[Lawyer is useless in such situations. It’s better if you accept reality. No one can save you.]
"Then fuck you," Mark snapped, anger flaring back up like it refused to die quietly. "Do you think I have some kind of mental illness to stay in this world? It’s completely messed up. No way."
[You should have thought of that before you abandoned your novel.]
Mark let out a sharp laugh, more bitter than amused.
"Do you think it’s easy to write without support?" he shot back, stepping closer to the panel. "No readers, no feedback—nothing. That kills motivation. Even the best authors lose it without support."
He pointed at himself, jaw tight.
"I was just a rookie writer. If that omnipotent guy was reading, he could’ve at least supported me. A comment, money—anything. Not this."
[He understands that. That is why he gave me to you—as motivation. And to make the story interesting.]
Mark stared at it.
"...You’re my motivation?"
[Yes.]
"Worst reward system ever."
He was quiet for a moment before asking, quieter—
"So I can’t go back?"
[No. There is no return. Accept your role as the protagonist. There is no alternative.]
That landed heavier than everything else. No sarcasm left. No easy comeback. Just a wall.
Mark looked down at the dirty ground, then around the alley, then back at the panel. His shoulders dropped, tension draining into something more resigned.
"...So I either play protagonist... or I just die."
[Correct.]
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
"If I’m stuck here," he said, voice steadying, "then I’m doing it my way. I’m not becoming one of those psychopaths."
[Irrelevant. Survival is priority.]
"Yeah," Mark replied flatly. "That too."
He glanced toward the open street beyond the alley like it was the entrance to something he didn’t want but couldn’t avoid.
"Protagonist in a world where people die for background noise," he muttered. Then, after a beat— "This better at least be a good story."
***
"So what can you do?" Mark asked, dropping onto a rusted trash bin like his legs had officially given up on him. The metal creaked under his weight. Somewhere nearby, a stray dog barked once and thought better of it.
[I am a Hero Template System. I contain templates of various heroes from across the omniverse.]
Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing.
"...Oh. That’s actually useful." A small pause. "Give me the template of Sentry."
No hesitation. Straight to the top.
[Denied.]
"...Excuse me?"
[The requested template exceeds your compatibility threshold.]
"It’s a template, not a marriage proposal. Just give it."
[Your body and mind would collapse.]
"...Define collapse."
[Total failure. Immediate death.]
"Not ideal."
He scratched the side of his head. "Fine. Something slightly less god-tier. What’s the catch?"
[All templates require synchronization. Higher-tier templates demand higher stability, willpower, and mental resistance.]
"Alright. No Sentry. What can I get that won’t immediately kill me?"
[Displaying compatible templates...]
"If you show me something like ’slightly stronger human,’ I’m walking into traffic on purpose."
[That would still result in death.]
"I know. It’s called commitment."
The panel shifted, its surface rippling as three templates appeared. Cyclops . Captain America. And Spider Monkey.
Mark stared at the last one until his expression went flat.
"Cyclops and Captain America make sense," he said. "But why Spider Monkey? If you’re giving something from Ben 10, give Ben 10 himself—not one of his aliens."
[Do you think I would give you access to Ben, who has the Omnitrix? That would allow you to live without difficulty. You are the main character. A main character is expected to face constant problems and misfortune.]
"So it’s deliberate," he said. "You’re limiting what I can use."
[Correct.]
He looked back at the templates, then let out a slow breath.
"Then why not change the type of story instead? If I have to be a protagonist, put me in something less extreme. Something simple." He paused. "A harem setting, for example. I’m already unlucky with women, so I can manage that kind of problem."
[Denied.]
Mark went quiet, eyes returning to the three templates in front of him.
He looked them over properly this time.
Captain America—physically strong, trained, peak human. But still just human. In a world full of supes who tore people apart without effort, that ceiling didn’t mean much. Choosing this template meant close combat, and the reality was simple—he wasn’t an expert in fighting, so that advantage barely counted.
Spider Monkey was immediately out. He didn’t need to think about it.
That left Cyclops.
Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly. The power was solid—ranged, destructive, useful. But it came with an obvious problem.
"Cyclops can’t control his ability without those glasses," he said. "In this world, where am I supposed to get something like that? If I choose the template, does the equipment come with it?"
[This template does not include equipment. Only abilities are provided. However, this is a lower version of Cyclops’ power. You will be able to turn it on and off without external support.]
"So I won’t lose control."
[Correct.]
"Then I’ll take Cyclops."
He reached out and tapped the template.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a low vibration spread through his body, subtle at first—a faint hum under his skin that climbed upward and settled behind his eyes. Pressure built in a way that wasn’t painful, but wasn’t comfortable either.
His vision flickered. A dull red glow bled into the edges of his sight.
Mark stiffened, instinctively trying to focus, but the energy surged before he could properly react.
Two thin red beams burst from his eyes and slammed into the garbage pile in front of him. Trash bags tore apart, metal bins dented and flipped, debris scattering across the ground with sharp, violent force.
The beams cut off just as suddenly as they’d started.
Silence.
Mark stood there breathing slightly heavier, the faint glow behind his eyes fading until it was gone. He blinked once, adjusting.
"...Okay," he said quietly, looking at the mess in front of him. "That works."