Warren's POV:
"Ok, so existential dread already developed, and there's not much I can do about it... It's better if I don't fry my brain over this right now."
I turned off the computer and went to lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers. A whole goddamn superhero universe waiting to blow up in my face—and I was just some guy in a borrowed meat suit with zero prep time.
If this was a test, I didn't study.
I stood up and walked over to the mirror. Still Warren Wade. Standing around 5'4 feet tall, with a broad chest and sturdy shoulders—almost muscular, but not ripped. Quarterback jawline, slightly cocky eyebrows, bruised ego and cheekbone. No matter how much I didn't want to be this guy, I was. The name carried a little weight, mostly bad, and I had to do something with it besides sitting around whining.
So I did what any panicked reincarnated soul in a Marvel universe would do.
Push-ups.
Terrible ones.
"I was not made for this" I groaned after rep fifteen. "This body should be built like a brick wall, where the hell did all that go?"
I gave up halfway through a sad plank and collapsed onto the carpet. Sweat stuck my shirt to my back. My heart pounded. And yet, I felt… alive. Like I was finally doing something. Something other than hiding.
I dragged myself back onto the bed, phone in hand. My fingers hovered over Peter's name in the school directory app.
Should I text him?
Apologizing once was hard enough. But maybe I could just… check in?
> [Hey dude...]
Delete
> [Hey buddy...]
Delete
> [sup...]
DELETE
> [Hey Peter, is your head okay? Again sorry for everything.]
I stared at the message for a full minute.
Then deleted it.
Forget it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll deal with that.
Right now, I needed to think less about social anxiety and more about not dying in a world where any rooftop might have someone in spandex.
I sighed, rubbing my aching cheekbone. My fight with Flash reminded me of one critical fact—I was no Spider-Man. Not yet. Not ever, probably.
Still. I needed to get stronger. Smarter. Faster. If this world was about to spiral into chaos—and let's be honest, it will—I had to be more than just a reformed bully. I had to be something useful.
But first—food.
I made my way downstairs, half-hoping for something warm, homemade, and nostalgic. But I was greeted instead by an empty kitchen.
Already knowing the answer to the question bouncing around in my head—Did she cook tonight?
There was a sticky note slapped onto the fridge:
> "Didn't have time. Order something cheap. Lock the door. —Mom"
No "how was your day," no "we need to talk about the fight you were in."
Just the usual indifference.
I checked the fridge anyway. Empty. No surprise there. She probably ate at work—again. Or with coworkers. Or in her car.
I don't even know what she does. Something corporate? Banking?
Honestly, she could be a hitwoman for all I know.
Then a dumb idea popped into my head—What if she works for SHIELD?... Or HYDRA?
I laughed to myself, a dry, stupid kind of laugh. Yeah, right...
I glanced at the crumpled twenty-dollar bills on the counter. "Thanks" I muttered to no one.
I opened the delivery app and picked the cheapest burger combo that wouldn't give me food poisoning.
While I waited, I sat on the couch and pulled out my phone. If I'm stuck here, I need to at least know what the hell I'm dealing with.
Problem is—I wasn't a Marvel expert. I only remembered what I saw in the movies. And even then, I wasn't paying that much attention.
But I did remember two big names:
Stark Industries and Oscorp.
I typed them in, one at a time, opening tabs, scanning headlines, trying to piece together the state of things in this universe.
Tony Stark was predictable—billionaire, tech genius, merchant of death. No trip to Afghanistan yet, so no Iron Man. Just a smug genius still riding high on weapons contracts and magazine covers.
And Oscorp… ugh. Even the logo looked shady. Norman Osborn was already being called a "visionary" by more than one suspiciously polished article. That alone made me nervous. No mention of a glider or pumpkin bombs yet—but if Norman's already being praised, it's only a matter of time before things go full crazy.
One headline caught my eye:
> "Oscorp pushes the boundaries of gene therapy: limb regeneration may soon become reality."
Something about lizard DNA. Genetic grafting.
Yeah. That's—that's fucked.
But Spider-Man is going to stop the Lizard if he ever comes to exist... right?
Wait.
I changed the timeline, didn't I?
Shit.
What if Peter never becomes Spider-Man? What then? No friendly neighborhood anything, no one swinging in to save the day, no witty comebacks during life-or-death situations.
No Spider-Man.
There are no Avengers either—not yet.
SHIELD? I don't even know if they exist in this universe. And if they do, there's no way in hell I'm typing that into a search bar. I'm paranoid, not stupid.
Fuck.
"Okay, okay, relax... panic doesn't help anyone..."
This is Marvel. There has to be someone else out there who can stop him. Someone who's already active—
Daredevil? Maybe. He's in Hell's Kitchen, though, and I don't think he does reptiles.
Punisher? Shit, that guy would just shoot Connors in the face and call it a day. Not ideal, but at least it's effective
Luke Cage? Bulletproof muscles. He's in Harlem, though… not sure if a mutated lizard scientist is in his contract.
I sat down, running my hands through my hair.
"...God, I'm relying on half-remembered Netflix shows now."
"Maybe... maybe I could?"
The thought came like a whisper at first, then louder, bolder, dumber.
I mean... there has to be a reason I was reincarnated here, right? Some cosmic bullshit, some higher power playing Marvel chess? I'm not just here to vibe as a background character, surely.
I stared at my hands. They didn't glow. No webs shot out. No claws popped from my knuckles.
"...Maybe I'm a mutant? Or... something. Maybe it's dormant. Yeah, that's a thing, right? Mutant genes awaken during puberty or trauma or whatever."
"...I could probably try to awaken my powers. Test my limits. Push my body. See what happens."
Pause.
"No no no, I'm not doing that," I muttered, shaking my head. "I'm not a masochist. And what if I get a shitty power that'll fuck me over? Not risking it."
I paced around the living room, still too bruised from earlier to be walking like this, but adrenaline and anxiety made a cocktail that numbed most of it.
"…Kick-Ass" I muttered, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. "No powers. No training. Just threw on a wetsuit and got stabbed and run over."
I dropped onto the bed, arms limp at my sides.
"And he still made it work. Sort of. Eventually. Took a ton of beatings, but… he made an impact. Inspired people. Got a girlfriend. Lived the dream—minus the broken ribs and weekly hospital visits."
I rubbed my face with both hands, dragging down like I could pull the stress out through my skin.
"It's a dumb idea. Really dumb. But maybe that's what I need right now. Something. Anything. A step forward."
I glanced at the mirror. Still me. Still Warren Wade. But something behind the eyes looked… hungry. Desperate, maybe.
"…This is definitely going to get me killed."
I remembered Dave Lizewski—just some scrawny comic nerd who decided to be a hero because he was tired of watching people do nothing. Bought a wetsuit off eBay, got in way over his head, and nearly died his first time out.
But that's the difference.
I already know how that story goes.
He jumped in blind—no training, no plan. Just vibes and a death wish.
I've got hindsight. And a browser history full of future Marvel disasters.
So no. I'm not stopping any muggings on day one. That's how you end up bleeding out in an alley and trending on Twitter posthumously.
I'll start small.
Help a granny cross the street. Get a cat out of a tree. Walk the streets and watch. Learn the rhythm of the city. Figure out how this version of New York moves.
I can be useful without ending up in traction.
In between, I'll train. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Whatever this body can handle. Watch self-defense videos. Look up workout routines. Maybe Wade left some weights in the garage.
Bit by bit. That's how I'll do it.
No wetsuit. No mask. Not yet.
Just a plan.
A probably-doomed, borderline-insane plan…
…but it's mine.
Ring Ring
I jolted upright. For half a second, my brain screamed emergency, villain attack, universe collapsing.
But then—Oh. Right.
"My burger" I muttered, scrambling to grab my phone. "Finally."
If I was gonna plan my slow-burn superhero debut, I needed fuel. Greasy, overpriced, comfort-fuel.
And fries. Always fries.
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