat code."
I fired. The energy blast ripped through the pavement, sending a shockwave that threw the Chitauri warrior off its feet. It scrambled to regain its footing, clearly disoriented. I didn't wait. I spun the skiff around, sending it soaring into the chaos, leaving the stunned alien behind. My heart was pounding, not just from fear, but from a strange, exhilarating mix of terror and triumph.
"This is going to be so much fun. And probably incredibly painful. But mostly fun."*
I flew the skiff erratically, dodging other Chitauri aerial units, marveling at the intuitive feel of the controls. I even managed to land a few potshots at some stray ground troops, much to my own astonishment. This "Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency" was no joke. It wasn't about strength or aim; it was about understanding the weapon itself, its energy flow, its trajectory. It was like I was born to wield it. Which, apparently, I now was.
I soared higher, getting a bird's-eye view of the unfolding disaster. Stark Tower, the iconic 'A' emblazoned on its side, was swarming with Chitauri. A flash of red and gold zipped past, followed by a burst of repulsor fire. Iron Man. And then, a streak of green, a roar that shook the very foundations of the buildings. The Hulk. The Avengers were here. The cavalry. Or, in my case, the potential future skill donors.
"Right, new plan: survive this initial madness, find a less... active spot, and then start figuring out how to make some serious cash. Because 'astronomical amounts of money' for system upgrades isn't just a suggestion, it's a lifestyle. And maybe, just maybe, I can snag a few more skills along the way. Dying to a Chitauri warrior? Basic. Dying to a literal god? Now that's a challenge."*
I saw another Chitauri skiff heading directly for a group of fleeing civilians. Without thinking, I aimed my cannon. The blast was precise, perfectly calibrated. The skiff exploded in a shower of sparks and alien gore. The civilians screamed, then looked up at me, bewildered. I gave them a clumsy, slightly terrified wave.
"You're welcome!" I yelled, my voice probably lost in the din. "Don't mention it! Seriously, please don't mention it to anyone. I'm trying to keep a low profile here. And by 'low profile,' I mean 'not getting vaporized for the next five minutes.'"
The chaos continued, but a strange sense of purpose settled over me. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about playing the game. And I had a feeling I was going to be really, really good at it. Especially if dying wasn't exactly permanent.