"Man, just once… I wish I knew what it felt like to be a Kryptonian. Just for a day."
It was a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the computer fan, but the sentiment was heavy. Luther slumped back in his cheap, ergonomic-in-name-only office chair, the kind that made your lower back scream after an eight-hour shift. He'd just dragged himself through the door, completely fried from another day of grinding for a paycheck that barely covered rent.
On his monitor, the latest DC animated movie was playing. On screen, Superman—Clark Kent—was soaring through the clouds, invulnerable, powerful, and completely free. He wasn't worried about deadlines, rent hikes, or traffic. He was a god among men.
Luther stared at the screen, a heavy wave of envy washing over him. It wasn't just the flight or the laser eyes; it was the freedom. The ability to just… exist without the weight of the world crushing you.
"Must be nice," he muttered, reaching for his water bottle.
Then, everything just… cut out.
No warning. No pain. Just an instantaneous fade to black, like someone had yanked the power cord on his consciousness.
When the lights came back on, the first thing Luther noticed was the smell. The stale, recirculated air of his apartment was gone, replaced by the scent of exhaust fumes, hot asphalt, and… hot dogs?
He blinked his eyes open. He wasn't in his room. He was slumped on a wooden park bench, his neck cricked at an awkward angle.
A woman in a business suit power-walked past him. She caught his confused stare, clutched her purse a little tighter, and sped up, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement.
"What the…?"
Luther sat up, rubbing his temples. His brain felt fuzzy, like he was waking up from a ten-year nap. He looked around. English signs everywhere. Yellow cabs. The unmistakable chaotic energy of a major western city.
Okay, Luther. Don't panic. Maybe you sleepwalked? Into a different city?
That theory died instantly as a massive, throbbing headache split his skull. It wasn't a normal migraine; it felt like someone was trying to shove a library's worth of data directly into his frontal lobe through a straw.
Oh my god. Did I just get isekai'd? Did I actually get transported?
The thought was ridiculous, but the sensation was undeniable. He could feel it—an external force, some unknown cosmic entity that had heard his whining and decided to grant a wish. But as the realization settled in, Luther felt a pang of annoyance.
"Seriously?" he muttered to the empty air, ignoring the weird looks from pedestrians. "If you're gonna send me to another world, couldn't you have given me the premium package? You know, wake up in a penthouse? A billion dollars in the bank? A heads-up would have been nice!"
He waited a beat. Nothing. No booming voice from the sky. No magical interface popping up. The entity, whoever or whatever it was, had clearly done the drop-off and bailed.
Luther sighed, rubbing his face. "Alright. Fine. I'll take what I can get. If the wish worked… that means I'm a Kryptonian. Please tell me I'm the comic book version and not the nerfed movie version…"
He stood up, his legs feeling surprisingly steady. He needed to figure out where—and when—he was.
He scanned the street, his eyes landing on a massive billboard wrapping around a corner building.
CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER — A DOCUMENTARY RETROSPECTIVE.Starring historical footage of the war hero.
Luther frowned. Okay, so Captain America was a known figure. A history lesson.
His gaze drifted to a digital news ticker scrolling across a building opposite him.
TONY STARK SPOTTED LEAVING MONACO PARTY WITH MAXIM COVER MODEL. STARK INDUSTRIES STOCKS UP 2%.
The fog in Luther's mind evaporated instantly. It was like a lightning bolt hit him.
"Wait. Cap is a war hero? Stark is hitting the tabloids?"
He froze in the middle of the sidewalk. He knew this world. He knew the timeline.
I'm in the Marvel Universe.
"You have got to be kidding me," Luther groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Of all the places… Marvel? Really? This place is a disaster zone every other Tuesday! Why couldn't it be a rom-com universe? Or just… regular 2010 Earth with lottery numbers?"
Suddenly, the headache returned with a vengeance. It wasn't just information this time; it was sensory input.
It started as a hum and quickly ramped up to a roar.
He could hear a couple arguing in an apartment three blocks away. He could hear the scratch of a pen on paper in an office tower. Five hundred yards down the street, he heard the distinct pop-pop of a silenced pistol and a body hitting the floor.
The world became a chaotic storm of noise. The honking of cars sounded like explosions. The sunlight hitting his skin didn't just feel warm; it felt like he was being hooked up to a car battery, energy flooding every cell in his body.
"Gah!" Luther gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It felt like his brain was going to melt out of his ears.
But then, something clicked.
His brain didn't shut down; it sped up. It was like upgrading from a dial-up connection to a quantum supercomputer in a split second. The "Super Brain" kicked in, organizing the chaos. He began to filter the noise. The argument became background static. The traffic became white noise.
Super Hearing. Super Vision. Super Brain.
Luther took a deep breath, opening his eyes. The world looked… high definition wasn't even the word. He could see the dust motes floating in the air. He could see the structural stress points in the bridge miles away.
The yellow sun. It was working.
"Okay," Luther whispered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're compatible. I'm actually a Kryptonian."
He felt incredible. Every muscle fiber was vibrating with potential energy. He felt light, as if gravity was just a suggestion he could choose to ignore.
"I need to get out of here," he thought. "I'm standing in the middle of the street looking like I'm having a seizure."
He took a step to leave, but his control was off. He pushed off the ground with just a fraction too much force.
CRACK.
The concrete beneath his sneaker spider-webbed, leaving a two-inch depression in the sidewalk.
"Whoops," Luther winced. He glanced around quickly. No one seemed to have noticed the sound over the city noise, and there were no cameras pointing directly at this spot.
Go. Now.
He didn't run; he blurred. One moment he was there, the next he was a gust of wind whipping past unsuspecting tourists, vanishing into the labyrinth of the city.
Ten minutes later, Luther was leaning against a brick wall in a secluded alleyway, checking his reflection in a dirty window.
He still looked like himself. Dark hair, average height (well, he felt taller now), Asian-American features. The "god" who sent him here hadn't bothered to give him a makeover. He was physically here—body and soul.
"Problem is," Luther muttered, checking his pockets, "I don't exist. No ID, no social security, no credit history. In the MCU, being a ghost is a good way to end up in a S.H.I.E.L.D. black site."
He needed resources. And since he couldn't exactly walk into a bank and open an account with a smile, he needed a different approach.
He needed a donation.
He scanned the city with his X-ray vision, peering through walls until he found exactly what he was looking for.
A few blocks over, in a grim little dead-end alley, a thug was counting a stack of cash. He had the look—shifty eyes, a weapon tucked in his waistband, and a bag of "product" at his feet.
"Perfect," Luther said. "Time to find a Good Samaritan."
"Pfft!"
The sound of a body hitting the pavement echoed softly in the alley. The thug was out cold, foaming slightly at the mouth, twitching.
Luther stood over him, calmly flipping through a thick roll of twenty and fifty-dollar bills.
"Don't worry, buddy," Luther said to the unconscious man. "Think of this as a tax for being a terrible person."
He pocketed the cash. It wasn't a fortune—maybe three or four thousand bucks—but it was enough for a start. He'd purposely targeted a dealer; regular street punks were broke, but the guys moving product always had liquidity.
Luther adjusted his hoodie. He'd used his Super Speed to vibrate his vocal cords and slightly blur his features when he approached, just in case. To anyone watching, he was just a blur in a hoodie and sunglasses.
"Step one: funds acquired. Step two: existence."
Luther walked out of the alley and headed straight for the nearest public library.
Being a "Homelander" type—flying around, lasering people, doing whatever he wanted—sounded fun in theory, but Luther knew better. In this world? There was the Ancient One watching timelines. There was Captain Marvel patrolling space. There were beings here that could turn reality into soup.
He needed to lay low. He needed to be smart.
He found a quiet corner in the library. Earlier, he'd swiped a laptop from a backpacker who was too busy taking selfies to notice his bag getting lighter. It wasn't a supercomputer, but it would do.
Luther cracked his knuckles and opened a terminal.
"Okay, Super Brain. Let's see what you can do."
He'd never hacked a day in his life before this. He knew how to browse the web and use Excel, and that was about it. But now?
He started reading tutorials on DOS commands, UNIX, and Linux architecture.
He didn't just read them; he absorbed them. He could scroll through a thousand lines of code in seconds, spotting errors, understanding the syntax, and visualizing the network architecture instantly. It felt less like learning and more like remembering something he'd always known.
Five minutes. That's all it took to master the basics.
He moved on to server protocols—ASP, PHP, JSP. He devoured information on phishing, social engineering, and encryption.
It was intoxicating. He felt limitless. In less than an hour, he had absorbed more knowledge about cybersecurity than a computer science major would learn in four years.
"Let's test the waters," he whispered.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, moving so fast they were a blur. He pinged the FBI's public-facing firewall. Then the Pentagon.
He wasn't trying to bring them down; he was just knocking on the door to see if they would answer.
Suddenly, a red flag popped up on his screen. A trace.
"Ooh, feisty."
Someone on the other end—a government cyber-security expert, probably—had bypassed his zombie network and was trying to pinpoint his IP.
Luther didn't panic. He smiled. He watched the counter-attack unfold, instantly understanding the logic behind it. He learned the attacker's methods in real-time, reversed the trace, and bounced their signal off a server in Antarctica.
"Denied," he chuckled, severing the connection.
He leaned back, impressed. "Okay, so I'm better than the feds. What about the real pros?"
He did a search for "The Rising Tide." He remembered Skye—Daisy Johnson—from the show Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. She was supposed to be a hacktivist genius who could crack S.H.I.E.L.D. firewalls with a laptop from a van.
He scoured the dark web, looking for their signature. Nothing.
"Smart," Luther mused. "No fixed server. They probably stay dark until they need to move. Can't hack what isn't online."
He gave up on the fanboy search. He had work to do.
Luther began the real task: constructing a life.
He infiltrated the databases of several offshore banks, identifying anonymous dormant accounts—dirty money that had been sitting untouched for years. He siphoned funds, routing them through a thousand different servers until the trail was impossible to follow.
Next, the vital records.
He created a birth certificate. A social security number. A passport history.
He wove a story into the digital fabric of the world. He wasn't just Luther the transmigrator anymore.
He was Luther, the illegitimate son of a massive, shadowy corporate dynasty from overseas—a quiet, wealthy heir who had just moved to America to enjoy his inheritance away from the family drama. It explained the money, the lack of previous American footprint, and the general air of mystery.
He hit 'Enter' one last time. The records solidified. The bank accounts filled up.
Luther closed the laptop and stretched, his joints popping. He looked out the library window at the bustling New York streets.
He was rich. He was a Kryptonian. And he officially existed.
"Welcome to the Marvel Universe," he whispered to himself. "Let's have some fun."
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