"Hi, Aunt Jane! School was normal," he yelled back, "just like every other day."
He arrived at a duplex apartment. From the look of it, the place seemed empty, as though no one had lived there for months. Standing in front of the house, Fury sighed. "Hey house, I'm back from school," he muttered as he entered the living room, which exuded a heavy sense of emptiness. "Hi, chairs. Sup, couch?" he said, greeting the furniture as if they could respond.
Fury might have seemed crazy, but he wasn't mad or stupid. Six years ago, he had been at the park with his parents, enjoying one of the happiest days of his life. That evening, everything changed. His parents were murdered right in front of his eyes. He had watched them die, forever blaming himself for their deaths.
Life had been unforgiving since then. He endured bullying, a terrifying kidnapping he barely escaped, and constant verbal abuse. His life had been a mess ever since that tragedy. To make matters worse, his relatives had stolen everything his parents owned, leaving him with only the house.
These memories haunted him daily. As he made his way to his room, he pulled a small wooden chest from under his bed. It was carved with ancient writing. "Test 329: Day 100. Hammer," Fury said, holding a hammer and slamming it against the chest.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Despite his efforts, the chest remained intact, not even a scratch marring its surface. Frustrated, Fury grabbed a nail and hammered again. His hand slipped, and the nail tore into his thumb. A drop of his blood fell onto the chest. With a loud clang, the chest suddenly opened, a resplendent light bursting forth and flooding the room.
BWANG!
Seeing the chest finally open, Fury's heart leapt. After years of effort, he had succeeded. Inside, a crimson-gold stone radiated a mysterious aura. As he reached for it, the ground began to rumble violently.
GRAAAAAAAA!
Startled, Fury tried to flee upstairs, but before he could, the house collapsed around him. The last thing he saw was the glowing light of the stone.
GASP. GASP. GASP.
"Where am I?" Fury thought as he found himself in a dark, lifeless void. He couldn't see anything but pitch blackness. Then, faintly, he heard a female voice.
"He's moving! It's a boy. I can't wait to hold him in my arms. I'm sure he will be successful one day," the voice said.
Fury was stunned. He realized he was in a woman's womb. He was a baby. How was this possible? He tried to move, but his tiny body barely responded.
"Ah! He's moving. I think he heard me," the woman said, her tone filled with joy as she felt his tiny movements.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
Emma, the woman carrying Fury, felt labor pains despite not reaching full term. Concerned for her baby, she prepared for the delivery. Meanwhile, Fury, still within the womb, felt a strange excitement. He was finally going to see the outside world again.
The operation began. Emma pushed with all her might, while Fury did his best to assist, wiggling his tiny body toward the "exit door." The first thing he saw was a bright light emanating from a woman's hand. Initially, he thought it was a torch, but as his vision adjusted, he realized the light was coming from her hand itself.
Looking at his baby form, Fury could hardly believe his eyes. His supposed mother—a middle-aged woman with wet blonde hair streaked with red—held him close. Her jade-like skin glowed faintly as she smiled with joy, her face drenched in sweat.
"Look, Jean. Your baby brother. Isn't he adorable? And look at his crimson-gold eyes!" she said to a young girl beside her.
The girl, no older than five, gazed at him as if staring at a precious gift. "Mommy, I'm going to take care of little brother!" she said, her excitement bubbling over.
At that moment, a man burst into the room. His muscular frame was clad in a military uniform, a sword strapped to his back. "Where is my son?" he exclaimed, nearly tripping in his haste. Scooping Fury into his arms, he grinned ear to ear.
"I will name you Fury, for no one will withstand your rage! AHAHAHAHA!" the man bellowed, shaking the newborn enthusiastically. Fury, mentally still a teenager, tried to protest. "Dude, you're shaking me too much. Is this how you treat a newborn?" But all that came out was an incomprehensible gurgle.
"Du u a sheing e," he babbled, surprising everyone with his attempt to speak. The father, misinterpreting the noise, took it as a sign of approval and shook him even more vigorously.
"You're shaking him too much!" Emma scolded, rescuing the baby from his overenthusiastic father.
"Don't worry. He's a man. He can endure it," the father declared. "Besides, he'll grow up to be a great expert one day."
Fury felt a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. But before he could think further, hunger overtook him. Emma brought him to her chest, and his baby instincts took over. He began nursing, marveling at the sweetness of the milk. "Oh, this tastes so good," he thought, momentarily forgetting his pride.
As he drank, a subconscious feeling surged within him: the warmth of having his parents alive, the determination to protect the ones he loved, and the vow to never let tragedy strike again.