BOOOM
Our main character was having one of those perfect, nothing-could-go-wrong kind of days in Detroit.
Sun was out, music blasting through cracked earbuds, fries still hot in the paper bag, life was honestly pretty decent for once.
Then a literal bazooka round turned him into modern art against a brick wall.
No heroic last stand. No slow-motion dive. Just… gone. In the single most disrespectful, over-the-top, "why the fuck not" way possible.
That should've been the end.
…
Sunlight sliced through half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across a messy bedroom floor.
The walls were a chaotic shrine to teenage obsession: a slightly peeling poster of Midnight in her signature pose (the one with the whip curled just right), another of Mirko mid-kick with that feral grin, and a third of Star and Stripe flexing in full patriotic glory, flag cape billowing like she was personally offended by gravity. A single All Might keychain dangled from the desk lamp, swaying faintly in the warm air.
In the corner, tucked against the wall, a narrow single bed held a cocoon of blankets and one very unconscious teenage boy.
Soft snores puffed out every few seconds—peaceful, almost embarrassingly cute. Until the dream hit.
That stomach-dropping, endless free-fall sensation yanked him awake like someone pulled his soul out through his ribs.
"Whaa!" he yelped, flailing upright so fast the mattress creaked in protest.
Heart hammering. Chest heaving. Eyes wide and glassy.
Everything felt… wrong.
The room was familiar, but it wasn't. The posters looked too crisp, the bed too small, the air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and teenage boy funk in a way that was both nostalgic and alien. Every time he tried to pin down a memory it slipped away like wet soap—blurry, slippery, gone.
Then it slammed back into him like the bazooka itself.
'I got hit by a fucking bazooka.'
The thought arrived with perfect, horrifying clarity.
He froze.
'Wait. How the hell am I breathing? Where even am I?'
Two very valid questions.
He threw the blanket off and slid out of bed—only to stumble as his center of gravity betrayed him. Legs shorter. Arms thinner. Hands smaller. He looked down at himself and felt a wave of vertigo that had nothing to do with falling dreams.
'What the…'
Bare feet slapped across cold hardwood as he half-stumbled, half-rushed to the full-length mirror leaning crookedly against the wall.
He stared.
A boy—no older than fourteen—stared back.
Messy black hair that definitely hadn't been cut in too long, wide light green startled eyes, and a faded graphic tee featuring some obscure hero he didn't even recognize. Skinny shoulders. Knobby knees. A face that still had baby fat clinging to it.
'Who the fuck is THAT?!'
He lurched backward, heel catching on a stray hoodie, arms windmilling.
The door burst open without warning.
"Kael, you need to get up or you're gonna be late for school agai—"
THWACK.
The edge of the door met the side of his head with a cartoonish crack.
Eyes rolled back. Knees buckled.
He dropped like a sack of potatoes, out cold before he even hit the carpet.
The girl in the doorway—older, maybe nineteen, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie and holding a half-eaten toaster waffle—stared down at her little brother sprawled bonelessly on the floor.
A long, tired sigh escaped her.
"He's so fucking weird," she muttered under her breath.
She stepped over his legs like he was a poorly placed laundry basket, pulled the door closed with her foot, and left him there—passed out, newly reincarnated, and already concussed in his second life.
....
Here's your next scene with richer details, smoother flow, more sensory immersion, internal chaos, and that signature mix of panic, humor, and awakening potential:
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Minutes crawled by—five, maybe ten—before consciousness grudgingly returned.
Kael's eyelids fluttered open. The same damn room greeted him: Midnight staring sultrily from the wall, Mirko frozen mid-leap, Star and Stripe radiating red-white-and-blue righteousness. Nothing had changed.
He pushed himself up on trembling elbows and locked eyes with the mirror again.
The skinny, tanned kid with the overgrown bangs stared back, looking just as betrayed as Kael felt.
'I'm… inside this kid's body.'
The realization settled like wet concrete in his stomach. 'How? Truck-kun? No, bazooka-chan. Great. I got isekai'd by explosive ordnance.'
His brain immediately spiraled to the worst possible conclusions.
'Don't tell me I'm in one of those generic power-fantasy novels. Am I about to get a system? A status screen? Daily quests? "Ding! Congratulations on dying horribly! Here's your beginner pack and 0.5× EXP multiplier because you suck at life"?'
He groaned aloud, rubbing his temples.
'I hate those. I hate them so much.'
He braced both hands on the mattress and stood—slowly this time, like a newborn deer learning physics exists.
The moment both feet touched the floor, the world turned into ice.
His soles slid. Not a little. Full-on, cartoon-slippery, zero-friction slide.
"Whoa—wh—?!"
BANG!
Knees, elbows, tailbone—everything hit the hardwood at once.
"Ow! What the fuck is wrong with this body?!" he bellowed, voice cracking high in that mortifying teenage way.
From downstairs came an immediate, exasperated shout:
"You better be getting ready up there, Kael! I'm not writing another note!"
He ignored it. Something far more important demanded his attention.
He lifted one foot, then the other, staring at the bottoms like they'd personally insulted him.
Tiny, glowing blue orbs—perfectly round, softly pulsing—clung to the soles of his feet like liquid LED lights. They shimmered faintly, trailing delicate wisps of cyan whenever he shifted weight.
'The hell is that…?'
His gaze snapped up to the wall.
Heroes.
"My Hero Academia," he whispered, voice cracking again. "Don't tell me I'm in that verse."
The second the name left his mouth, the dam broke.
Memories that weren't his flooded in—sharp, vivid, overwhelming.
A small apartment in Musutafu. A mom who sang off-key while cooking. A big sister who teased him mercilessly but still patched his skinned knees.
The day his quirk still hadn't manifested and everyone whispered he might be quirkless. Endless notebooks filled with hero costume sketches he was too shy to show anyone.
Kael blinked hard, clutching his head.
'Okay. Okay. Confirmed. I'm Kael Blitz now.'
He tested the name silently.
'…Kinda cool, actually. Sounds like a pro hero name already. It'll do.'
He exhaled, trying to steady himself.
The blue orbs moved with him—sliding gently under his feet like rollerblade bearings made of pure energy.
'This feels… familiar. This is straight-up XLR8 vibes. Ben 10. Feel nice lowkey.'
The moment he pictured it—green flash, tail, insane speed—his body obeyed. Reality blurred.
The room stretched into streaks of color.
CRASH.
Plaster dust rained down.
Kael's entire body was embedded two inches deep into the drywall, legs dangling, arms limp, face smooshed against a poster of Midnight.
Blackout. Round two. Footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door flew open again.
A woman—mid-thirties, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, hero agency hoodie thrown over pajamas—froze in the doorway.
"Kael?!"
She rushed over, dropping to her knees beside the cratered wall and the unconscious boy.
"Oh honey…" She carefully extracted him from the drywall, brushing bits of plaster out of his hair. He was limp, head lolling against her shoulder like a ragdoll.
She carried him the few steps to the bed and laid him down gently, tucking the blanket around him.
That was when she noticed them.
Faint blue orbs, still glowing softly on the bottoms of his feet, slowly dimming… fading… gone.
Her breath caught.
A slow, radiant smile spread across her face—equal parts relief, pride, and something close to tears.
'Is that his quirk?' she thought, heart hammering.
She brushed his bangs back from his forehead, eyes shining.
"My little speedster," she whispered.
Downstairs the toaster popped.
His sister yelled something about burnt waffles.
Upstairs, Kael Blitz—former Detroit casualty, current protagonist—slept off his second concussion of the day. This was the real beginning of his story.
TO BE CONTINUED