No self-respecting transmigrator ventured into the multiverse without a system these days.
It was practically a union requirement.
Especially in Marvel.
Show up empty-handed and you weren’t a protagonist… you were catering.
Luca accepted the system’s existence in approximately three seconds.
When you’ve already accepted that you’re standing in a warzone next to two orphaned children after a missile turned your living room into abstract art, a voice in your head barely registers as unusual.
System.
First world.
Mission.
Go.
[Countdown initiated.
First destination: Godzilla 2: King of the Monsters.] [Mission parameters will be released upon arrival.
Preparation time: 9 minutes 40 seconds.] Cold.
No small talk, no personality, or any attempts to soften the blow.
The blow being: Godzilla 2.
“**^****!!!” The curse exploded from Luca’s mouth before he could stop it.
Not the old Godzilla, the new one.
The version where monsters treated cities like chew toys and radiation bloomed like flowers across the globe.
Where his unarmed, untrained, slightly-out-of-shape-by-eighteen-year-old-standards body would last approximately negative three seconds.
This wasn’t a system.
This was a joke with voice activation.
Wanda’s sobbing hitched.
Pietro’s tears paused mid-stream.
Both children stared at the suddenly screaming adult with expressions that shifted from grief to confusion to mild concern.
Is he crazy?
Pietro’s eyes seemed to ask.
Probably, Wanda’s answered silently.
Luca caught himself, forced a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“Nothing!
Just, nothing.
I’m fine.” He reached out, ruffled both their heads with clumsy affection.
“Everything’s fine.” Fine.
Right.
Totally fine.
System, we need to talk.
He kept the thought internal this time.
Newbie here, first jump.
Isn’t this a bit…
much?
He knew bargaining with systems was usually pointless.
But desperate times— [Analyzing host capabilities…] [Host attributes: Below average baseline human.] [Survival probability in Godzilla 2: King of the Monsters: 0.0000001%] [Adjusting destination parameters…] [Destination changed.
New world: Titanic.] Luca’s brain short-circuited.
Then his body moved before his brain could catch up, arms wrapping around Wanda in an impulsive hug, lifting her slightly, spinning once… twice… before setting her down with a grin so wide it hurt his face.
“….” Wanda stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
Pietro grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her back a step, eyeing the dancing lunatic with open suspicion.
Titanic.
The name hung in Luca’s mind like a promise.
Cameron’s masterpiece.
Minimal mortal danger except for that whole sinking thing at the end, and he knew exactly when that was coming.
No monsters, radiation, or world-ending threats.
Just a ship.
Some icebergs.
And… His train of thought derailed slightly.
Rose DeWitt Bukater.
Pre-“Fat Wen” era, back when she was young and radiant and absolutely not the kind of woman a forty-year-old hack writer trapped in an eighteen-year-old’s body should be thinking about in that context.
Focus, he told himself firmly, mission first.
Whatever the mission is, save people, steal the Heart of the Ocean, maybe flirt with the protagonist it’s infinitely better than being monster food.
The countdown in his vision read 7:32 and counting.
“You two.” Luca turned to the twins, suddenly aware that he couldn’t exactly explain where he was going.
“Stay here.
I need to~” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway.
“Bathroom, I’ll be right back.” Pietro’s eyes narrowed further.
“Now?
You need the bathroom now?” “Explosions,” Luca said weakly.
“Does things to the bladder.” Luca didn’t wait for the twins to process his abrupt departure.
He simply dropped through the hole, landing with a jarring thud on the rubble below.
Three meters was nothing.
His ankles protested, but held.
Upstairs, two small faces peered down at the suddenly empty space where he’d been standing moments ago.
The crying had stopped entirely, replaced by something between confusion and concern.
“Pietro,” Wanda whispered, her voice still thick with tears but steadying, “is Brother Luca…
stupid?” Pietro considered this with the solemnity of a ten-year-old who’d just lost everything and was now questioning the sanity of the last adult he knew.
“Maybe.
He might have hit his head.
In the…
you know.
The explosion.” It was the best explanation either of them had.
Downstairs, Luca had no time for their confusion.
The countdown was ticking… Titanic awaited.
He burst into the bedroom, yanking open drawers, overturning contents.
Weapons first.
This was Sokovia, Eastern Europe, sensible paranoia baked into daily life.
His predecessor’s parents had prepared accordingly.
The Beretta 92s were exactly where memory placed them.
Two pistols, matte black, oiled and ready.
Four spare magazines beside them.
He checked each quickly, loaded, safety on, then tucked them into his waistband.
Small-time gangster hardware against a missile?
Useless.
Against whatever random dangers might materialize on a ship in 1912?
Sufficient.
The bedroom safe was next.
Combination from memory, dial spinning, lock clicking open.
Thank you, paranoid predecessor parents, Luca thought as gold bars gleamed in the safe’s interior.
Cash too, stacks of Sokovian currency and US dollars, but dollars from 2006 meant nothing in 1912.
Paper money was timeline-specific.
Gold, however…
Gold was eternal and universally accepted.
Three bars went into his pockets, heavy and reassuring.
Kitchen next.
Fruit knife from the block, slipped onto his belt.
Utility room after that, he needed a lifebuoy, something floatable, because if the system decided to be funny and drop him mid-sink… [Preparation time elapsed.
Initiating transfer.] [3…] “No, wait, I’m not—” [2…] “I need another minute—” [1…] The world dissolved.
Luca’s consciousness stretched like taffy, pulled through dimensions he couldn’t perceive.
Light streaked past, countless points of it, each one potentially a world, a story, a death waiting to happen.
His brain buzzed with the pressure of existence compressing and expanding around him.
He’d never killed a pig, but he’d eaten pork.
This felt like that moment between too much information, too much everything, the universe showing him things his mind wasn’t built to process.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed.
[Transfer complete.] [Host has arrived at destination: RMS Titanic, Southampton Docks, April 10, 1912.] [You have ten minutes to acclimate.
Primary mission will be released upon completion of acclimation period.] Luca opened his eyes.
And immediately recoiled.
“What the hell is that smell?” The odor hit him thick, complex, and absolutely rank.
Horse manure, coal smoke, unwashed bodies, fish, industrial grease, human waste, and approximately seventeen other stenches he couldn’t identify combining into something that made his eyes water.
His 21st-century nostrils, accustomed to filtered air and artificial fragrances, had just encountered 1912 unfiltered.
It was not going well.
He stumbled back, hand clamped over his nose, vision blurring from the assault.
Ten minutes, the system had said.
Ten minutes to not throw up before the mission even started.
Perfect start.