Chapter 1: Awakening in a Sitcom
The last thing I remembered was the screech of brakes, the sickening crunch of metal, and then... nothing. Just endless, consuming void. How long had I drifted in that emptiness? Time meant nothing there—no light, no sound, no sensation except the gradual accumulation of something that felt like cosmic static seeping into my very essence.
Now consciousness slammed back into me like a freight train.
I jolted upright in an unfamiliar bed, gasping for air that tasted wrong—stale and tinged with the scent of old paper and desperation. My hands trembled as I pressed them against my temples, trying to stop the world from spinning. Two sets of memories crashed together in my skull like colliding waves.
I was Marcus Webb, twenty-eight, dead in a car accident on I-95.
I was Stuart Bloom, thirty-two, comic book store owner, chronic underachiever.
Both truths existed simultaneously, creating a nauseating mental double exposure. I staggered to my feet, nearly tripping over empty pizza boxes scattered across a threadbare carpet, and stumbled toward the bathroom mirror.
Stuart Bloom's face stared back at me—thin, pale, with dark circles under eyes that had seen too much defeat. But behind those familiar features, I could feel something else. Something that hadn't been there before the void.
"What the hell happened to me?" I whispered, then flinched at hearing Stuart's voice emerge from my throat.
The memories began sorting themselves with agonizing clarity. Marcus Webb had died when his car hydroplaned during a late-night drive home from a disastrous job interview. The last thing he'd been thinking about was how much his life resembled a sitcom—all the worst parts without any of the laughs.
Stuart Bloom's memories painted a picture of artistic dreams crushed under financial reality. He'd bought this comic shop with his inheritance after his mother's death, watched it slowly fail for three years, and was scheduled to open tomorrow morning with pathetically sparse inventory. His depression had been a living thing, feeding on every small failure until he could barely function.
But something had changed during my time in the void. I could feel it humming beneath my skin—three distinct... gifts? Curses? I didn't have words for what they were.
The first hit me like a migraine made of images. Future knowledge blazed across my mind in fragmented flashes: Bitcoin surging to impossible heights, the iPhone revolutionizing everything, a housing market collapse that would devastate millions. I saw walking figures that I somehow knew were Sheldon Cooper, Leonard Hofstadter, Howard Wolowitz, Raj Koothrappali. Characters from The Big Bang Theory, except they felt real, solid, with the weight of actual people rather than fictional constructs.
Memory, I realized. Eidetic recall of events that hadn't happened yet—wouldn't happen for years. The void had somehow branded twelve years of future history into my consciousness.
The second power pulsed more subtly, like a magnetic field I couldn't quite detect but knew was there. When I thought about comics, about storytelling, about the intersection of popular culture and genuine artistry, something in my chest responded. It felt like... attraction? Drawing power? As if I could become a lodestone for people who shared those passions.
Magnetism, I decided. Industry magnetism, specifically.
The third was the strangest—a feedback loop tied to success and confidence. Every genuine achievement, every real victory, would somehow translate into actual improvement. Not just feeling better about myself, but becoming better. More attractive, more charismatic, more capable. Success breeding success in a literal, almost supernatural way.
Growth, I thought. Authentic attractiveness through earned wins.
I splashed cold water on my face, watching droplets run down Stuart's gaunt cheeks while Marcus's analytical mind raced. I was inside The Big Bang Theory universe, somehow. Living in a sitcom that had been my comfort watching during countless lonely nights. The characters I'd laughed with and cared about for seven seasons were real people walking around Pasadena right now.
And if I was right about the timeline...
I stumbled back to the bedroom, searching through Stuart's belongings until I found an old flip phone. The date made my heart skip: September 23rd, 2007. The show's premiere was tomorrow night, but more importantly, the comic shop's grand opening was this morning.
Stuart's memories showed me the pathetic truth. He'd ordered maybe three boxes of mainstream titles, a handful of indie comics, and some action figures he'd gotten on clearance. He was opening a comic book store with roughly the same inventory as a decent magazine rack at CVS. Without divine intervention or incredible luck, the shop would be dead within six months.
But I had something better than divine intervention. I had foreknowledge.
My hands moved without conscious thought, grabbing Stuart's landline and calling every distributor whose number he had saved. The first few calls went to voicemail, but eventually I reached someone at Diamond Comic Distributors.
"This is Stuart Bloom with The Comic Center of Pasadena," I said, forcing confidence into Stuart's naturally hesitant voice. "I need to place an emergency order for my opening tomorrow. I've got cash and I need specific runs."
"Bit last minute, don't you think?" The guy sounded bored. "What are you looking for?"
"Walking Dead number one," I said, my Memory power feeding me exact information. "As many copies as you can get me. Also, anything from Robert Kirkman's other work. And I want you to double my order of Iron Man back issues—anything featuring Tony Stark."
"Walking Dead?" The distributor scoffed. "That zombie thing? Nobody's buying horror comics these days. And Iron Man's a C-lister at best."
If you only knew, I thought. The Walking Dead would become a cultural phenomenon. Iron Man would launch the most successful movie franchise in history within a year.
"I've got a good feeling about both," I said. "Call it market research. I'll pay expedite fees if you can get them to me by opening."
"Your funeral, pal. Though I gotta say, ordering like you know the future..."
I hung up before he could finish that thought, my heart hammering against my ribs. Three more distributors, three more conversations where I carefully positioned my impossible knowledge as "gut instincts" and "industry hunches." By the time I was done, I'd nearly emptied Stuart's bank account but ordered inventory that would be worth twenty times its cost within two years.
As the adrenaline faded, the full weight of my situation settled on me like a lead blanket. I wasn't just living in Stuart's life—I was stealing it. The original Stuart Bloom was gone, overwritten by whatever cosmic accident had stuffed my consciousness into his body during my void experience.
But maybe that wasn't entirely true. Stuart's memories didn't feel like foreign objects implanted in my brain. They resonated with something deeper, as if his dreams and mine had been compatible frequencies that the void had somehow merged. We'd both been comic book nerds, both struggling artists watching more successful friends, both carrying the weight of unrealized potential.
Maybe I wasn't replacing Stuart so much as fulfilling him.
I walked to the shop's front window and stared out at the quiet Pasadena street. Tomorrow, Sheldon, Leonard, Howard, and Raj would walk through that door. Real people with real problems, not punchlines in a television script. Leonard's desperate need for validation, Sheldon's crippling social anxiety masked by intellectual arrogance, Howard's loneliness driving him to increasingly pathetic behavior, Raj's selective mutism isolating him from half the population.
They would become my friends—had already become my friends, in the memories bleeding through from Stuart's timeline. But I would always know more about them than they could ever know about me. I would know Leonard and Penny's entire relationship arc, Sheldon and Amy's eventual marriage, Howard's journey to space, Raj's gradual recovery from his social anxiety.
The knowledge felt like both a blessing and a curse. How could I build genuine relationships when I already knew every major plot point of their lives? How could I be authentic when my very existence was based on impossible foreknowledge?
A knock on the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts. Through the glass, I could see a delivery truck and a guy with a clipboard looking annoyed.
"Comic delivery for Bloom!" he called.
I opened the door, and the delivery man gestured to several boxes stacked on a dolly. "Got your emergency order. Whatever you paid in expedite fees, I hope it was worth it."
As he wheeled the boxes inside, I felt the first real stirring of hope since awakening. These boxes contained my investment in Stuart's future—in my future now. Walking Dead #1, Iron Man back issues, other titles that my Memory power knew would explode in value.
I wasn't just surviving in Stuart's life anymore. I was building something new.
The delivery man left, and I stood alone in the shop surrounded by potential. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like possibilities in the air. Tomorrow, my life as Stuart Bloom would truly begin. Tomorrow, I would meet the characters I'd watched for years and try to help them without revealing the impossible truth of what I knew.
Tomorrow, I would find out if a man with future memories and void-touched powers could actually change anything, or if he was just another cosmic joke waiting for the punchline.
But tonight, for the first time since awakening in this borrowed life, I allowed myself to smile.
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