My name was Paco Riaz.
Yeah, I know. Rhymes with Diaz. The Cosmic humor is lazier than my own jokes.
Back in my universe, I was fifteen, short, sarcastic, and capable of putting a grown man in a chokehold in under six seconds. A bit of a prodigy I may say, or maybe just really bored with regular life. I spent more time in my garage turned dojo than in any classroom. My instructors were old VHS tapes of kung fu masters, tactical military manuals, and the immortal wisdom of anime mentors. But alongside my poor schooling, I had unintentionally developed a reputation in the neighborhood, an urban legend, yet at once, synchronously part walking hazard sign. My knuckles stayed bruised, my homework rarely got done, and my social life was the actual urban myth.
With my humor, Dry enough to crack pavement it was tough luck finding people to hang out with let alone a girlfriend. Thats just plain wish fulfillment. Naturally being constantly lonely to some toll upon my emotions. They where stored somewhere in a locked basement guarded by my ultimate. One, and two fists.
So of course I died choking on a half-burned frozen burrito during a binge of 'Star vs. the Forces of Evil'. If you haven't learn by now, Irony is a universal language.
One second I was mock laughing at Marco Diaz for being the most beta of beta males, the next I woke up inside his body.
Marco. Freakin'. Diaz.
I thought I was in a fever dream at first. But after the third slap to my own face and the fifth awkward trip to the mirror, I had to accept it: Paco Riaz was gone. I was Marco now. Or at least wearing him like a squeaky new skin.
Two days already passed both weekends. That's how long I'd had to fake it to a degree. Two days of pretending I didn't already know how this dimension worked, who Star Butterfly was, and that my future involved all the Chaos magic naturally brought upon itself with scissors that cut reality.
But the strangest part wasn't waking up in a parallel Earth or the sudden lack of my abs.
It was the family.
Marco's mom, the angry sunshine in yoga pants—burst into my room like an over caffeinated missile.
"Mi osito!" she shouted, sweeping me into a hug so tight I saw stars. "You didn't come down for breakfast! I made whole wheat toast in the shape of your initials!"
I tried not to wheeze as she crushed the last remnants of my air supply. "Morning... mom."
The word tasted foreign and weird, but they were warm. I hadn't gotten to experience this overwhelming, whatever before.
She pulled back and kissed my forehead. "You look pale hijo! Did you sleep okay? You're not getting sick, are you? You know what happens when you get sick, Marco. Fevers. and our emergency room karaoke!"
I blinked. "I'll risk it."
She paused, tilted her head, and gave me that suspicious mom squint. "You're acting... different."
Mr. Diaz, reading the newspaper at the table, chimed in without looking up. "Puberty hits everyone eventually, Angie."
Puberty. Sure. Let's go with that.
"Don't forget your lunch, sweetie!" she added, handing me a brown paper bag with "Marco ♥" drawn in Sharpie. "And remember, violence is never the answer!"
I took the bag with a nod. "Only if the question's weak."
She laughed. She thought I was joking. I wasn't.
Outside, the world was offensively bright. I had already come to terms everything was literally a cartoon now. I squinted against the morning sun as I walked toward Echo Creek Academy, blending into the flow of backpacks and idle gossip on the pavement ground.
As I was walking Marco's memories began bleeding in harder the closer I got. Math club attempt. Fear of detention. A chronic case of goody-two-shoes syndrome. His inner monologue was full of apologies and avoiding conflict. I found myself groaning internally at half the stuff he'd panicked about. Spilled milk, forgotten homework, a locker mix up that made him cry?
Come on, man.
But here's the thing. Now here me out.
There was something refreshing about it. I'd lived in an environment all my life where survival meant being ten seconds ahead of a threat. Where I couldn't let my guard down without risking real pain and couldn't even be honest with myself in what I wanted. Marco's life was soft and safe. He had a family that doted on him, teachers who didn't flinch when he raised his hand, a house that didn't rattle when the neighbors fought.
It was so boring it hurt. Burt because the peace I felt I needed was here, I could at least enjoy it a little longer. After all. it was mine now.
And I wasn't about to waste it being afraid of cafeteria seating charts.
I passed a couple of kids laughing about a viral cat video, and a taller dude threw a wad of paper at someone's back. High school energy per the norm. Chaotic, hormonal, and just stupid enough to make you believe the world revolved around who sat next to who in biology.
I couldn't really be talking I was a teen after all but I never got the opportunity to indulge in those kinds of behaviors, not even Marco "The Safe Kid" has.
Huh!?
Then there was Jackie Lynn Thomas.
A flash of blonde and a skateboard. Marco's memories surged with embarrassing intensity. Awkward glances, daydreams that bordered on PG-13, and a weird recurring fantasy involving a tandem bicycle and matching helmets.
I felt secondhand shame. But also amusement.
Jackie zoomed by and gave me a friendly nod.
I blinked. "Hey."
She paused for a second turning back with a wave "Hey Marco!"
Hey. yeah I clearly was a lyrical genius, how could I make fun of Marco when I haven't even spoken to a girl myself.
I pulled my hoodie up on reflex. It felt strange because they weren't mine initially, like I was trying to shrink into Marco's skin instead of stretch out of it. Not today. I couldn't afford to be scared.
But my heart did flutter more than usual as she continued by.
By the time I reached the gates of Echo Creek Academy, I paused and took it all in.
My new personal battleground in this life.
I flexed my fingers, feeling the buzz of adrenaline that always hit me before a fight. This wasn't combat like I was used to but I wasn't afraid to leave my comfort zone. No strategy required, but it would still be a challenge.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let's rewrite history."
And with that, the new Marco Diaz walked through the doors.