The last drops of Void Vodka burned down my throat, leaving behind the pleasant buzz of something that tasted less like fermentation and more like processed starlight. The room pulsed faintly, the walls shifting like liquid neon, colors that probably had their own offshore accounts. My head felt like a poorly tuned radio picking up signals from multiple dimensions at once.
[Vitals stabilized, Adjuster. The psycho-reactive compounds in the Void Vodka appear to be… interfacing with your neurochemistry. Shall we proceed to the Timeline Selection Protocol?]
Bob's voice-less a voice, more a corporate training video narrated by a sentient algorithm-piped directly into my parietal lobe with unsettling cheer.
I rolled my shoulders, the motion feeling disconnected, like someone else was piloting my body. "Spin the wheel, Bob. Before I start wondering if interdimensional gambling counts as a tax-deductible hobby."
[An excellent initiative! Streamlining the selection process is key to maximizing temporal insertion efficiency!]
Reality dissolved into a kaleidoscopic whirl-not a bang or a whimper, but the stomach-churning sensation of being flushed down a drainpipe made of screaming color.
One blink, I was on the couch.
The next, suspended in an endless void, surrounded by spinning wheels-hundreds, thousands of them, stretching into infinity like a cosmic casino floor designed by a mad god with a gambling problem.
Directly in front of me, rotating with a gentle click, was a modest wheel labeled: YAOI NOVELS – EXTRA FLUFFY EDITION, decorated in soft pinks and golds, tiny hearts orbiting its rim.
I stared.
A digital cough pinged in my mind. [Ah. Minor interference from the vodka's temporal radiation. My syntax protocols are… unusually verbose. And it appears to have caused a slight routing error to a... specialized sub-server.]
"Bob."
[Yes, Adjuster?]
"If you drop me into a world where the primary conflict is two emotionally constipated princes realizing their feelings through excessive blushing, I will rewrite your core programming to narrate Terms of Service agreements for eternity."
[Threat logged! Rerouting to designated high-activity sectors now!]
The void snapped. Wheels blurred past-FANTASY QUESTS! SCI-FI ANTHOLOGY! POST-APOCALYPSE (FUN)!-before slamming to a halt.
ANIME | MOVIES | GAMES | COMICS | RANDOM
Towering above them all, glowing like the Vegas Strip on steroids, was the LEADERBOARD ROULETTE, its surface crawling with the names of the biggest, messiest multiverses in existence.
"Now that's a wheel."
[Only the best for our first Adjuster! Marvel, DC, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Warhammer 40,000-]
"Warhammer?" I perked up. "The one where everything's on fire and the best-case scenario is getting turned into a servitor?"
[A goldmine for Temporal Anomalies! Fun for the whole family, if your family enjoys constant screaming and the gnawing certainty of despair!]
"Sign me up. Emperor protects, right?"
[Ah. A bold choice! However, statistically, your survival probability dips below 0.3% within the first six minutes.]
"Worth it."
[Alternatively… Comics?]
"Hard pass. I'd need a spreadsheet just to track how many times reality's been rebooted."
[Then shall we spin the LEADERBOARD ROULETTE? Or perhaps the RANDOM wheel? Theoretical models suggest a high probability of ending up in a reality where digestive and reproductive organs swapped functions. Fascinating biological implications!]
"Leaderboard. Let's see where the universe wants to screw me today."
[Excellent choice!]
The wheel lurched to life with a sound like a thousand slot machines screaming in unison. DC COMICS… MARVEL… STAR WARS… and that ominous, blood-red WARHAMMER 40K section, pulsing with malice.
It slowed. STAR WARS… LORD OF THE RINGS… DC COMICS…
The pointer hovered over DC COMICS, gleaming like a death sentence.
"Ugh, not the Crisis-verse-"
THUNK.
A golden meteoroid slammed into the pointer, knocking it squarely onto MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE.
I blinked. "What the hell was that?"
[Ah! The 'First Spin Fortune's Favor'-a Tier 7 Reality Augmentation Sigil, purchased by a premium client. It allows for a minor trajectory correction if the initial spin lands somewhere… statistically undesirable.]
"Someone paid to keep me out of DC?"
[The expenditure was tagged to your Adjuster ID. Funds are allocated to dimensional toll charges, temporal stabilization, and administrative overhead-]
"Let me guess. None of it trickles down to me."
[Correct! Per Section 7G, subsection Gamma-Prime-]
"Yeah, yeah, corporate skimming. Got it." I waved a hand. "At least tell me whoever paid gets a kick out of watching me suffer in Marvel instead."
[Client confidentiality prevents me from answering!] Bob chirped. [Now, shall we proceed? Destination locked: Marvel Cinematic Universe.]
"Just send me in. And try not to drop me straight into a city falling out of the sky."
[No guarantees! Enjoy your deployment! Remember: Maintain temporal integrity, minimize paradoxes, and try not to get snapped!]
The world dissolved into light, my brain wrung out like a wet towel before being yeeted headfirst into a dumpster fire of spandex and superpowers.
----
One second, I was drowning in the neon afterglow of Void Vodka and Bob's existential horror of a mission board.
The next, I was blinking up at a gothic, vaulted ceiling, where a stained-glass window of Jesus-arms outstretched in divine judgment-cast fractured light across the pews below, painting the terrified faces of the congregation in bloody crimson and hellfire gold.
Location: A crumbling Catholic church in Midtown Manhattan. Shattered pews, overturned confessionals, and the acrid stench of plasma burns filled the air. The once-pristine marble floors were slick with blood and spent shell casings.
Situation: Catastrophic.
Huddled masses of civilians-businessmen in torn suits, mothers clutching wailing infants, an old man praying the rosary with shaking hands-pressed together like condemned cattle awaiting slaughter. Above us, on the ornate second-floor balcony, a squad of chittering Chitauri soldiers lurked like gargoyles come to life, their obsidian-carved armor clicking with every predatory step. One of them snarled something in a language that sounded like a chainsaw chewing through glass, and another raised its pulsing, blue-glowing rifle-
BLAM.
A suit-clad executive near the front folded like a marionette with its strings cut, a smoking hole where his left eye used to be. Screams ripped through the chapel, bouncing off the vaulted arches like a chorus of the damned. The Chitauri chittered, mandibles twitching in amusement, their bulbous black eyes reflecting the carnage.
Ah.
So that's the game.
"Bob," I muttered under my breath, my fingers twitching toward the empty holster at my hip.
[Adjuster!] His voice was a saccharine whisper in my skull. [You're awake! How's the temporal acclimation? Any nausea? Dizziness? Sudden urge to write self-insert fanfiction?]
"You told me you wouldn't drop me into a city falling out of the sky."
[Technically, the city is still firmly attached to the ground! The aliens, however-]
"Are pouring out of the sky. Which is worse."
[Debatable!] Bob chirped. [But irrelevant! The timeline insertion point is randomized for maximum engagement! Higher stakes, higher ratings, higher payout!]
I exhaled through my nose, the scent of gunpowder and burnt ozone thick in the air. "Right. The dopamine-addicted cosmic sugar daddies need their fix. Fine. Did we at least buy gear before this clusterfuck?"
A pause. Then, in the tone of a kindergarten teacher admitting they lost your kid at the zoo:
[…Beep?]
"Bob."
[Boop?]
"You forgot."
[In my defense,] he said, [the onboarding process was very overwhelming! Also, I may have been distracted by the Void Vodka's side effects. And possibly a minor existential crisis. And-]
"Gun. Now."
[Certainly! What model would you-]
"The one that makes the most blood splatter."
Another pause. Then, with the reverence of a black-market arms dealer presenting his finest wares:
[Ah. A connoisseur. Then may I suggest…]
A bone-deep vibration thrummed through my arms as a monstrous weight materialized in my hands. Heavy. Cold. Gleaming matte black with crimson accents, the twin barrels staring back at me like the hollow eyes of Death itself.
"Doom Slayer's Personal Shotgun" (Super Shotgun, DOOM Eternal Variant)
Double-barreled, pump-action, 12-gauge.
Meathook attachment for "close-quarters diplomacy."
"Crucible-approved" modifications-because sometimes, demons (or aliens) need to stay dead.
Ammo: Incendiary slugs (because fuck armor).
I nearly teared up. "Oh, you beautiful, violent bastard."
[Purchased and loaded! 30 incendiary rounds included!] Bob announced. [Warning: Recoil may dislocate shoulders of lesser mortals. Also, the meathook is technically a war crime in 14 realities.]
"Good."
The Chitauri above us were getting impatient. One of them hefted a pulsating blue grenade-probably planning to turn this church into a can of human soup.
Time to move.
"Bob," I whispered. "Batman's grapnel gun. Available?"
[Always!]
"Price?"
[Within budget!]
"Buy it."
Another weight slapped into my off-hand-sleek, compact, the kind of gadget that screamed I have a trust fund and a trauma kink.
"Grapple & Yeet" System (Batman's Grapnel Gun, Arkham Knight Edition)
Twin-trigger operation (shoot/reel).
Magnetic anchor point lock-on.
Boost function for "improvised aerial maneuvers" (read: yeeting yourself at enemies).
Carbon-fiber nano-line (tested against rogue Kryptonians).
I thumbed the safety off. The church's shadows clung to me like a second skin as I leaned toward the nearest civilian-a wide-eyed teenager clutching a rosary like a lifeline.
"Alright, folks," I hissed. "When I say run- you fucking run."
Then I stood up, the wooden pew groaning under my weight, aimed at the ornate iron railing above, and pulled the grapnel's trigger.
THWIP.
The hook shot out with a hydraulic hiss, pierced a gap in a Chitauri's chitinous armor, and anchored with a sickening crunch.
"RUN!" I roared.
Chaos.
People scrambled, screaming, tripping over overturned pews in their desperation. The Chitauri spun, their rifles whining as they charged-just as I yanked the second trigger.
REEL.
Physics got confused.
Instead of the alien being pulled toward me, I was yanked toward it-boots leaving the ground as the line went taut. The Chitauri shrieked, clawing at the hook buried in its ribs, ichor spraying in viscous arcs.
Mid-air, I raised the Super Shotgun.
BLAM.
The incendiary slug hit the alien square in the chest. Its torso detonated in a shower of gore and blue fire, the recoil kicking me back like a mule, stopping my forward momentum dead. I landed hard on the balcony, boots skidding across the blood-slick stone.
[ADJUSTER!] Bob's voice was suddenly full of awe. [Are you SURE you weren't from DOOM? Or Warhammer? Or-]
"Bitch, please," I scoffed, racking the shotgun with a satisfying kachunk. "I was the best merc in the market back home. These bitches ain't worth shit with reaction time like molasses and ugly-ass faces. Truly the worst army in the universe."
The other Chitauri stared, their bulbous black eyes flickering between me and their dead comrade.
I stared back.
Then I racked the shotgun again.
"Alright, bugs. Let's dance."
Carnage Mode: Activated
The first one died to a meathook through the jaw, its face meeting the shotgun's barrels at point-blank range.
BLAM.
No more face.
The recoil nearly tore my arm off, but I used it to pivot, swinging the shotgun like a bat and burying the meathook into the next alien's thorax.
The second got yeeted off the balcony via grapnel line-hook through the leg, boost function engaged, and launched into the pews below with a crunch of shattered wood and bone.
The third made the mistake of charging me, its serrated blade humming to life.
Bad move.
I sidestepped, hooked its arm, and yanked. The alien's limb tore free with a wet crunch, and I pistol-whipped it with the grapnel gun before finishing it with a double-tap.
BLAM-BLAM.
Brains on the ceiling.
By the fourth, I was mastering the recoil-using the shotgun's kick to add momentum to my swings, the meathook carving through chitin like a hot knife through butter.
Shoot, reel, yank-using the recoil to spin into a brutal kick that sent another Chitauri crashing through a confessional booth.
Wood splintered. The alien screeched. I silenced it with a shotgun shell to the throat.
"Bob," I panted, ejecting spent shells that clattered like church bells on the marble floor. "Remind me to kiss whoever designed this shit."
[Noted!] Bob chirped. [Also, incoming!]
The last two Chitauri had regrouped, rifles raised, their glowing barrels humming with lethal intent-
Just as the stained-glass window exploded.
A red-white-and-blue blur landed between us, shield raised, the vibranium disc gleaming like a holy artifact in the fractured light.
Captain America took one look at the carnage-the headless corpses, the meathook embedded in the pulpit, me grinning like a madman with a shotgun in one hand and a grapnel gun in the other-and blinked.
"…You're not one of ours," he said, his voice gruff with battlefield fatigue.
I shrugged. "Depends. You hiring?"