The Golden Retriever growled.
It wasn't the menacing rumble of a wolf protecting a kill. It was the frantic, high-pitched snarl of a suburban pet that had just seen a squirrel through a window.
"HEY! CAN YOU NOT CURSE IN FRONT OF A GOD?!"
The voice sounded... childish. Like a ten-year-old boy trying to sound tough on Xbox Live, but coming out of a snout covered in golden fur.
Wade, floating as a shapeless construct of consciousness in the white void, felt a sensation that could only be described as a metaphysical double-take.
The dog can talk.
That was the first thought.
Wait.
Wade's processing caught up with the input.
He said he's a God.
"YOU ARE RIGHT!" the dog barked, its tail stiffening indignantly. "I AM A GOD, AND YES I AM A DOG WHO CAN TALK. YOU CAN CALL ME GOLDEN."
Wade stared. Or he would have, if he had eyes. The absurdity of the situation washed over him, lessening the existential terror of being dead. He was expecting St. Peter, or Anubis, or maybe just a terrifying nothingness. Instead, he got a very good boy with an attitude problem.
Wow, Wade thought, his mental voice dripping with sarcasm. A Golden Retriever named Golden. How original. Did you come up with that yourself, or was 'Buddy' taken?
The dog's ears flattened.
"HEY! DON'T JUDGE MY NAME! YOU SHOULD BE SCARED OF ME! I AM A GOD! I CONTROL THE COSMOS!"
Wade found the outburst genuinely amusing. The fear he had felt moments ago was evaporating. It was hard to be terrified of a deity that looked like it wanted a belly rub. Since he didn't have a mouth to smile with, he projected the sensation of a smirk.
My bad, my bad, Golden, Wade thought, trying to sound appeasing. I didn't mean to offend the Almighty Fluff.
"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!"
Golden puffed out his chest, sitting on his haunches. He cleared his throat — a sound that was bizarrely human coming from a canine larynx.
"Now. To business. Ahme."
The dog raised a paw, looking serious.
"YOU ARE STANDING — WELL, FLOATING — IN FRONT OF THE ONE YOU CALL GOD. I AM THE ONE IN CHARGE OF THE REINCARNATION OF SOULS WHO DIED DUE TO GLITCHES IN THE SYSTEM. AND FOR THE INCONVENIENCE, WE WILL HAVE TO REINCARNATE YOU IN A NEW WORLD."
Golden paused, narrowing his eyes as if reciting a Terms of Service agreement he had memorized five minutes ago.
"AS STATED BY THE LAW OF THE ONE ABOVE ALL, SECTION FIVE, PARAGRAPH B: YOU WILL BE REBIRTHED IN THE WORLD YOU HAD IN MIND RIGHT BEFORE YOUR DEATH."
The dog took a deep, dramatic breath, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he finished the speech. He looked immensely proud of himself.
You practice that speech every day in the mirror, don't you? Wade observed.
Golden froze. "N-no! I have no clue what you are talking about!"
The deity started looking around the infinite white void, whistling awkwardly — which sounded more like a high-pitched whine — desperately avoiding eye contact with the spot where Wade existed.
Wade laughed internally. This was ridiculous. He had been hit by a truck, killed instantly, and now he was being processed by a celestial puppy who probably chewed on the fabric of reality when he got bored.
But then the words sank in.
Wait. Glitch?
Wade focused. So… I wasn't supposed to die?
Golden stopped whistling. He looked down at his paws, suddenly very interested in the texture of the cloud floor. His divine aura dimmed slightly, looking more like a guilty pet that had just knocked over a vase.
"Ahem. Yeah. Well." Golden shuffled his front paws. "You were not, Wade. The truck driver was supposed to spill his coffee and hit the brakes. But... uh... the system lagged. A rounding error in the probability matrix. Technically, you should be eating dinner right now."
Wade felt a spike of annoyance. A rounding error. I died because of a rounding error.
It figured. His life had been mediocre, and now his death had to be a clerical error. What a life he lived.
Whatever, Wade thought. There was no point arguing with a dog about spilled milk. You said I'm going to the world I was thinking of. What was I thinking about again?
He tried to recall the last millisecond of his life. The music. The vibration. The cool reel.
Oh. Right.
My Hero Academia.
Wade's metaphorical stomach dropped.
Well, crap.
He hadn't watched the anime. He had watched a few TikTok edits, knew what the main characters looked like, and knew that the fandom was terrifying. That was the extent of his knowledge.
I don't know the plot, Wade realized. I don't know who the villains are. I don't know the secret backstories. I just know Green Guy breaks his bones, and Explosion Guy has anger management issues.
"We totally understand that," Golden said, his voice dropping the shouting persona and becoming surprisingly sympathetic. "It is unfortunate. Usually, people are thinking of their families, or 'Did I leave the stove on?' You were thinking of an anime you barely knew about. Now that's bad luck."
Golden sat up straighter.
"Because of that, and the glitch, we will compensate you. We will grant you a quirk strong enough to keep up with the main cast. You won't need to worry about your safety. It's a premium package. Top tier."
Wade mentally shrugged. Meh.
The offer didn't excite him. Powers meant responsibility. Powers meant villains trying to kill you. Powers meant working out, sweating, and wearing stupid spandex.
Just give me something low-maintenance, Wade projected. I don't really need to be strong. All I need is a quiet and pleasant life. I want the NPC life. From what I know about the anime, the heroes won in the end, right? It's a Shonen. The good guys always win. So I don't need to do anything. I'll sit back, eat popcorn, and watch the news.
Golden stopped panting.
For the first time since Wade arrived, the dog looked ancient. The playful light in his eyes hardened into something solid, gold, and terrifyingly intelligent.
"You are right," Golden said, his voice no longer childish. It resonated with the weight of absolute truth. "The heroes won in the original timeline. But remember, Wade. You are the unknown piece."
The dog stepped forward, and the white void seemed to darken around the edges.
"Things will change. Your existence is a rock thrown into a pond. Ripples are made. When that happens, they might — and might not — affect you. But fate is no longer a script. It will change."
Hearing this, Wade turned serious for a second. The gravity of the statement hung in the air. If he existed, the story wasn't the story anymore. Maybe All Might trips over him. Maybe a villain sees him and changes plans.
But then, Wade's natural defense mechanism — indifference — kicked back in.
Yeah, yeah, he thought. Butterfly effect. Chaos theory. I get it. Just get it over with. If I have a strong quirk, I'll just use it to build a really secure house.
Golden stared at him for a long moment, searching for something in Wade's soul. Finally, the dog nodded.
"Very well."
BZZZZZZ
A golden disk appeared under Wade's non-existent feet. It hummed with energy, intricate glowing runes spinning along its rim.
"Brace yourself," Golden barked. "The transfer is not gentle!"
The disk began to spin faster. A centrifugal force tugged at Wade's consciousness, stretching him thin like taffy. The white void began to blur into streaks of color.
Just before he could completely fade away, he heard Golden's voice one last time. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the roaring wind of the transfer.
"Remember, Wade. The people of this world will be as human as you are. Please, treat them like one."
Wade paused. It was a strange request. Weren't they just drawings? Characters?
Understood, Wade replied, projecting a final thought.
He smiled, even though he did not have a mouth.
And then, blank again.
Pain.
AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
The void had been painless. The truck had been too fast for pain.
This? This was pure, unadulterated agony.
It felt like his entire body was being squeezed through a straw. Pressure crushed his body. He was cold. Wet. The air burned his non-existent skin.
And the noise.
God, the noise. It wasn't the silence of the void. It was a racket of beeping machines, shouting voices, and a high-pitched screaming that made his eardrums vibrate.
Make it stop, Wade thought. Turn off the volume.
He tried to reach for his headphones. He couldn't move his arms. They felt heavy, weak, useless.
He tried to speak. Shut up!
"WAAAAAAH!"
The sound tore out of his own throat. It wasn't words. It was a cry.
Wait. Was that me?
"PUSH, HONOKA! PUSH! I SEE THE HEAD!"
The voice was raspy and old. It cut through the chaos like a knife.
"NNNNGGGGH!"
Another voice, closer, ragged with exhaustion and pain.
Wade felt one final, bone-crushing squeeze, and then... release.
The pressure vanished. Cold air hit his wet skin, sending a shock to his system that was worse than the truck. He was blinded by harsh, clinical fluorescent lights. He couldn't see anything clearly — just blurry shapes and blinding whiteness.
"It's a boy! He's out!"
"Time of birth: 14:02."
Wade felt rough hands handling him. A towel rubbed against his skin — it felt like sandpaper. He was crying; he couldn't stop. It was instinct. His lungs burned as they inflated with oxygen for the first time.
This sucks, Wade thought incoherently. This absolutely sucks. Take me back to the dog.
Slowly, the chaos subsided. The frantic energy in the room settled into a warm, exhausted hum.
Wade — no, the baby — was wrapped in something warm. The shaking stopped. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the mucus and blurriness.
A face loomed over him.
It was an old woman. Very old. She wore a visor over her eyes and had a syringe-shaped cane hooked onto her belt. Her hair was grey and pulled back into a bun.
She looked down at him, not with the softness of a random doctor, but with a critical, familial eye.
"Recovery Girl..." a weak voice called out from the bed.
The old woman turned. "Here. He's healthy. And can't you just call me mom, you brat?"
Mom?
Chiyo Shuzenji — the Recovery Girl — slowly handed the bundle to the woman on the bed.
"Thank you... Mom."
Wade's tiny, undeveloped brain froze.
He squinted. Recovery Girl just huffed. Wade didn't recognize her — the clips he'd seen mostly featured explosions and green lightning. But she looked like a woman who had seen too much stupidity in her lifetime.
"Look at this brat," Chiyo grumbled. She wiped a smudge of blood from her cheek. "Trying to thank your mother for doing her job. You don't have to thank me for delivering my own grandchild, Honoka."
Honoka just laughed, a weak, breathless sound, and took the baby into her hands.
Wade looked up. His vision was still swimming, but he could see the woman holding him. She was sweating, pale, and looked like she had just run a marathon, but she was smiling.
She looked at him.
"He's beautiful," she whispered.
She traced a finger over his head.
"Look at that hair," Honoka murmured. "Bright red. Bloody red."
She brushed a thumb over his forehead. There was a mark there — a birthmark, shaped vaguely like a sweeping feather.
"And this mark..."
Honoka smiled, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She pulled him closer, her warmth seeping into his cold, small body.
"Akira," she said softly, testing the name on her tongue. "From now on, your name is Akira. Akira Shuzenji."
Wade — now Akira — stopped crying. He looked at the woman who was now his mother, and the grumpy old nurse who was apparently his grandmother.
Akira Shuzenji, he thought, the name settling over him like a blanket.
Well... at least I have a doctor on speed dial.
He closed his eyes, the exhaustion of being born finally catching up to him, and fell asleep.
--<<>>--
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