Let me paint you a picture of my life before it all went off the rails. I was your average 23-year-old guy—socially awkward, emotionally constipated, and one browser tab away from Googling "How to pretend you know what you're doing with your life."
I wasn't a hero, a genius, or even particularly athletic. But I was really good at eating leftover pizza straight out of the fridge and somehow surviving on three hours of sleep and a gallon of Red Bull.
Which is probably why my death was both entirely predictable and tragically stupid.
It started on a rainy Tuesday. I was home alone, standing on one foot like a deranged flamingo, trying to reset the WiFi router because Disney+ wouldn't stop buffering halfway through Moon Knight episode five. I had a slice of cold pepperoni pizza in one hand, my phone in the other, and my brain somewhere in the void between "I should fix this" and "Maybe if I yell loud enough, it'll fix itself."
Then it happened.
My sock slid.
The floor, you see, was tile. Smooth, villainous tile that gave zero friction and zero forgiveness. The slice of pizza flew out of my hand like a greasy frisbee. I slipped. My head collided with the coffee table. And the last thing I remember before everything went black was watching the router blink mockingly as if to say, "You died buffering."
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in a hospital.
I was floating. Not metaphorically. I mean literally floating in a vast white void, surrounded by swirling clouds of light and the faint sound of elevator jazz.
At first, I thought I'd made it to heaven—or maybe the Apple Store afterlife.
Then a door materialized out of nowhere with a little chime sound, and out stepped a man in a glowing white suit, aviator shades, and sandals. He looked like someone's idea of a chill grandpa, except with cosmic energy swirling around him like he'd just come from DJing a rave for demigods.
"Hey there, hotshot," he said, holding a clipboard. "Welcome to the Afterlife Processing Department. Don't mind the décor—we're between remodels."
"…Am I dead?"
"Yup."
"Like, actually dead?"
"Oh yeah. Very much expired. You died of…let's see here—" he glanced at his clipboard, "head trauma, pizza-related. Rare, but not unheard of."
I stared at him. "So this is it? I just… die?"
"Well, normally yes," he said, snapping his fingers as a recliner floated up beneath me. "But lucky you, it's Reincarnation Week! We're running a special for people who died tragically dumb deaths."
He handed me a flyer that read:
✨ REINCARNATE & ROLL! ✨
Died in a dumb way? Get a new life in the multiverse—FREE*!
(*Terms, conditions, and severe existential consequences may apply)
I blinked at it. "You're joking."
He grinned. "Kid, you slipped on pizza. You really think I'm the serious one here?"
"…Fair point."
"Now," he continued, pulling a crystal tablet out of thin air, "you get to pick your new world, your starting stats, and one bonus perk. Think of it like New Game+ but with more responsibility and slightly fewer tutorial pop-ups."
"Wait, I get to choose where I go?"
"Yup. All major universes available. We've got Naruto, Pokemon, Skyrim, Minecraft—you name it. But fair warning, most of them are full."
I leaned forward. "What about Marvel?"
He blinked. "Marvel, huh? Bit of a madhouse, that one. Multiversal instability, cosmic entities throwing tantrums, billionaire playboys with zero regard for physics…"
"So… yes?"
He sighed. "We've got one slot open. It's not glamorous. You won't be Iron Man's secret cousin or Thor's long-lost half-brother."
"Don't care," I said. "Give me Marvel. Drop me right in the middle."
"Alright then," he said, typing on the tablet. "Now pick your perk. You get one free cheat. Anything you want."
I thought hard. Invisibility? Super speed? The power to make tacos appear at will?
Then it hit me.
"Plot armor."
He raised an eyebrow. "Plot armor?"
"Yeah. The ability to survive stuff I realistically shouldn't. Like how Peter Parker survives getting thrown through buildings, or how Hawkeye never dies even though he brings a bow and arrow to alien fights."
"Huh. Bold choice. You'll still feel pain, you know."
"As long as I don't die, we're good."
He nodded, tapping the option in. "Done. You now have passive Plot Armor: a subconscious force that bends probability just enough to keep you breathing through most ridiculous situations. Warning: it may attract narrative attention."
"…What does that mean?"
"Oh, nothing. Just that crazy stuff might start happening around you so the universe can justify keeping you alive. No big deal."
Before I could argue, he clapped his hands.
"Name?"
"Uh… Danny."
"Cool. Age?"
"Seventeen?"
He typed something. "You're now Daniel Delgado, age 17. Queens, New York. Background NPC."
"Wait, NPC?"
"Look, you didn't ask to be a main character. Be glad you're not starting as a janitor in Latveria."
Then everything went white again. I felt myself falling through clouds, my consciousness sliding back into a new body like an awkward sock. My ears popped. My chest tightened. Then—
SLAM.
I sat up in bed with a loud gasp, drenched in sweat, heart pounding.
The room was unfamiliar. A messy teenage bedroom covered in Marvel posters (ironically), with a faint smell of Cheetos and desperation in the air.
I was wearing Spider-Man pajamas.
Not the cool ones. The kind you'd buy in a Target clearance bin for toddlers and accidentally stretch over your entire adult body.
I looked in the mirror.
I was young. Like high school young. Thick black hair, slightly crooked nose, eyes wide with panic.
And then, from the hallway, I heard a voice:
"Danny! If you're not downstairs in five minutes, I swear to God, I will throw your Pop-Tarts out the window!"
I blinked.
Plot armor or not… this was going to suck.