The moment of Kevin's death was, objectively speaking, ridiculous.
It wasn't a noble sacrifice, a tragic car accident, or even a slip on a banana peel. No, Kevin, a 28-year-old connoisseur of cheap internet deals and cheaper frozen pizzas, met his maker in a cosmic confluence of poor life choices and basic Newtonian physics.
It all started when a perfect, pepperoni-laden slice of pizza, a genuine masterpiece of modern dining, slipped from his grasp. Instead of dropping onto his dusty carpet, it launched upward, sticking—with uncanny, almost malicious precision—to the ceiling fan blades currently spinning at max velocity.
"No, no, NO!" Kevin wailed, staring at the ceiling. That pizza was his destiny.
He found the only available cleaning tool: a long, metal-handled mop with a soaking wet sponge head. He dragged the office chair beneath the fan and, ignoring every basic safety warning he'd ever heard, climbed up.
He raised the soggy mop like a knight lifting a lance. "For the glory of pepperoni!"
The moment the wet, conductive metal handle made contact with the whirling fan's central housing, the universe delivered its punchline. A brilliant, blue-white arc of electricity crackled from the fan, traveling instantly down the soaking mop handle and through Kevin's left hand.
A deafening ZZZZAP! echoed through his tiny apartment. The force not only vaporized the pizza and blew the fuse box, but it also fused the mop to the fan. When the fan violently seized up, the sudden torque ripped the chair out from under Kevin. He was sent flying, briefly touching both the ceiling and the floor before his consciousness dissolved into a swirling vortex of regret, ozone, and the lingering scent of burnt cheese.
The Judgment of Elara
Kevin blinked.
The stinging smell of electricity was gone, replaced by a fresh, crisp scent of jasmine and rain. He wasn't lying on the floor; he was floating in a space that seemed infinite, bathed in soft, purple and gold light. There was no up, no down, just perfect, peaceful stillness.
"Well, that was certainly… unique," a melodic voice commented.
Kevin whipped his head around. Standing—or perhaps just existing—a few feet away was a woman. No, not a woman. A being of impossible grace and beauty. Her hair was spun from moonlight, her eyes held the depth of galaxies, and her dress seemed to be woven from pure starlight. She looked like the cover of every fantasy novel Kevin had ever secretly loved.
"Did I… die?" Kevin asked, his voice a pathetic squeak.
The being, who smiled warmly, causing the light around her to brighten, nodded. "You did, Kevin. In one of the most delightfully absurd ways I have recorded this millennia. It's not every day a sentient being is defeated by a ceiling fan and a rogue slice of pizza."
"So, who are you? Am I in heaven? Wait, if I'm here, I must not be going to the other place, right? Because of the pizza?" Kevin stammered.
"I am Elara, one of the many caretakers of the cycle of existence, the Goddess of Inadvertent Endings, if you will," she chuckled. "And no, your destination wasn't decided by your condiment choice. Your death, however, was so highly improbable it created a cosmic surplus of karma. Think of it as a divine refund."
Elara gestured, and a glowing parchment appeared in the air. "I rarely do this, but you've earned a customized rebirth. You get one wish, beyond the standard reincarnation package."
Kevin's jaw dropped. A wish? He didn't have to think twice. He'd spent his whole life consuming fiction, dreaming of this exact moment.
"I want to be reborn in the Marvel Cinematic Universe—the 616-adjacent movie universe, specifically," he declared, his voice suddenly firm. "I want to be born as a baby into a stupidly wealthy and influential family in New York, right around when the first Iron Man movie would happen, so I can grow up with the timeline."
Elara raised an elegant, shimmering eyebrow. "An excellent set of parameters. But you have one final wish. Power."
Kevin took a deep breath. He knew exactly what he wanted—the ultimate insurance policy against cosmic threats, alien invasions, and purple tyrants.
"I want the full potential of Superman Prime One Million," Kevin stated, trying not to drool. "The sun-dipped, Golden God, reality-bending version. I want that level of power."
Elara's smile was breathtaking, laced with a hint of warning. "That is… a terrifying request. Such power can easily shatter the delicate realities of the MCU, Kevin."
"I know," Kevin rushed to explain. "But I don't need it all at once! I want the power to be latent in my soul and genetics. It should only awaken and manifest as my body matures and my mind can handle the immense energy. I'll need to grow into the power—like unlocking levels. But the potential must be limitless."
Elara nodded slowly, the light around her turning to liquid gold. "A clever loophole. The power is granted. You will be born with a soul that burns brighter than a thousand suns, but it will be contained by the fragile vessel of the child. Growth and discipline will be the keys to your godhood."
She snapped her fingers. The infinite void compressed into a single, blinding point of light.
"Good luck, Alexander Thorne. Try not to die on the ceiling fan this time."
Alexander Thorne, Born of Gold
The next sensation was cold, bright, and overwhelmingly loud. The transition was violent, a crushing pressure followed by a sudden, jarring release. He heard muffled voices, and for a terrifying moment, the smell of burnt pizza returned, only to be replaced by the sterile scent of a hospital.
I'm here. I'm actually here, Kevin—now Alexander—thought, his new infant mind already surprisingly sharp.
He was in an enormous private suite overlooking the New York skyline. The year, as he would later deduce from news reports and historical databases, was 1990.
The first person he saw was his new mother, Eliza Thorne. She was stunningly elegant, with dark hair and a kind but reserved expression. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a major fashion magazine.
The second was his father, Marcus Thorne. A man with the sharp, ruthless look of a corporate titan, but whose eyes held a flicker of genuine warmth as he looked at his newborn son. Marcus Thorne wasn't just wealthy; he was the CEO of OmniCorp Solutions, a shadowy, globally influential R&D firm that specialized in everything but weapons—from advanced medical diagnostics to proprietary energy solutions that Stark Industries hadn't even conceived of yet. They were old New York money, discreetly pulling strings.
His parents cooed, but Alex wasn't interested in baby talk. He was focused on the internal hum—a feeling deep in his chest, like a massive star patiently waiting to ignite. It was the presence of the power. It was Prime.
It was also, currently, completely sealed. When he tried to focus it, all he got was a mild sensation of heat and, unfortunately, the need for a diaper change. The power was there, dormant, locked by the constraints of a human infant's body.
Okay, Phase One: Survive babyhood without accidentally melting the crib with my latent solar energy. Phase Two: Grow up rich and smart. Phase Three: Wait for 2008 and the goddamn armored suit that changes the world.
Alex Thorne settled into his new life, his existence a golden secret hidden beneath the adorable fat folds of a millionaire baby. The MCU was coming, and he, the accidental casualty of a pizza incident, was now positioned to be its ultimate, overpowered, and very well-funded protector.