Cal Smith adjusted his tie for what had to be the twenty-third time that night, his fingers fumbling with the knot like he was trying to defuse a bomb. Which, honestly, might've been easier. At least bombs came with instruction manuals.
"Okay, Smith," he muttered to himself, staring up at the Morrison house—a sprawling modern palace that probably had more square footage than his entire neighborhood. "You've got this. You're smooth. You're confident. You're definitely not about to throw up on the front steps."
He took a deep breath, walked up to the door, and immediately tripped over absolutely nothing.
"Nailed it," he whispered, catching himself on the doorframe just as Ashley opened the door.
And there she was. Ashley Morrison. Six feet of pure trouble in a dress that should've come with a warning label. Dark hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes that could stop traffic—or start wars—and a smile that suggested she knew exactly how many brain cells he'd just lost looking at her.
"Wow," Cal said, then immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. "I mean—you look—wow is actually a complete sentence, right? In some cultures? Maybe?"
Ashley's lips curved into that dangerous smirk he'd been dreaming about since sophomore year. "You're adorable when you're having a mental breakdown, Smith."
"Thanks? I think? Is that a compliment or should I be concerned about my mental health?"
"Both." She stepped aside to let him in, her fingers trailing along his arm as he passed. Cal's brain promptly short-circuited.
"So," she said, closing the door behind him, "my parents are in Cabo for the weekend."
"Cool. Cabo's nice. Beaches. Sand. Very... sandy." Cal nodded sagely, as if he'd just shared profound wisdom about coastal erosion.
Ashley raised an eyebrow. "Are you always this articulate, or is tonight special?"
"Oh, tonight's definitely special. I've been practicing my awkward small talk for weeks. Want to hear my thoughts on weather patterns? I have charts."
"Pass." She moved closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and intoxicating. "Though I am curious about what other skills you've been practicing."
Cal's tie suddenly felt like a noose. "Skills. Right. I can juggle. Sort of. Two balls, maximum. Sometimes one, if I'm being honest."
"Juggling." She was definitely laughing at him now. "That's definitely what I was thinking about."
"I also know seventeen different programming languages, can solve a Rubik's cube in under two minutes, and I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. The secret is—"
Ashley pressed a finger to his lips, effectively shutting down his nervous rambling. "Cal?"
"Mm-hmm?" he mumbled against her finger.
"Less talking."
"Right. Got it. Silent mode activated." He paused. "This is me being silent, by the way. Very silent. Like a ninja. A really chatty ninja who can't seem to stop—"
She kissed him. Soft, warm, tasting like mint lip gloss and possibilities. When she pulled back, Cal's eyes were still closed.
"Did I break you?" she asked, amused.
"Maybe a little. Give me a second to reboot." He opened his eyes, grinning like an idiot. "Okay, functioning again. Mostly. My speech centers might be permanently damaged, but that's probably an improvement."
"Good," she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the stairs. "Because I had some ideas about how to spend the evening."
Cal's heart rate spiked to dangerous levels. "Ideas. I like ideas. I'm very pro-idea. What kind of ideas are we talking about here? Board games? Netflix? Collaborative homework?"
Ashley paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face him with that look—the one that suggested she was about to ruin his life in the best possible way.
"The kind that might require us to be more... comfortable."
Cal's brain performed the mental equivalent of a car crash. "Comfortable. Yes. Comfort is... comfortable. I'm very comfortable with being comfortable. Except when I'm not, which is most of the time, but tonight I'm feeling particularly—"
"Cal."
"Yeah?"
"Breathe."
"Right. Breathing. Basic human function. I've got this." He took an exaggerated breath. "See? Oxygen entering lungs. Very natural. Totally relaxed."
Ashley shook her head, but she was smiling. "Come on, nervous boy. Let's see if we can find something to occupy that overactive brain of yours."
They made it halfway up the stairs before Cal's remaining brain cells finally caught up with the situation. He stopped dead.
"Oh. Oh no. No no no no no."
Ashley turned, one hand on the banister, looking like something out of a magazine. "What's wrong?"
"This is... I mean, we're going to... and I don't have..." He gestured wildly, as if that would somehow convey the magnitude of his oversight.
"Use words, Cal."
"I don't have protection!" he blurted out, face flaming red. "I'm an idiot. A complete moron. I had one job—be prepared for the greatest night of my teenage existence—and I failed spectacularly. I should probably just go home and rethink my life choices. Maybe become a monk. Do they still have monks?"
Ashley stared at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. Not the cruel kind—the genuine, almost affectionate kind that made his chest tight.
"Oh my God," she said, wiping her eyes. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. This is a serious shortage of... supplies. A catastrophic lack of... equipment. I'm basically showing up to a gunfight with a foam sword."
"That might be the worst metaphor I've ever heard."
"I'm panicking. Metaphors suffer during panic situations. It's scientifically proven. Probably."
Ashley leaned against the banister, studying him with those dangerously intelligent eyes. "You know, most guys would've just... assumed."
"Yeah, well, I'm not most guys. I'm the guy who brings a calculator to a food fight and wonders why everyone's laughing."
"That's oddly sweet."
"Sweet doesn't help our current situation."
"No," she agreed, "but there's a pharmacy on Fifth Street. Twenty-four hours."
Cal blinked. "You're saying if I... if I went and got..."
Ashley descended one step, bringing herself eye-level with him. "I'm saying," she whispered, "don't take too long, Smith. I don't like waiting."
Cal's knees wobbled. "How long is too long? Asking for a friend. The friend is me. I'm the friend."
"Ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes. I can do ten minutes. Maybe eight if I run. Seven if I don't stop to analyze every intersection for optimal crossing strategies." He was already backing toward the front door. "This is happening. This is actually happening. Don't move. Don't change your mind. Don't suddenly realize you could do better than the guy who once got his head stuck in a juice machine."
"That story better be worth hearing later."
"Oh, it's a classic. Involves three firefighters and my mom crying in the supermarket." He reached the door, then paused. "You're sure about this? About... me?"
Ashley's expression softened, just for a moment. "Cal?"
"Yeah?"
"Go get the damn condoms."
"Right. Mission accepted. Condoms acquired, night saved, possibly die of embarrassment in aisle three, but still worth it." He saluted her, immediately realized how ridiculous that was, and fled.
Cal sprinted down the sidewalk like his life depended on it—which, honestly, it kind of did. His social life, anyway. His dignity. His one shot at not being the guy who almost had sex with Ashley Morrison but blew it because he couldn't handle basic adulting.
"Three blocks," he panted, dodging a fire hydrant. "Fifth Street. Easy. I've got this. Just don't think about what happens after. Don't think about—oh God, what happens after?"
He rounded the corner, the pharmacy's neon sign blazing like a beacon of hope in the darkness.
"Almost there," he muttered. "Condoms acquired, confidence maybe restored, possibly throw up in the parking lot, but we'll cross that bridge when—"
The black sedan came out of nowhere.
Cal saw the muzzle flash before he heard the gunfire. Saw the police cars in pursuit. Felt the sudden, sharp impact that sent him spinning.
His last coherent thought before everything went dark was: *Of course this would happen to me.*
—
The first thing Cal noticed wasn't a tunnel of light. No choir of angels, no grandma with cookies, no spiritual enlightenment worth writing home about.
Nope. He was sitting in what looked like the lobby of the world's most boring office building. The kind of place where dreams went to die a slow, beige death.
Fluorescent lighting hummed overhead like dying wasps. The carpet was that particular shade of brown that wasn't brown but wasn't tan either—it was the color of giving up. There was a potted plant in the corner so dead it had basically achieved philosophical transcendence into mulch. The air smelled like burnt coffee, broken dreams, and that particular brand of existential despair you only got from government waiting rooms.
"This can't be right," Cal muttered, slumping into a chair that felt like it had been specifically designed to crush the human spirit. The upholstery made a sad *wheeze* sound, like it was disappointed in his life choices. "This is supposed to be the afterlife, not a DMV waiting room where hope comes to die."
"Actually, you're in Processing," said a cheerful voice behind him.
Cal whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself posthumous whiplash. Standing there was... well, imagine if an HR manager and a cosmic entity had a baby, and that baby shopped exclusively at Target.
The being was tall, vaguely humanoid, with glowing eyes that suggested he'd seen the universe's filing system and found it wanting. He wore a tie that looked like it had been tied by someone having an active seizure, and his khakis had the kind of confident mediocrity that screamed "middle management across seventeen dimensions."
"Processing?" Cal repeated, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again. "What is this, cosmic customer service?"
"Essentially, yes!" The being beamed, holding up what looked like a tablet that had been designed by aliens who'd only heard iPads described secondhand. It had way too many buttons, was humming ominously, and Cal was pretty sure one of the corners was *glowing*. "Welcome to the Department of Afterlife Services! I'm your caseworker. Random Omnipotent Being, but everyone calls me ROB."
Cal squinted. "ROB. As in... Rob? Like, regular human Rob?"
"As in R.O.B.," the being corrected with the wounded dignity of someone whose life's work had been trivialized. "It's an acronym. Department policy. Makes us sound more approachable than 'Terrifying Cosmic Entity Who Could Unmake You With A Thought.'"
"Right, because nothing says approachable like acronyms," Cal said. "What's next, are you gonna ask me to rate my death experience on a scale of one to ten?"
ROB's eyebrows—which were somehow both glowing and perfectly groomed—shot up. "Oh, that's Phase Two. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Cal stared at him. "You're serious."
"Deadly serious. Well, no pun intended. Though it was rather good, wasn't it?" ROB looked pleased with himself. "I've been working on my death-related wordplay. It's surprisingly difficult to get the tone right—too light and you seem insensitive, too heavy and you're just depressing."
"Yeah, well, you nailed the sweet spot of 'cosmic middle manager who thinks he's funnier than he is,'" Cal said. "Really capturing that essence."
"Thank you!" ROB said brightly, apparently missing the sarcasm entirely. "Now, let's get down to business." He tapped the tablet, which made a sound like R2-D2 having an existential crisis. "Calvin Michael Smith, age seventeen, cause of death..." ROB's expression shifted from cheerful bureaucrat to 'oh dear god what have we done.' "Oh. Oh no."
Cal sat up straighter, his stomach dropping to somewhere around his ethereal ankles. "Oh no? What do you mean oh no? That's not the sound I want to hear from the guy handling my eternal soul!"
"Right, well," ROB said, suddenly very interested in his cosmic tablet, "there's been what we in the business call... a clerical error."
"A CLERICAL ERROR?!" Cal shot up from his chair, which made another depressing wheeze. "I DIED because someone couldn't work a FILING SYSTEM?!"
"Now, now, let's not get hysterical—"
"HYSTERICAL? I'm seventeen! I was about to lose my virginity to the hottest girl in school, and instead I got turned into Swiss cheese because some cosmic intern can't tell the difference between Calvin and... who was I supposed to be?"
ROB consulted his tablet, wincing. "Marcus Rodriguez, age twenty-four, gang member with seventeen outstanding warrants and a tendency to jaywalk in dangerous neighborhoods."
Cal threw his hands up. "MARCUS RODRIGUEZ! So Marcus Rodriguez gets to live because he happened to cross the street thirty seconds faster, and I—CAL SMITH, whose biggest crime is returning library books late—get riddled with bullets on my way to buy condoms!"
"The condoms really are the tragic element here," ROB agreed solemnly. "Adds a certain poetic irony."
"POETIC IRONY? This is my DEATH we're talking about! Do you have any idea what I was walking away from? Ashley Morrison—*the* Ashley Morrison—was waiting for me! In her house! With no parents! She was wearing that little black dress that should come with a warning label, and she basically told me she wanted to—" Cal gestured wildly, "—you know!"
"I'm afraid I don't," ROB said with genuine confusion. "Could you be more specific?"
Cal's face turned red. "She wanted to... to do the horizontal tango. The mattress mambo. The—the—"
"Ah," ROB said, nodding sagely. "Sexual intercourse."
"Don't say it like that! You make it sound like a tax form!"
"Well, technically, in some dimensions it is. Very complicated paperwork. But I digress." ROB cleared his throat. "The point is, I understand your frustration—"
"Do you?" Cal snapped. "Do you *really*? Because I was finally—FINALLY—about to upgrade from 'awkward virgin nerd who trips over his own tongue' to 'awkward slightly-less-virgin nerd who at least knows what second base feels like,' and instead I'm here, talking to cosmic HR about my wrongful death!"
ROB held up his hands defensively. "I know, I know. It's not ideal. But!" His voice brightened like someone had just told him his quarterly performance review had gone well. "Company policy for wrongful deaths includes rather generous compensation."
Cal blinked. "Compensation? What, like a gift card? Store credit? I'm already dead, what are you gonna do—validate my parking?"
"Oh, much better than parking validation," ROB said, tapping furiously at his tablet, which was now making sounds like it was having a heated argument with itself. "Since we can't exactly send you back to your original life—and trust me, we checked, but the coroner described your body as 'more perforation than person'—we can offer you something far more exciting."
"I'm listening," Cal said warily, "but if you're about to offer me a job in this place, I'm gonna find a way to die twice."
"No, no, nothing like that," ROB laughed. "We can give you a completely new life. Any world you want. Any identity within that world. Movies, books, TV shows, comics, video games, anime—if it exists in narrative form, you can live there. Plus," he held up three fingers, "three wishes. Within reason, of course."
Cal's eyebrows shot up. "Within reason?"
"No omnipotence—trust me, it's more trouble than it's worth. No time paradoxes—the paperwork alone would kill you again. And absolutely, positively, no making me fall in love with you."
Cal stared at him. "That... wasn't even on my radar, but thanks for the heads up."
"You'd be surprised how often that comes up. Our last client tried to seduce me with interpretive dance. Very awkward performance review that quarter."
"Right." Cal rubbed his temples. "So you're telling me I died because of cosmic incompetence, but I get to be reincarnated with wishes? This is either the best consolation prize in the history of universal screw-ups, or this is the setup to the cruelest joke ever told."
ROB considered this. "Why not both? The universe has a terrible sense of humor."
Cal groaned and slumped back into his chair. "I need time to think about this. This is... this is huge."
"Of course! Take all the time you need," ROB said, settling into the chair across from him with a sigh that sounded like wind through cosmic paperwork. "Time works differently here. We're technically between seconds right now."
"Between seconds?"
"Oh yes. This entire conversation is happening in the space between your last heartbeat and your first breath in whatever comes next. Quite efficient, really. Though it does make scheduling meetings a nightmare."
Cal closed his eyes and let his brain run through the possibilities like a hyperactive hamster on a wheel made of pure potential. He could go back to his own world, maybe as someone with better luck and a working knowledge of when to avoid gang shootouts. He could be a wizard in some fantasy realm, throwing fireballs and having adventures. He could be a space marine, a vampire, a guy who owned a really successful pizza place...
But then the idea hit him. Stupid, reckless, and absolutely perfect.
His eyes snapped open, and he was grinning like someone had just told him he'd won the lottery, inherited a castle, and found out his crush liked him back all at the same time.
"I've got it."
ROB looked up from his tablet, which was currently displaying what appeared to be a screensaver of tiny cosmic entities playing ping-pong. "Excellent! Do tell."
"I want to be Superman."
ROB blinked. Once. Twice. Then he blinked again, like his brain was a computer trying to process a request that didn't quite compute. "I'm sorry, Superman? As in the Superman? Red cape, blue tights, faster than a speeding bullet Superman?"
"That's the one," Cal said, practically bouncing in his chair. "But specifically, I want to look like Henry Cavill. You know—tall, dark, handsome, jawline that could cut glass and make sculptors weep with envy."
ROB pinched the bridge of his nose—or what passed for a nose on a cosmic entity. "Let me understand this correctly. You want me to essentially give you the physical appearance of a famous actor so you can cosplay as a comic book character for eternity?"
"Not cosplay," Cal corrected. "BE. There's a difference. Cosplay implies I'm pretending. I want all the powers, all the abilities, the whole red-caped package. I want to BE Superman."
"Right, but here's the thing," ROB said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "Superman exists in the DC Universe. Are you sure you want to live in a world where Batman is constantly suspicious of everyone and Lex Luthor keeps building giant robot suits?"
Cal's grin widened. "See, that's where you're wrong. I don't want to be in DC."
ROB's glowing eyebrows shot up. "No?"
"Nope. I want to be Superman... in the Marvel Universe."
For a long moment, ROB just stared at him. Then he started laughing—a sound like cosmic wind chimes having a nervous breakdown. "You want me to take DC's poster boy and drop him into Marvel's playground? That's... that's actually brilliant in a completely insane way."
"Right?" Cal said, leaning forward excitedly. "Think about it—Marvel's got better stories, more interesting characters, and way more opportunities to punch things that aren't just Lex Luthor in his fifty-seventh different power suit."
"Plus," ROB added, warming to the idea, "the chaos potential is enormous. Superman in a world with Tony Stark? The Avengers trying to figure out where this incredibly powerful do-gooder came from? Nick Fury attempting to recruit him? Oh, this could be fun."
"Exactly! But wait, there's more." Cal rubbed his hands together like a kid about to reveal the best part of his Christmas list. "I know exactly where I want to land."
ROB raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I want my spaceship—you know, the adorable little Kryptonian baby basket of destiny—to crash-land in Asgard instead of Kansas."
ROB's other eyebrow joined the first. "Asgard?"
"Yep. I want Odin to find baby Kal-El and raise me as one of his sons, right alongside Thor and Loki. Think about it—Superman raised on Asgardian warrior culture, trained in combat by the greatest warriors in the Nine Realms, with access to Asgardian magic and technology." Cal spread his arms wide. "Kal-El, Prince of Asgard, God of... uh... really strong flying?"
ROB was quiet for a moment, his glowing eyes distant as if he was running calculations in his head. "You know what? That's... actually rather inspired. The All-Father raising a Kryptonian as his own son. The dynamics alone would be fascinating. Thor would have a brother who's actually worthy of Mjolnir—"
"Well, hopefully."
"—Loki would have someone who might actually understand what it's like to be the odd one out, and Odin would have a son with both Kryptonian power and Asgardian wisdom." ROB nodded appreciatively. "It's ambitious. Complicated. Probably going to cause seventeen different kinds of cosmic paperwork nightmares." He paused. "I love it."
Cal pumped his fist. "Yes! See? I knew you'd get it!"
"Right then," ROB said, cracking his cosmic knuckles, "let's talk wishes. You've got three. Make them count."
Cal held up one finger. "First wish: I want my Kryptonite weakness gone."
"Gone entirely?"
"Gone entirely. Look, I get that everyone needs an Achilles heel, but come on—I'm supposed to be this paragon of hope and strength, and my one weakness is glowing space rocks from my dead planet? That's just adding insult to injury. It's like being allergic to your own baby photos."
ROB chuckled. "Fair enough. Kryptonite will have absolutely no effect on you. It'll be about as threatening as particularly colorful gravel."
"Perfect." Cal held up a second finger. "Second wish: nix the magic vulnerability."
"Ah, smart thinking."
"Right? If I'm gonna be living in a world with Doctor Strange, Scarlet Witch, Loki, Amora the Enchantress, Dormammu, and probably fifteen other magic users who didn't even occur to me, I don't want to be the guy who gets turned into a toad every time someone waves a sparkly stick around."
"Very practical," ROB agreed, making notes on his tablet. "Magic will affect you about as much as it affects any other god-tier being. You'll still feel it, but it won't be an automatic 'I win' button against you."
"Excellent." Cal took a deep breath. This was the big one. "Third wish..."
He hesitated, and ROB noticed. "This is the important one, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Cal's voice was quieter now, less manic energy and more... something else. Something that made him look his age instead of like he was hopped up on cosmic possibility. "I want Diana of Themyscira to exist in the Marvel Universe."
ROB's stylus stopped moving across his tablet. "Wonder Woman?"
"The whole package," Cal said, his cheeks turning pink. "Diana, the Amazons, Themyscira, the Greek pantheon if you can swing it. I want her to have her full history, her training, her mission to bring peace to Man's World."
ROB leaned back in his chair, studying Cal with those glowing eyes. "This isn't just about teenage hormones, is it?"
Cal's face went full red. "I mean... maybe a little about teenage hormones. She's gorgeous and could probably benchpress a tank, which, let's be honest, is extremely appealing to my seventeen-year-old brain."
"But?"
"But it's more than that." Cal looked down at his hands, suddenly serious. "Superman and Wonder Woman... they work. In every universe where they're together, they bring out the best in each other. He shows her the good in humanity, she helps him embrace his power without being afraid of it. She's a warrior, but she fights for peace. He's incredibly powerful, but he uses it to protect people who can't protect themselves."
ROB nodded slowly. "Go on."
"If I'm gonna carry the weight of being Superman—really BE Superman—I don't want to do it alone. And Diana..." Cal looked up, meeting ROB's cosmic gaze. "Diana would make me a better hero. A better person. She's everything Superman should aspire to be—strong, compassionate, wise, brave. She's faced gods and monsters and never lost sight of what she's fighting for."
"And she's attractive," ROB added with a slight smile.
"And she's ridiculously attractive," Cal agreed. "I mean, I'm seventeen. Dead, but seventeen. I'm allowed to have shallow motivations alongside the noble ones."
ROB was quiet for a long moment, then he nodded approvingly. "You know what? That's actually quite touching. And smart. Very well—Diana of Themyscira will exist in the Marvel Universe. She'll have her island, her people, her history with the Greek gods. She'll be exactly the woman you're envisioning—warrior, diplomat, protector of humanity."
Cal's jaw dropped. "Just like that?"
"Just like that. Though I should mention, I'll need to establish her timeline carefully. Can't have her running around as Wonder Woman while you're still in cosmic diapers."
"How's that gonna work?"
"Simple. Diana will be born about the same time that you arrive in Asgard. By the time you're old enough to meet her properly, she'll be a young hero, learning both battle and diplomacy. Think of it as... cosmic timing."
Cal stared at him. "You're really gonna do this? All of it?"
"Every bit," ROB confirmed, standing up and gesturing toward a door that definitely hadn't been there five seconds ago. It was glowing with soft, warm light that looked a lot more promising than the fluorescent nightmare they'd been sitting under. "One Asgardian Superman, coming right up. Plus one Amazonian princess in the Marvel Universe. And all the cosmic chaos that's bound to ensue."
Cal stood up too, his legs shaking with equal parts excitement and terror. "What about Cal Smith? My parents, Ashley, everyone who knew me?"
ROB's expression softened. "They'll mourn you. Your parents will grieve for the sweet, awkward boy who never came home that night. Ashley Morrison will always wonder what happened to the nervous kid who ran out of her house and never came back."
Cal swallowed hard. "That's... that's awful."
"It is," ROB agreed gently. "But they'll also move on. They'll live their lives, find their own happiness. And maybe, someday when you're ready, you'll find a way to honor their memory."
"And me? I'll really be Superman?"
"Every power, every ability. Super strength that can move mountains, speed that makes the Flash look sluggish, flight that'll take you from Earth to Alpha Centauri in time for lunch. Heat vision, freeze breath, x-ray vision, super hearing—the whole Boy Scout starter pack. Plus whatever Asgardian magic and training adds to the mix."
Cal grinned shakily. "No more tripping over my own feet?"
"Oh, you'll still trip," ROB said with a knowing smile. "Some things are hardwired into your personality matrix. But now when you trip, you'll probably accidentally demolish a small building."
"Great," Cal laughed. "I'll be the most awkward god in the Nine Realms."
"Quite possibly," ROB agreed. "But also one of the most powerful. And if I'm reading your psychological profile correctly, one of the most genuinely good-hearted."
Cal walked toward the glowing door, each step feeling like he was walking toward destiny itself. He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back.
"ROB?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. For this. For giving me a second chance. For not just filing me under 'cosmic screwup' and calling it a day."
ROB waved dismissively, but he was smiling. "Don't thank me. Thank the intern who mixed up those files. Without cosmic incompetence, none of this would be possible."
Cal grinned. "I'll write them a thank-you note. Maybe a fruit basket."
"Make it quick," ROB advised. "Interns don't last long in this business. Too much exposure to existential paradoxes."
Cal grabbed the door handle, his heart hammering against his ribs. Through the door, he could see swirling lights and what looked like the cosmic equivalent of a birth canal made of starlight and possibility.
"Any last advice for the newly reincarnated?" he asked.
ROB thought for a moment. "Don't let the power go to your head. Remember that being Superman isn't about being stronger or faster than everyone else—it's about what you choose to do with that strength and speed. Also," he added with a grin, "try not to break too many realms."
Cal nodded solemnly. "Kal-El, Prince of Asgard, protector of... well, whoever needs protecting, I guess. Not bad for a guy who died chasing condoms."
"Quite the character arc," ROB agreed.
With that, Cal opened the door and stepped into swirling cosmic light. As he felt himself falling toward a new life, a new world, and maybe—if he was very, very lucky—a new destiny, his last coherent thought was:
*I hope Ashley forgives me for being about thirty years late to our second date.*
Then the light consumed him completely, and Cal Smith died his final death, leaving only Kal-El, last son of Krypton, future prince of Asgard, and—he hoped—the kind of hero the Marvel Universe had never seen before.
ROB watched the door fade away, then looked down at his tablet, which was displaying a message: "CASE CLOSED - CUSTOMER SATISFACTION: PENDING."
"Well," he murmured to himself, "this should be interesting."
He made a note in Cal's file: *Subject showed remarkable adaptability and surprising wisdom for someone who died in pursuit of contraceptives. Recommend monitoring for cosmic ripple effects and excessive property damage.*
Then he hit save, straightened his terrible tie, and went back to his desk. After all, there were probably seventeen other cosmic screwups waiting to be processed, and the coffee wasn't going to burn itself.
---
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