Fifty bucks short on rent.
That’s what started it—just fifty lousy dollars.
I stood there at the curb, rain coming down hard, staring at my beat-up boots.
Mud filled the seams.
Water rushed through the gutters Could I cut groceries for a few days?
Maybe.
Grab a double shift Sunday?
If I got lucky, maybe I’d get by.
Living like this wears you down.
Always doing math on spare receipts, clawing at every penny until it squeals.
After a while, you stop feeling like you.
Just some machine, dragging forward, chasing the next bill.
I hugged my cheap jacket closer and stepped out into the street.
My whole head buzzed with numbers and static.
I didn’t notice traffic.
Didn’t even look up.
Then—a screech tore through the rain.
Tires screamed, hunting for grip.
I spun right.
Instant floodlights.
A truck barreled toward me, horn blaring so loud it rattled my teeth.
No big slow-motion scene.
No life flashing by.
I had zero time—just metal, and the punch of bones caving in.
I flew.
Or, really, just got thrown.
Limbs everywhere, useless as a rag doll.
I remember blood in my mouth and feeling like I’d suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth.
Then: nothing.
Pure black.
That should’ve been it.
But I woke up choking.
First thing I noticed—just the stench.
Trash and piss, food going sour.
My cheek pressed against rough concrete; I gasped for air.
Nerves mangled, bracing for agony.
I pushed up, hands slapping into something wet and probably unmentionable.
Waited for pain.
Waited for something to break.
Nothing.
I grabbed my ribs—same ones a truck just turned to gravel.
They were fine.
My face too.
Not even a bruise.
I felt…lighter, somehow.
Back pain that nagged me for years?
Gone, without a trace.
I got to my feet, shaky and all wrong.
Everything about me felt off—stronger, tougher, more together.
I leaned against a sticky brick wall, lost.
Air thick as soup.
Distant hum of traffic.
I stumbled towards the nearest slant of light, out into a busted-up sidewalk I didn’t recognize.
My gut twisted.
Up ahead, a skyscraper loomed—its face a blinding digital billboard, bigger than a football field.
No Coke, no Apple.
Some off-brand ad I’d never seen.
A guy in blue spandex and a cape—cheesy as Halloween, gold eagles, and that horrible all-American smile—hawked energy drinks.
The giant text burned: HOMELANDER SAYS: VOUGHT HAS YOU COVERED!
My blood went ice-cold.
This wasn’t home.
No way.
This was that universe.
The one with “heroes” scarier than villains, all run from some monster-making corporate box.
Capes everywhere, all with egos and fists that break things.
No time for panic.
A blue screen flickered straight into my face, lighting up the alley in a weird, fake glow.
[Host stabilized.
Neural pathways mapped.] [The plot Changing System is now online.] I tried to swat it away.
It just hung there.
[Initiating Starter Package.] [Integrating: Normal Viltrumite Bloodline.] [Injecting: 30 Years of Combat Experience.] Didn’t even get through “Viltrumite” before pain hit.
Calling it pain honestly doesn’t cut it.
Felt like I got shredded and rebuilt—atom by atom.
I hit my knees, bit deep into my arm to muffle the scream.
Bones shattered, then knitted right back together, solid as steel.
Muscles twisted, burned, rewove tighter.
My heart pounded slow and heavy—pumping who knows what now.
Then everything in my head reloaded.
Snap a neck—simple.
Disarm, gouge, ignore pain.
Crack open ribs, break things before they break you.
Whole new memories, like I’d fought on alien fields, mud and monsters and carnage all mine now.
Not borrowed.
I spat bile into the gutter; once the vertigo calmed, I knew the truth—something deep had shifted.
Even the world felt fragile.
Air, concrete, everything.
I reached out for a dumpster, and the steel bent under my hand like wet cardboard.
I just stared at it.
My hand tingled.
Raw power, waiting to jump out.
Three days blurred by—I kept my head down.
You don’t rush with a body like this, one clearly made for a fight.
I hid out, haunted the city’s forgotten corners, scored grunt work down at the docks.
The foreman tossed me some shifts, didn’t ask questions.
Supposed to carry cement for an hour.
I hauled three bags at a time—played it up with fake cursing, pretending to sweat.
Blended in as just another guy trying to get by.
Saw men breaking their backs while I barely felt a thing.
That’s the Viltrumite way—they run hot.
Power like that eats up fuel.
By the end of the first day, I was starving.
My vision kept tunneling out, stomach twisting in knots.
You have to feed these muscles, or they’ll eat you.
I found the greasiest diner around and tore through it all—burgers, fries, pancakes, shakes.
The waitress shot me a wary look.
Didn’t care.
I’d earned every bite.
Even eating, my brain ran threat assessments—clocked exits, tracked strangers.
Old shell, new mind.
Night fell.
I grabbed a roach motel room across town.
Lumpy mattress, springs stabbing through, bugs everywhere.
Didn’t matter.
Not after crushing steel in your fist.
TV sputtered—Vought on every channel, the Seven in endless ads.
Homelander beaming, Deep clowning, A-Train grinning for the camera.
I watched with new eyes—every so-called Supe was just a target now.
Weak points, bad habits, ways to break them, end them.
Clear as day.
They weren’t gods.
Never had been.
Just thugs with super-budgets.
Me?
Not some world-crusher—just a normal Viltrumite.
The Seven’d still kill me if I slipped up.
But I could feel it building up day by day.
Reflexes faster.
Muscles harder.
Like loading a spring with nowhere left to go.
Motel, midnight—I called the System up again.
Blue text reflected in the window.
[Current Status: Normal Viltrumite Bloodline] [System Points: 0] [Next Upgrade: Soldier Viltrumite Bloodline – Cost: 10,000 Points] Three days, enough to get the basics.
No points for moping or montage training.
This game wanted me shaking the city, wrecking stories, cutting fate open.
Vought thinks they own the board.
Think their Supes are invincible.
Flashy suits and paid press.
I crammed cold pizza in my mouth and watched Homelander’s thin grin on some talk show.
Nothing behind the eyes.
Gods die.
I knew a dozen ways now.
Just need the right chance.
And I could feel it coming—some idiot speedster’s about to mess up big.
I shut down the screen, sank back on lumpy foam, closed my eyes.
Let Vought run their TV circus.
This world just doesn’t know it’s about to crack wide open.