When I woke up from what felt like a deep, dreamless sleep, a cold dread settled in my gut. My head throbbed, my limbs ached, and something felt... wrong. Blinking rapidly, I tried to take in my surroundings. Dim, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, barely illuminating the dingy, dust-ridden room. The air smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes, and wooden crates stacked against the walls cast long, eerie shadows.
I shifted, or at least I tried to. That was when I realized I was tied to a chair, my wrists and ankles bound so tight they burned against the rough rope. Worse still, a gag was stuffed in my mouth, muffling any attempt to speak. Panic surged through me like a shot of adrenaline.
Then the door creaked open.
A bald, hulking brute of a man stepped inside. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his bulging muscles stretched against his tight black T-shirt. He had the kind of look that screamed 'steroid enthusiast'—or maybe just a guy who bench-pressed trucks for fun. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine with all the warmth of a snake sizing up its next meal.
I wanted to scream, demand answers, but all that came out was a pathetic, muffled squeak.
Baldy frowned, then without warning—CRACK!—his fist connected with my cheek. Pain exploded across my face as my head snapped to the side. I let out a very undignified yelp. Yeah, no shame in admitting it—I'm not exactly built for this kind of situation. And given my current predicament, I figured I deserved a little leniency in the courage department.
"Shut your damn mouth," he growled, his breath reeking of cheap beer and something vaguely metallic. A glint of steel flashed as he pressed a knife to my throat. "One more sound before the boss gets here, and I start breaking your legs. You got that?"
I nodded frantically, my pulse hammering in my ears. Satisfied, he sneered and drove a fist into my gut before turning on his heel and stomping out, slamming the door behind him.
For a few agonizing moments, I just sat there, gasping for breath. The dull ache in my stomach pulsed with every heartbeat, but I forced myself to focus. I needed to figure out where I was and how the hell I got here.
Taking a shaky breath, I looked around. The room was old, abandoned-looking, with grime-streaked windows covered in tattered curtains. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by the weak light from a single overhead bulb. Cardboard boxes lined the walls—some sealed, others torn open to reveal stacks of paper, electronics, and... was that a rifle? My skin crawled.
I racked my brain for the last thing I remembered. The moment I tried—BAM!—a headache hit me like a sledgehammer. A sharp, piercing pain that made me groan against the gag. But then, like a dam breaking, the memories flooded in.
It had started with a foreign business trip to a certain country I won't name. My company sent me along with a few coworkers, and I, being the happy-go-lucky idiot who hated responsibility and had never left India before, eagerly agreed. The arrival was nice. The trouble? That started in the middle of the trip.
My dumbass colleagues decided they wanted to see a certain mountain —cool, fine, whatever. But then they heard about a big big Forest, a supposedly haunted place known for suicides, and suddenly they had to visit.
I wasn't thrilled about the idea, but peer pressure is a hell of a thing. By the time we arrived, the sun was already dipping below the horizon. Our guide warned us against going in at night, but did my genius friends listen? Of course not.
So, like an idiot, I followed them inside.
An hour in, I got separated. The towering trees loomed over me like silent sentinels, their twisted branches blocking out the moonlight. Panic set in, but then—because life apparently loves irony—I had to take a piss.
I found an old moss-covered rock and relieved myself. And that's when everything went to hell.
A thick, unnatural fog rolled in from nowhere. The air turned icy. My breath came out in white puffs. Then—BOOM!—lightning split the sky. A blinding flash. A deafening crack. And then... nothing.
I died.
When I came to, I wasn't in the forest anymore. Instead, I found myself standing before a group of deities. They looked human, but there was something off—something too grand, too overwhelming.
A stern-looking woman in white robes glared at me like I had just spit in her tea. "You desecrated a sacred site," she said. "You disturbed the resting place for lost souls."
I opened my mouth, but she kept going.
"The spirits have called for justice. Death is too simple a punishment."
And just like that, my judgment was sealed. Eternal torment. Unending suffering. The whole divine punishment package.
I begged. I pleaded. I listed every excuse in the book—peer pressure, ignorance, bad luck. Anything to avoid the hellish fate they were about to hand me.
Then one of the gods, a man with sharp eyes and a fox-like grin, spoke up. "I could offer an alternative," he mused, tapping his chin.
I latched onto that like a drowning man to a lifeboat. "Yes! Yes, please! Anything!"
The trickster's grin widened. "Anything? Good." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly, we were in a stark white room, sitting across from each other.
"I'm sending you to another world," he said. "A world that needs change. You will help change it. That is your penance."
I frowned. "That... doesn't sound too bad."
He chuckled. "Oh, you'll see. But be warned—if you don't stay involved, if you try to avoid your role, the deal is off. And trust me, you don't want that."
I swallowed hard.
He leaned in, his voice a whisper now. "Since I'm feeling generous, I'll even give you a little... gift." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "It might help you. Or it might make things much, much worse."
Before I could ask what that meant—snap! —his fingers flicked, and my world turned black.
And now, here I was. Bound to a chair. Beaten. Stuck in some shady warehouse in what was definitely not Japan.
Well... shit.
I was lamenting my fate when suddenly the sound of pair of dice rolling clicked in my mind.
4-13 Bleach - Chikangoroshi Savate (Butt Perverse Boot) is a Hakuda technique. The practitioner kicks the opponent with their shin to send the latter flying back. Arjun gains the ability to kick his opponent with his shins expertly but since his physical stats are low, he can't send them flying away.
What the hell! I know knew how to kick someone hard enough to send them flying back, is this the gift the trickster was talking about and also why do I feel tired?
How does knowing how kick helps me in this situation?
I try to again focus on the feeling I felt before and to see whether somethings happen that can help me or not. I feel the dice rolling again
2-2 Magic - Karlov of the Ghost Council – The card karlov of the ghost council in bad conditions drops in front of Arjun. Since the low roll the card has multiple priniting issues.
Some type of card drops in front of me from thin air, I can't get a look at it since I am tied to the chair. Again, I feel the drain and this time I am already mentally too tired with the whole ordeal that has happened to me today and I pass out as my world darkens.
___________________________________________________________________________
A sudden splash of ice-cold water hit me like a truck. I gasped, sputtering, as the shock jolted me fully awake. My body shivered against the cold, but my mind snapped into high alert.
I blinked furiously, trying to clear the water from my eyes, and when my vision adjusted, my stomach sank.
Baldy was still here.
And he wasn't alone.
Four more men stood around me, each one dressed in crisp black suits. These weren't your average hired goons. These guys had the cold, calculating eyes of professionals—men who had done this before and would do it again without losing a wink of sleep.
But one of them stood out.
His head. It was... massive.
I don't mean a receding hairline kind of big. No, this guy's forehead was a full-blown five-inch wall of bone, making his entire face look like someone had taken mismatched parts and welded them together in a hurry. His features were stretched, distorted—like a caricature of a human being. And he wasn't just freakish-looking; he was big. Built like a damn tank.
Each of them carried a shotgun, and the way they held them made it clear they knew exactly how to use them.
The big guy—Forehead—shrugged off his coat, removed his watch with a deliberate, almost ceremonial air, then cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed in the dimly lit warehouse.
"Now," he said, stepping closer, his accent a bizarre mix of Russian and Italian, "I'm gonna take this gag off, and you're gonna sing like a damn bird. Every question I ask, you answer. If you don't…"
He tilted his head toward Baldy, who cracked his own knuckles in response.
"My pal here will start with your jaw," Forehead continued, his voice disturbingly casual. "Then he'll move on to the rest of your tiny little body. You got that?"
I barely had time to nod before he barked, "Ungag him."
Baldy yanked the gag out of my mouth, and like an idiot, the first thing I did was plead.
"Please, you've got the wrong gu—"
WHAM!
A fist crashed into my face, sending an explosion of pain through my skull. My nose erupted in blood, and I barely held back a scream as my world turned into a swirling mess of stars and agony.
Rough fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back. Forehead's grotesque face hovered inches from mine, his breath hot and rancid.
"You speak outta turn again, boy," he growled, "and my men will do worse."
I gritted my teeth, tasting the metallic tang of my own blood.
Forehead straightened, adjusting his sleeves like he hadn't just ordered my face to be rearranged. "Let's start slow," he said, voice deceptively calm. "What's your name?"
I swallowed hard. "Arjun… Arjun Roy." My voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper.
The blood dripped down my chin, pooling at the base of my throat. Every breath stung.
Forehead smirked. "Mr. Roy." He said my name like it was a joke. "Now, can you please enlighten me on how the hell you appeared in one of the most secure Maggia warehouses in New York? And while you're at it—who do you work for?"
The second I heard that word—Maggia—something clicked.
My mind scrambled to piece it together. The suits. The weapons. The brutal efficiency. And the guy standing in front of me.
It wasn't just any mobster.
This was Hammerhead.
I was in Marvel.
The realization nearly knocked the wind out of me. This wasn't just some mafia warehouse—I was smack dab in the middle of a Maggia stronghold in New York.
Holy. Shit.
My heart pounded as my brain tried to process the gravity of my situation. Hammerhead wasn't just some crime boss—he was one of the most ruthless supercriminals in this world. The guy had an adamantium-reinforced skull and a temper so short it made TNT look stable.
I was in deep.
Unfortunately, while I was busy having an existential crisis, I forgot to answer.
SMACK!
Another blow, this time a backhanded slap, sent my head snapping to the side. Baldy snarled, "Answer me, dammit!"
I gasped, sucking in sharp, painful breaths. "I… I don't know how I got here! I'm not even American! You can tell by my accent!" My words tumbled out in desperation. "I don't work for anyone! This is a misunderstanding! Let me go—I don't have anything to do with you guys!"
Hammerhead's expression darkened. He didn't like that answer.
He gave a quick glance to his men, and they moved.
"No, no, no! Please, I don't know anything!" I thrashed against the ropes, but it was useless.
The first punch came from my left. Then another from the right. A fist crashed into my stomach, knocking the air out of me. A sharp jab to my ribs made me choke. They took turns. One after the other, methodically breaking me down, turning my face into a crimson mask.
By the time they stopped, I couldn't even lift my head. Blood dripped onto the cold concrete floor beneath me, pooling around my chair. My entire body throbbed, every nerve screaming in agony.
Hammerhead crouched down, his grotesque forehead looming over me like a damn monolith.
"Just tell me who you work for, and I'll let you go." His voice was slow, almost gentle. "Did Fisk send you? Maybe Silvermane? Or are you one of those government mooks trying to take down the big bad Hammerhead, huh?"
I forced my swollen eyes open, barely able to see through the haze of pain.
I was royally fucked. No way these guys were letting me walk out of here alive.
Fuck that god for sending me here—death was better than this shit. If he sent me here, his so-called "gift" might be the only thing that could get me out of this mess.
I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation I felt before. The dice rolled again.
19-14: Superpower Wiki – Copper Mimicry - Arjun can transform their body completely into copper. A user's transformed form is anatomically identical to their normal form, aside from being made of copper, in which case it contains all organs and is somewhat vulnerable to attacks and also provides a strength boost and speed boost. Alternately the user can transform into homogeneous matter, without any part of their form being more important than the other. Since this is slight high roll Arjun can also turn his body parts into a few limited shapes
I felt a sudden surge of energy flooding my veins, information burning itself into my brain. I could now turn my entire body into copper, gaining increased strength and speed, though my durability wasn't absolute. My body could also shift into limited shapes—a small bonus for the high roll.
Right now, I didn't care about the specifics. I had a way out, and that was all that mattered.
I started mumbling incoherently, just enough to catch Hammerhead's attention.
"What's that, punk?" he grumbled, stepping closer. His heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor, and I could smell the stale stench of cheap cigars on his breath.
The moment he leaned in, I flipped the mental switch.
My skin hardened, shifting into gleaming metal. The ropes binding me snapped like dried twigs as I surged forward, delivering a brutal uppercut to Hammerhead's jaw. His feet left the ground as he flew backward, crashing into a stack of crates with a loud THUD.
His goons were fast—too fast. They immediately reached for their shotguns, but I was faster. I slammed a fist into the nearest one's stomach, sending him crumpling. Another got a right hook straight to the jaw, while a third barely had time to raise his gun before I headbutted him. My reinforced skull met his face with a sickening CRACK.
BOOM!
A shotgun blast echoed in the room. Pain flared in my gut, and I flinched, expecting agony. Instead, I heard the sound of metal clinking. I looked down. The pellets were embedded in my copper-plated stomach but hadn't pierced through. Holy shit.
The shooter's eyes widened in horror. Before he could chamber another round, I decked him in the face, knocking him out cold.
Another impact slammed into my back, sending me stumbling forward. I turned to see Hammerhead, bruised but standing, shotgun smoking in his hands.
"You little shit!" he bellowed, pumping another round into the chamber. He fired again, but this time, I dodged, barely.
I needed to get out. More of his men would be on their way.
I ignored Hammerhead's furious shouts and bolted for the door, shoving it open and sprinting into a dimly lit hallway. Footsteps and shouting echoed from all sides—shit, I was getting cornered.
No choice.
I turned to the nearest window and jumped.
Glass shattered around me as I plummeted. The wind roared in my ears before I crashed onto the pavement below. My legs buckled, and I tumbled into a roll, the impact rattling my bones. Note to self: figure out how to land properly.
Gunfire erupted behind me. Bullets whizzed through the night air, some ricocheting off my copper skin. Either these Maggia goons had the aim of stormtroopers, or I was just that lucky.
I pushed myself up and ran, weaving between towering shipping containers. The place looked like some kind of industrial dockyard, massive cranes looming overhead like silent sentinels. The air smelled of salt and gasoline, and the distant hum of city traffic reminded me how close yet far civilization was.
Four more guys rounded a corner ahead, raising their guns.
"Oh, come on," I groaned.
They fired, but I was already moving. I slammed into the first one shoulder-first, sending him sprawling. A second got a boot to the ribs, while the third took a wild swing at me—I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and drove my knee into his stomach. The fourth hesitated, so I ended it quick with a punch to the jaw.
I didn't have time for a victory lap. More were coming.
I spotted a fence at the edge of the docks and hopped over it, landing in an empty street lined with closed shops. A neon sign flickered above a diner across the road, casting eerie blue light onto the wet pavement. Brooklyn, I realized. I was in Brooklyn.
I dropped my copper form and kept running. Police sirens wailed in the distance.
I didn't want to get arrested on my first night in the Marvel Universe—especially with no identification.
After what felt like thirty minutes of running, I was panting like a dog in summer. I stumbled into a construction site, dark and abandoned for the night.
A stack of massive metal pipes caught my eye. Perfect.
I climbed inside one and collapsed, chest heaving. My breath echoed inside the hollow metal tube as I tried to process everything that had happened.
I was dead in my old world. No family, no loved ones, but still... that was a big deal.I was in the Marvel Universe—a place where time and reality could be rewritten on a whim.I had no identity, no money, no contacts. Just this dumbass power that worked off random dice rolls.And most importantly—I had to change this world for the better.Because if I didn't?
I'd be condemned to eternal damnation.
The weight of it all came crashing down on me.
I let my head rest against the cool metal and shut my eyes.
For now, I just needed to sleep.