The basement rec room of the Parker house smelled like vanilla candles, Cherry Coke, and the faint trace of desperation that came from a seventeen-year-old boy realizing his dream girl was on his lap.
Caleb James Smith—CJ to friends, acquaintances, and the lunch lady who sometimes slipped him extra fries—was kissing Madison Parker. The Madison Parker. Homecoming queen. Instagram goddess. Hair always perfect even when it rained. And right now, her lips were pressed to his like some impossible teenage miracle.
She tasted like cherry lip gloss and forbidden fruit.
"Your parents won't be back for hours, right?" CJ whispered against her ear, his voice cracking in a way that immediately betrayed how inexperienced he was at this whole smooth-operator thing. He had that earnest, farm-boy charm that somehow made even nervous stammering seem endearing.
"Not until midnight," Madison breathed, perfectly manicured nails ghosting along his scalp, her designer perfume mixing with the cheap candle scent. When she spoke, it was with that breathy, practiced sultriness that came from years of knowing exactly the effect she had on people. "Dad's at some boring charity dinner—something about underprivileged youth or whatever—and Mom's with him taking selfies with the mayor's wife. We have all the time in the world."
All the time in the world. CJ tried not to grin like an idiot and failed spectacularly. Madison Parker was basically a solar eclipse in human form: rare, blindingly gorgeous, and likely to ruin your eyesight if you stared too long. He'd been staring for three years.
The leather couch squeaked as she shifted closer, her homecoming tiara—because royalty didn't take nights off, apparently—sitting crooked on the glass coffee table next to empty Cherry Coke cans, half-melted M&Ms, and what looked like three different lip glosses.
"I like your shirt," Madison murmured, fingers trailing over the collar of his carefully ironed button-down. "Very... clean-cut. Like a young businessman or something."
CJ's throat went dry. "Thanks. I, uh... I ironed it myself. Took twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five if you count the time I burned my thumb on the iron and had to run it under cold water while questioning my life choices."
Madison's laugh was like wind chimes made of diamonds. "That's so sweet. Most guys just throw on whatever's on their floor."
"Yeah, well, most guys don't get to hang out with Madison Parker on a Saturday night." CJ's smile was crooked, boyish, the kind that suggested he still couldn't quite believe his luck. "I mean, three hours ago I was reorganizing my comic book collection by publication date. Now I'm here with you, and I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming."
"You're not dreaming," she whispered, leaning closer. "But you are overthinking."
"I overthink everything. It's like my superpower, except completely useless in every practical situation."
"Then shut up and kiss me, genius."
He didn't need to be told twice. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast. But Madison wasn't going anywhere. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, and CJ was fairly certain he was ascending into another plane of existence.
"You know," Madison said between kisses, her voice taking on that practiced breathiness, "I've been watching you in AP Biology. You're like, really smart. And you have this whole Clark Kent thing going on."
CJ blinked. "Clark Kent?"
"You know—glasses, good jaw, that whole 'I'm secretly Superman but I'm too modest to mention it' vibe." She traced his jawline with one finger. "It's very sexy in a nerdy way."
"I... wow. That might be the best compliment I've ever received. And I once got a gold star on a history report about the Byzantine Empire."
"See? Nerdy but sexy."
The TV flickered silently in the background, some forgotten rom-com on mute, as Madison's fingers worked at his shirt buttons. CJ felt like he was living in someone else's life—a much cooler someone who actually knew what to do with his hands when the most beautiful girl in school was sitting on his lap.
"Madison, I have to tell you something," he said, his voice taking on that earnest quality that made him sound older than his seventeen years.
"What?" she whispered against his neck.
"I've had a crush on you since sophomore year. Since that day in biology when you accidentally called mitochondria 'mighty-chondria' and then laughed so hard you snorted."
Madison pulled back, eyebrows raised. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything about you. It's probably creepy, but I can't help it. You're like... you're Madison Parker."
She smiled—not her practiced Instagram smile, but something real and warm. "You're really sweet, you know that? Most guys just want to talk about themselves or show me their cars."
"Well, I don't have a car. Just a ten-speed bike with a basket, which isn't exactly panty-dropping transportation."
"I like bikes," Madison said, though her tone suggested she'd never been within ten feet of one that wasn't at a photo shoot.
"You're just being nice."
"Maybe. But I'm also here with you, aren't I?" She kissed him again, deeper this time. "Sometimes a girl wants a guy who knows the difference between mitochondria and mighty-chondria."
CJ was about to respond with something undoubtedly dorky but charming when the basement door didn't just open—it detonated.
Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. The sound echoed through the basement like a gunshot, and CJ nearly swallowed his own tongue.
"MADISON ELIZABETH PARKER!"
The voice belonged to a man who sounded like he gargled with gravel and disappointment every morning. Heavy work boots stomped down the stairs with the measured pace of an executioner.
CJ looked up and immediately wished he hadn't.
Mr. Parker stood at the top of the stairs like an avenging angel in a rumpled dress shirt. His tie hung loose around his neck, his usually perfect hair was disheveled, and his face was the color of a ripe tomato about to explode. In one hand, he clutched a Louisville Slugger like it was Excalibur.
CJ froze. Madison froze. Even the muted TV seemed to pause mid-scene.
"D-Daddy!" Madison squeaked, scrambling backward and frantically tugging at her dress. Her composed Instagram-goddess persona evaporated instantly, replaced by the voice of a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "You're supposed to be at the charity thing!"
"Yeah, I was at the charity thing." Mr. Parker's voice was deadly quiet, the kind of quiet that preceded hurricanes. He descended one stair, his eyes never leaving CJ. "Until your mother—your saint of a mother—realized she forgot her purse. So we came back. And what do I find? Huh? What do I find in my basement?"
CJ raised both hands in the universal gesture of 'please don't kill me.' "Hi, Mr. Parker. Nice to see you again, sir. Great weather we're having. Love what you've done with the landscaping. That's a really nice bat you've got there—Louisville Slugger, right? Ash wood? Very classic choice."
Mr. Parker's eyes narrowed into slits. "You think you're funny, kid?"
"Not really, no sir. I'm usually more awkward than funny. Ask anyone at school—they'll tell you I once tripped over my own shoelaces during the Pledge of Allegiance."
"What's your name?" Mr. Parker took another step down, the bat tapping against his palm with each word.
"Caleb Smith. CJ. I go to Jefferson High with Madison. I'm in all AP classes, I volunteer at the animal shelter on weekends, and I help my neighbor Mrs. Chen with her groceries every Thursday." The words tumbled out like he was reciting his resume to the Grim Reaper. "I also tutor kids in math, I've never gotten so much as a detention, and I once helped a duck family cross the street."
"I don't care if you're the Pope," Mr. Parker snarled, his Brooklyn accent thickening with rage. "You got your hands on my daughter in my house, on my couch, and you think that's okay?"
"Daddy, we weren't doing anything bad!" Madison protested, though her voice lacked conviction. "We were just talking! And maybe... kissing a little. But nothing serious!"
Mr. Parker's head swiveled toward his daughter like a tank turret. "TALKING? You call this talking? Look at him! Look at this kid! His shirt's half-open, his hair looks like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket, and he's got your lipstick all over his face!"
CJ touched his cheek and his fingers came away pink. "Ah. Yeah. That's... that's definitely your lipstick."
"You think this is a joke?" Mr. Parker's voice dropped to a whisper, which was somehow more terrifying than the yelling. "You think coming into my house, putting your hands on my little girl, you think that's funny?"
"No sir, definitely not funny," CJ said quickly, his voice taking on that earnest quality that usually helped him talk his way out of trouble. "If anything, it's deeply serious. Monumentally serious. Like, if there were a scale of seriousness from one to ten, this would be somewhere around forty-seven."
Madison shot him a look that clearly said 'stop talking before you get us both killed.'
But CJ's mouth was apparently on autopilot. "Look, Mr. Parker, I know how this looks. I know you're probably thinking I'm some kind of delinquent who's trying to corrupt your daughter. But I'm not. I'm just a regular guy who happens to think Madison is the most amazing girl in the world. And yes, we were kissing, but it was consensual kissing. Very respectful kissing. PG-13 kissing at worst."
Mr. Parker's face went from red to purple. "PG-13?"
"Maybe PG-13 leaning toward R," CJ amended, then immediately regretted it. "But not hard R! More like soft R. Really, really soft R. Almost back to PG-13."
"CJ," Madison hissed, "please stop helping."
Mr. Parker raised the bat, and CJ could see his own reflection in the polished wood. "Let me explain something to you, Caleb Smith. You see this bat? This bat has been in my family for three generations. My grandfather used it to chase off punks who thought they could mess around with my grandmother. My father used it to chase off punks who thought they could mess around with my mother. And now I'm gonna use it to chase off the punk who thinks he can mess around with my daughter."
"That's actually a really nice family tradition," CJ said, because apparently his brain had completely disconnected from his survival instincts. "Very consistent. I respect that kind of generational continuity."
Mr. Parker blinked. "Are you... are you complimenting my death threats?"
"I'm trying to find common ground here, sir. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we could start over? I could come back tomorrow, ring the doorbell properly, bring flowers for Mrs. Parker—"
"YOU'RE NOT COMING BACK TOMORROW!" Mr. Parker roared, raising the bat high above his head. "YOU'RE NOT COMING BACK EVER! YOU'RE DONE, KID! FINISHED! FINITO!"
Time slowed to a crawl. CJ saw Madison's face, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth open in a silent scream. He saw the bat reaching the apex of its arc, saw Mr. Parker's knuckles white with fury and righteous paternal rage. He had just enough time to think that this was probably the dumbest way anyone had ever died in the history of human stupidity.
But at least he'd gotten to kiss Madison Parker.
The bat came down with the force of divine judgment.
And the last thing Caleb James Smith saw was Madison's horror-stricken face.
The last thing he heard was her screaming his name.
The last thing he felt was a strange, almost peaceful acceptance that hey, at least it had been one hell of a make-out session.
Then there was nothing but darkness, and somewhere in the infinite void, the sound of someone very important clearing their throat with cosmic authority.
—
CJ opened his eyes expecting either pearly gates or flames, depending on how the Big Guy upstairs felt about teenage make-out sessions. Instead, he found himself sitting in what looked like the waiting room of the universe's most depressing DMV.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the enthusiasm of dying insects. The walls were that particular shade of beige that suggested whoever designed this place had given up on joy as a concept. Motivational posters hung askew, featuring kittens with slogans like "HANG IN THERE" and "EXISTENCE IS TEMPORARY, PAPERWORK IS ETERNAL."
A water cooler in the corner gurgled ominously. The chairs were that special brand of uncomfortable that made you wonder if they were designed by someone who'd never actually sat in one.
"Well," CJ said to the empty room, his voice echoing slightly, "this is not what I expected the afterlife to look like. I mean, I wasn't expecting harps and clouds necessarily, but I was hoping for something with a little more... I don't know, divine majesty? Maybe some golden light? This looks like where hope goes to die."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," said a voice behind him, tinged with the kind of philosophical amusement that suggested its owner had spent way too much time thinking about the cosmic joke of existence.
CJ spun around in his uncomfortable chair and immediately wished he hadn't. Sitting behind a desk that definitely hadn't been there two seconds ago was... a guy. Just a guy. Average height, average build, wearing a rumpled Hawaiian shirt covered in pineapples, cargo shorts that had seen better summers, and flip-flops that looked like they'd walked across several dimensions. His hair was perfectly tousled in that way that suggested he'd either spent an hour styling it or had just rolled out of bed—possibly both simultaneously.
The guy's name tag read "ROB" in comic sans font, which felt like adding insult to cosmic injury.
"You're God?" CJ asked, sitting up straighter despite himself. Even in death, his Midwestern upbringing demanded proper posture when meeting deities.
"God? Oh no, no, no." Rob waved his hand dismissively, a gesture that somehow managed to be both casual and profound. "God's way upstairs in the executive suite, probably contemplating the meaning of meaning or something equally incomprehensible. I'm Rob. Random Omnipotent Being. It's on the name tag." He gestured to his chest with a self-deprecating smile. "I know, I know, the name's not very creative. But when you're dealing with cosmic bureaucracy, clarity trumps creativity every time."
CJ blinked, processing this information with the same expression he'd worn when his calculus teacher had tried to explain infinity. "Random Omnipotent Being? That's... that's actually a job title?"
"More like a cosmic temp position that became permanent. You know how it is—you fill in for someone for a few eons, and suddenly everyone expects you to handle the weird cases." Rob leaned back in his chair, which squeaked with the authority of furniture that had witnessed the filing of a million cosmic complaints. "Speaking of which, we need to talk about your case, Caleb."
"My case?"
"Oh boy, this is going to be awkward." Rob shuffled through a stack of papers that materialized on his desk like magic, because it literally was magic. "See, here's the thing about cosmic administration—it's surprisingly similar to regular administration, except when we mess up, people die instead of just getting their tax returns delayed."
CJ felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What kind of mess-up are we talking about here?"
Rob pulled out what looked like a cosmic file folder, the kind that suggested someone somewhere was taking very detailed notes about CJ's existence. "Caleb James Smith, born April 15th, 2007, Jefferson, Missouri. Parents: David and Susan Smith. Favorite food: his mom's chocolate chip cookies. Least favorite subject: gym class, specifically the rope climbing unit." Rob looked up with the expression of someone who'd memorized way too many personal details. "You were supposed to die December 3rd, 2067, age sixty, natural causes in your sleep. Peaceful. Dignified. After a life spent discovering the cure for AIDS, revolutionizing gene therapy, and probably inventing something that would make smartphones look like stone tablets."
CJ's jaw dropped. "I was going to cure AIDS?"
"Oh yeah, big time. Your third Nobel Prize was going to be for that one. The first two were for some very complicated stuff involving genetic markers and cellular regeneration that I won't pretend to understand." Rob flipped through more papers. "Instead, you got your head caved in by a Louisville Slugger on October 28th, 2024, because an intern in our Temporal Coordination Department mixed up time zones."
"Time zones," CJ repeated slowly, like he was trying to understand a foreign language.
Rob pulled out what appeared to be a cosmic smartphone—because apparently even omnipotent beings couldn't escape technology—and scrolled through what looked like the universe's most complicated calendar app. "See, Madison's dad was supposed to forget his wallet at 11:30 PM Central Time, not his wife's purse at 8:30 PM Central Time. The wallet thing would have given you two more hours of... how do you kids put it these days... 'getting to second base'?"
"You know about second base?"
"Kid, I'm omnipotent, not Amish. I know about all the bases. I also know about the peculiar human tendency to use baseball metaphors for romantic encounters, which frankly seems unnecessarily complicated." Rob set down his phone. "Anyway, the purse gets forgotten at 8:30 PM, which is exactly when our intern—Kevin, nice kid, terrible with time management—thought 11:30 PM was because he forgot that Missouri doesn't observe daylight saving time the same way as cosmic headquarters."
CJ stared at him, feeling like he'd just been told his entire existence had been derailed by a scheduling error. "I died because of daylight saving time?"
"Technically, you died because Kevin can't read a clock and has trouble with time zones. But yeah, DST was a contributing factor." Rob's expression was somewhere between apologetic and amused. "It's like that old saying: for want of a nail, the shoe was lost. Except in your case, it's more like: for want of proper temporal coordination, the future Nobel laureate got murdered by a baseball bat."
"This is insane."
"Welcome to cosmic administration, where the rules are made up and the points... well, actually the points do matter quite a bit. They determine universal stability." Rob leaned forward, his expression becoming more serious. "Look, Caleb—can I call you Caleb? CJ feels too informal for a conversation about interdimensional relocation."
"Uh, sure. Caleb's fine. Though this whole situation is making me feel like nothing about my identity is particularly stable right now."
"Fair point. Identity is surprisingly fluid when you get into the metaphysics of it." Rob pulled out a thick manual that looked like it had been written by lawyers who'd given up on the concept of human comprehension. "Here's the thing: according to the Cosmic Union Agreement of 1823—and yes, I know what you're thinking, why 1823? Long story involving Napoleon and a very angry phoenix—I can't send you back to your original timeline once the paperwork's been processed."
CJ felt hope drain from his chest like someone had pulled a plug. "Paperwork's been processed?"
"Filed in triplicate the second your brain stopped functioning. Union rules. Very strict about that sort of thing ever since the Great Resurrection Incident of 1456." Rob closed the manual with a thud that sounded remarkably final. "But here's where it gets interesting, in a cosmic compensation sort of way."
"Compensation?"
Rob's grin transformed his entire face, and suddenly CJ could see something vast and unknowable lurking behind those ordinary features. "I can send you to any fictional universe you want, with whatever powers you want—within reason, of course. Think of it as our 'oops, we accidentally derailed your destiny' gift basket. Except instead of fruit and cheese, you get a new life and superpowers."
CJ's brain did that thing where it completely shut down for a few seconds, then rebooted like a computer trying to process information that was fundamentally beyond its operating system. "Any fictional universe?"
"Any one that exists in human imagination. Marvel, DC, Harry Potter, Star Wars, that weird anime where everyone has improbably colored hair and fights with oversized weapons..." Rob gestured expansively. "The multiverse is vast, and human creativity has mapped out some pretty interesting corners of it."
"And powers?"
"Again, within reason. I can't make you omnipotent—that's my department, and frankly, it's more trouble than it's worth. But pretty much anything else is on the table." Rob paused thoughtfully. "Super strength, magic, reality manipulation, that peculiar anime thing where characters can power up by screaming at increasing volumes... though I have to ask, what is it with that last one? From a physics standpoint, it makes absolutely no sense."
CJ found himself laughing despite the cosmic absurdity of the situation. "I think it's supposed to be about willpower or emotional intensity manifesting as physical power."
"Ah, psychic energy conversion. That actually makes more sense than I thought." Rob made a note on a pad that appeared in his hand. "You know, in all my eons of existence, you're the first person who's bothered to explain anime physics to me. Most people just ask to be a Saiyan and leave it at that."
"Most people ask to be Saiyans?"
"You'd be surprised how common that request is. Though to be fair, the ability to achieve god-like power through vigorous yelling does have a certain appeal." Rob leaned back in his chair. "So what's it going to be, Caleb? What universe speaks to your newly deceased soul?"
CJ's mind raced through possibilities like he was scrolling through the world's most important Netflix menu. Dragon Ball Z would be incredible, but the constant screaming and power scaling seemed exhausting. DC Universe had potential, but Superman was already taken, and being the second-best Kryptonian seemed like a participation trophy. Star Wars could be cool, but the galaxy far, far away seemed to have a lot of sand, and CJ had never been a big fan of sand.
Marvel, though... Marvel had possibilities.
"What about the Marvel Comics Universe?" he asked, feeling a familiar excitement building. "Specifically, the X-Men."
Rob's eyebrows rose with approval. "Excellent choice. Marvel Comics, not the movies, I hope? Because the movies take some... creative liberties with the source material that frankly give me a headache."
"Definitely comics. The movies are fine, but they're kind of their own thing."
"Thank God. Well, thank me, actually, since I'm the one dealing with this situation." Rob started typing on a keyboard that had materialized from nowhere. "X-Men, classic. Love the social commentary, the allegorical representation of minority struggles, the way it explores themes of acceptance and prejudice through the lens of superhero fiction. Very sophisticated for a medium that started with guys in colorful tights punching crime."
CJ nodded enthusiastically. "And I want to be Rogue's twin brother."
Rob stopped typing and looked up with the expression of someone who'd just heard something genuinely unexpected. "Rogue? The absorption girl with the untouchable skin and the tragic backstory? That's... actually not what I was expecting."
"Most guys probably want to be Wolverine, right?"
"Wolverine, Cyclops, sometimes Gambit if they think the accent is cool." Rob tilted his head curiously. "Why Rogue's brother specifically?"
CJ felt that earnest quality creeping into his voice, the one that had always made him sound older than his years. "Because she's incredibly powerful, but her powers are also a curse. She can't touch anyone skin-to-skin without absorbing their life force, their memories, their abilities. She's surrounded by people but completely isolated at the same time." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "I've always felt bad for her. She's this strong, beautiful, complex character who's trapped by her own abilities. And I want to help her."
"That's surprisingly empathetic," Rob said, leaning forward with genuine interest. "Most people focus on the power aspect and ignore the psychological implications."
"But here's the thing—I also want a version of her power that isn't completely out of control."
"Go on."
CJ took a deep breath, the way he always did when he was about to explain a complex idea. "I want her absorption ability, but with a selective interface. Like a video game system that lets me choose exactly what to absorb and for how long. Temporary absorption for testing powers, permanent absorption for abilities I really want to keep, partial absorption for when I only need specific aspects of someone's abilities..."
Rob whistled low, a sound that somehow carried harmonics of cosmic appreciation. "A Selective Absorption Gamer System. That's... wow. That's actually incredibly creative. Most people just ask for Superman's power set or the ability to turn into a giant monkey when they see the moon."
"I want to help my sister, but I also want to be useful in my own right. With controlled absorption, I could theoretically learn from any mutant, any hero, any person with special abilities. I could be like a living library of powers and skills."
"And you could do it without the psychological trauma of uncontrolled memory absorption," Rob added, typing furiously. "This is brilliant. Let me just run this through the cosmic approval process... checking for reality-breaking exploits... making sure it won't cause universal collapse due to overpowered protagonist syndrome... and..." He paused, fingers hovering over the keys. "Approved! Congratulations, Caleb, you just designed one of the most elegantly balanced power sets I've seen in centuries."
CJ felt his heart start beating again, which was strange because he was pretty sure he was dead. "Really? It's not too overpowered?"
"It's got built-in limitations, requires strategic thinking, and promotes character growth through interaction with others. It's like someone took the concept of power scaling and made it actually make sense." Rob grinned. "Plus, it's going to be fascinating to see how you handle the moral implications of selective absorption. Do you ask permission? What if someone's unconscious? What about villains who are trying to kill you?"
"I... hadn't thought about the ethics of it."
"That's what makes it interesting. Power without moral complexity is just wish fulfillment. Power with moral complexity is storytelling."
The room around them began to shift slightly, becoming less DMV-like and more... cosmic. The beige walls took on a subtle shimmer, and the fluorescent lights seemed to pulse with deeper meaning.
"So," Rob continued, "do you want to start as a baby and live the whole life, or jump in at a specific point in the timeline?"
"Can I jump in right when their powers manifest? Around sixteen? I really don't want to go through potty training again, and frankly, being a baby with adult memories sounds like a special kind of psychological torture."
Rob laughed, a sound that seemed to contain echoes of distant quasars. "Smart choice. Cosmic reincarnation with full bladder control regression is nobody's idea of a good time. Plus, sixteen is a great age for power manifestation—old enough to handle the responsibility, young enough to grow into it."
"What would my name be?"
"Marcus D'Ancanto," Rob said without hesitation. "I figured it sounded cooler than Caleb Smith, and it fits with the family dynamic. Marcus and Marie D'Ancanto, the absorption twins."
CJ tested it out. "Marcus D'Ancanto. Yeah, that definitely sounds more like someone who could save the world."
"You'll wake up in your sixteen-year-old body just as your sister Marie—that's Rogue's real name before she chooses her codename—accidentally puts her boyfriend David into a coma with her newly manifested powers." Rob's expression became more serious. "It's going to be traumatic for her. First manifestation of mutant powers rarely goes smoothly, and hers is going to be particularly brutal."
"That's when my system activates?"
"The moment you try to comfort her and make skin contact, yes. Think of it as the universe's most emotionally charged tutorial level." Rob paused. "Fair warning—you're going to absorb some of her distress along with her power signature. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to understand what she's going through."
CJ nodded gravely. "What about memories? Do I get Marcus's memories, or am I going in blind?"
"You'll get the essential stuff," Rob explained, pulling up what looked like a cosmic user manual. "Basic motor functions, language skills, family relationships, social context. But your core personality, your knowledge from your original life, your inexplicable ability to remember comic book continuity but forget where you put important things—that all stays intact."
"I never lost important things. I kept everything organized in labeled boxes."
"Right, the labeled boxes. Very methodical." Rob grinned. "That's going to be interesting, actually. Your sister's going to be dealing with chaotic, uncontrolled powers, and you're going to be the organized, systematic one. Nice contrast."
"Any other advice for not dying horribly in the Marvel Universe?"
Rob stood up, and suddenly the air around him seemed to shimmer with infinite possibility. "Oh, where do I start? Don't trust anyone wearing a purple helmet. Never, ever sign contracts with anyone named Mephisto—seriously, read the fine print three times. If someone offers you power in exchange for your soul, just say no. And remember, in the Marvel Universe, being morally right doesn't guarantee you won't get punched through several buildings by someone having a bad day."
"That's... surprisingly specific advice."
"I've been doing this for a while. You learn things." Rob's expression became almost fatherly. "But here's the most important thing, Marcus—yes, I'm calling you Marcus now to help with the transition—your sister is going to need you more than you can imagine. Her powers are going to make her feel like a monster. She's going to think she's cursed, dangerous, unlovable. You're going to be the first person she can touch without hurting, and that's going to mean everything to her."
"How do you know she won't hurt me?"
"Because your powers are complementary by design. She absorbs uncontrollably, you absorb selectively. It's like cosmic balance—she's the storm, you're the eye of the storm. Plus, I may have tweaked your base physiology to be naturally resistant to uncontrolled absorption effects." Rob winked. "Consider it a twin perk."
The room began to fade around the edges, reality becoming negotiable.
"Wait!" CJ called out, suddenly panicked. "What about my original life? The AIDS cure, the Nobel Prizes, all that important stuff I was supposed to accomplish?"
Rob's smile became mysterious and infinite, like he was looking at something far beyond the current moment. "Who says you can't accomplish important things as a mutant? The Marvel Universe has plenty of problems that need solving—diseases, social inequality, cosmic threats, megalomaniacs with god complexes..." He shrugged with cosmic nonchalance. "Maybe your destiny was never tied to a specific universe, Caleb. Maybe it was tied to who you are as a person."
"But what if I screw it up? What if I'm not good enough?"
"Then you'll figure it out as you go, same as everyone else." Rob's expression became almost proud. "You know what I like about you, kid? You didn't ask for infinite power or invincibility or the ability to rewrite reality on a whim. You asked for the power to help your sister and the wisdom to use it responsibly. That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of person you are."
The world dissolved into light and possibility, reality becoming fluid around them.
"One last thing!" Rob called out as existence became negotiable. "Try not to get killed by any more angry fathers! That would be embarrassing for both of us!"
CJ felt consciousness slipping away, but in the distance, he could hear it—the sound of a teenage girl screaming in horror and confusion as her boyfriend collapsed into unconsciousness, her newly manifested powers draining his life force in a moment of innocent contact.
His sister needed him.
And Marcus D'Ancanto was about to be born.
---
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