Marvel: Life is Good

Morning paints the sky with tender hues! Good morning, world! Ah, I wish I could say that, but getting up early for school? Absolute garbage. Alarm off. Heavy sigh. Just one more minute of lying here...

BAM-BAM-BAM!

"Toby, get up! TOOOBYYYY!!! You're gonna be late for school!!!"

Ugh. Seriously?

"I'M UP!!!"

That's Gigi, or Georgina in full, my sister. I lock my door because this little tornado has zero respect for personal space. She's a pint-sized, annoying menace. Alright, up we go, fix the pajamas. Zombie mode: activated.

BAM-BAM-BAM!!!

Quietly, I creep to the door, preparing myself. There's the handle, jiggling. I can see she's putting her whole tiny weight into it from the other side. I quickly twist the lock and yank the door open. She tumbles straight into the room, a squealing, red-headed ball of chaos in pajamas. I grab her and—CHOMP, CHOMP, CHOMP—gently gnaw on her head, complete with dramatic zombie howls.

"BRAAAAAINS! Omnomnom! Pfft…" (Her hair got in my mouth.) "Where's the BRAAAAAINS?!"

"Get off me, you idiot! Let me go, Toby! There are no brains, let go, you jerk! Ahahaha—stop tickling me, Toby!!! Hahaha, I said stop!"

We wrestled on the floor for a bit before collapsing, both sprawled out. I'm a starfish by the door, and G's head is on my stomach, lying halfway in the doorway.

"Phew. Toby, you're such a dummy. I almost peed myself. I call dibs on the bathroom."

And she bolts upright, practically from a lying position, clocking me in the stomach with her head in the process. Oof. Freaking gremlin.

I drag myself up and shuffle to the kitchen, slightly more awake now. Time to grab some water and say good morning to the moms. No rush; Gigi'll hog the bathroom for at least ten minutes.

"Good morning, oh Great Ancestors! What divine offering has the Goddess of Full Stomachs bestowed upon us today?"

"Good morning," Mom Betty says with a smile, peeking out from behind her newspaper before glancing at Mom Judy. "Goddess, what's for breakfast?"

"Good morning, Toby," Judy chuckles. "My divine scrambled eggs with bacon are almost ready. Grab the milk and set the table. Don't forget to perform the sacred rituals of tooth-brushing and face-washing."

"But Mom, G's in there performing the ritual of exorcizing Satan. That's a minimum ten-minute ordeal." A muffled snort escapes from behind Betty's newspaper.

"Betty, no snorting at the table. Save that for your zoo animals."

"Darling, it's not a zoo—it's a police precinct, and they're my colleagues," New York's finest replies, lowering the paper just enough to give Judy a mock stern look. "Or am I an animal to you too?"

I don't know how Betty pulls it off. Her serious face always has this hint of humor, like she's just messing with us.

"Lieutenant," Judy smirks, "you literally just snorted at the table."

"That has yet to be…" She pauses as the newspaper slowly rises again, hiding her expression. "…proven."

That's when I snorted, right into the fridge as I grabbed the milk.

We had a good laugh, waited for Gigi to finish in the bathroom, and then I quickly brushed my teeth, took care of business, and washed up. Breakfast was warm and cheerful, as always. Betty, the head officer and sole badge-wearer in our household, gave us all the usual orders to behave at school, told Judy to be a good girl at work, and sent us off to get ready.

Honestly, I've grown so attached to this family over the years. It's funny—by the time I was five, I barely felt like an adult man stuck in a kid's body anymore. Maybe it's because I tried so hard to play the part of a normal child, or maybe it's some psychological side effect of switching bodies. I don't know; I'm no expert. But now, at fourteen, I am a teenager. Just a really well-informed one compared to my peers. A boy who loves his family to bits. Seriously, they're amazing—both moms, Gigi, even Grandma Lily, who visits often. A wonderful, healthy, normal family. I don't know what kind of person you'd have to be not to respond to the ocean of love and care they shower on me and G.

I get dressed, neatly hang up my pajamas—black ones with red cloud prints. The moment I saw them in the store, I begged the moms to buy them. I even have a matching robe. So now, every time I hear "Tobi's such a good boy," I laugh way too hard. It's an inside joke, audience - one.

Quickly dressed, backpack slung over my shoulder, I wait for Gigi in the hallway, and we head off to Midtown Middle School. Yep, that Midtown Middle School. The one where Peter Parker—or in this universe, Petra Parker—attends. Oh yeah, let me explain.

My grand plan was only half-successful. Officially, I "learned" Russian and German in school and from tutors, I still go to swimming lessons, and as for dance classes? Screw that—they sucked, and I don't even want to remember them. We didn't overthink school choice, so we just went to the nearest one. 

I started in kindergarten at five (which is funny because it literally means "children's garden" in German). At six, I skipped first and second grades and went straight into third. That's where I stayed. Why? Because of Petra Parker. When they called her name, I nearly swallowed the pencil I was chewing on. And guess what? We've also got Harry Osborn—he's a dude here—and, drumroll… Martin James Watson. Yup. MJ's a guy. Muahahaha. And, sadly, like 99% of the guys here, he's boring as hell. Harry's okay, though—probably thanks to his mom. Nora is one tough lady, and you don't mess with her. I met her when Harry invited us over once.

So yeah, I decided to stick around. And no, it wasn't because I had a crush on Petra. She's cute, sure, if she takes care of herself, but not my type. She's like Hogwarts' Hermione, but without the urge to make friends. She mostly keeps to herself, except for her weird friendship with Harry, which gets her bullied by Flash—who has a thing for Harry—and her unrequited sighs for the idiot MJ.

My brilliant plan was to steal her spider powers. Well, not steal—more like take the radioactive spider bite for her. Heroic, right? Shielding her from a ferocious predator and all that. Flawless plan, as reliable as Swiss watch—at least, that's what I thought at the time. I had plenty of time to think it over and eventually realized it was a terrible idea. Spider-Man (or Spider-Girl in this case) is a cornerstone hero, both in her own right and in how she influences others. 

Stark holding her dying in his arms might've been one of the reasons for his heroic sacrifice. Then there's her arcs with Doctor Strange, her battles with Doc Ock, whose nuclear battery could've leveled New York, and her ongoing mutations. I don't even remember how she saved herself from that, but she's a genius. I'm not. I'm just a walking cheat sheet with too much knowledge. I couldn't come up with a cure even if I tried. So I decided not to mess with her. Barely even talked to her. No butterfly effects for me, thank you very much.

But! I can crash that very Oscorp event where the radioactive spider bit her. I can spot the exact moment of the bite, scoop up the little critter, and make it bite me. Checkmate! Superpowers are mine, the canon stays intact, and Spider-Girl keeps doing her heroic thing. Then, after a while, I find her during a patrol, do the whole "Hey, Spider-Girl, it's me—Spider-Boy, your long-lost bro!" thing. And while I'm telling her about the Parker family birthmark on my right butt cheek, I'll have my forty elephants bust out a sick tectonic dance routine. Basically bullshit my way around the poor thing.

Through her, I figure out how to stop the mutation. I might even hint at it subtly a bit earlier than canon, just to keep things spicy. I'll come up with something—talking's easier than lifting crates, after all. Mwahaha, as some linguist once said, of cunni variety.

I also considered that enhancement program Deadpool went through, but the odds aren't great there, and besides, the unhinged mercenary is already out and about, rocking her black-and-red suit. 

By the way, she's awesome—I ran into her by accident last year. She hijacked the taxi I was in. Noticed me mid-ride, pulled into a McDonald's, and bought me a burger and ice cream. Well, bought—she whipped out her guns and yelled, "You either give me a burger, or I blow my brains out right here in the dining room!" They threw in the ice cream as a bonus. We had a blast—went to the park, rode the Ferris wheel. Mom Betty eventually had to come pick me up. My butt still has phantom pains, but there's a framed piece of notebook paper with her autograph sitting on my nightstand.

Anyway, yeah, getting superpowers is happening. I wouldn't say it's the result of some tragic journey filled with pain and loss, but there were a couple of moments recently where I almost needed a change of pants. For example, in this universe, the lovely Venom is already terrorizing the U.S. And right now, she's somewhere in New York. And if Deadpool's a quirky aunt with roaches in her head, Venom's a full-on, psychopathic, bloodthirsty murder machine.

Thinking back on that day is rough. 

I was out running some errands. There weren't too many people around, and a patrol car was slowly cruising down the street. The officers were from a neighboring precinct, so I didn't know them. Mom Betty works elsewhere, so our paths hadn't crossed. But at her precinct? I know everyone—she's brought me to work a few times, saying it's good for the girls to recognize me and for me to see what she does. Anyway, I remember thinking it'd be nice if I knew these officers—they could've given me a lift to the store.

The patrol car had just disappeared from view when something black flashed above me and slammed down ahead. Suddenly, everything turned red. Blood sprayed like fountains, screams filled the air—it was a nightmare. Terrified shrieks mingled with horrifying gurgles and a single, lonely wail. Not of anger or rage, but pure, raw pain. Someone was in such agony that they were tearing their vocal cords apart, saying goodbye to life and the world with that scream. You don't live after a sound like that, came a cold, foreign thought.

I forgot my whole plan, my strategy. I was about to rush in—someone was hurt, badly, and I've taken first aid courses in both worlds. No jokes here—I could help, and I had to try.

That noble impulse lasted all of two seconds before Venom swept through the crowd, her massive black claws taking out two women right in front of me. She stopped for a moment, her huge, white eyes staring right at me. Then gunfire erupted, and she flinched, turning around. I followed her gaze and saw two officers running toward us—one firing, the other yelling for everyone to run. I ran. I bolted like hell itself was after me because, well, it was. And because those officers couldn't aim properly with us in the way. 

I didn't look back.

That day, I came home and locked myself in my room. For the first time in either of my lives, I understood what shock truly felt like. I didn't know what to think or do. Later, the news reported that 23 people died there, including the two officers. Two real heroes. No superpowers, no hope of winning, yet they faced death to give us a chance to escape.

Venom was stopped—well, delayed—by some hero in some sort of exosuit with a massive backpack power source. She held her off until a special forces team arrived with some kind of advanced weaponry, probably sonic cannons. The hero lost an arm in the fight. They saved her, thank the goddess, but she'll be an amputee for life.

I did a lot of thinking after that. You know those moments of clarity? Like when you quit drinking for six months and realize most of your "friends" were really just there for the booze. Same deal here.

The big realization? Surviving isn't just about skipping town when the Chitauri invade. There are moments like this—when you're just walking down the street, minding your business, and some psycho decides to play GTA with god mode on. And to them, you're just a funny hunk of meat that twitches amusingly when stabbed.

I've got my little sister Gigi. My moms. Grandma Lily. And here I am, with my "I'll live well and let the rest fend for themselves" attitude, realizing I'm a selfish, pathetic jerk. Sure, my past life wasn't a paradise, but it wasn't a concentration camp either. I worked hard, not for strangers, but for my family. And now, surrounded by love and support, how could I not want to protect them?

So yeah, this is Marvel. To survive and protect the people you love, as a wise man once said, you need one of three things: big money, genius-level brains, or superpowers. I don't have money—just Grandma Lily. I'm not a genius, just someone who knows a lot. So what's left? Superpowers.

Stealing Spidey's powers is the easiest option, a neat package on a silver platter. Stick to Parker like glue during the Oscorp trip, and I'm set. After that? Who knows. Maybe I'll find Kamartaj. The idea of magic seems promising—power without added risks. But joining the mages has its challenges. Finding them, for starters. Then there's training, their rules, and responsibilities. Only the Sorcerer Supreme, currently the Ancient One or maybe Strange, has any freedom. Magic's not a free ride.

Honestly, the dream would be some no-strings-attached ultimate power that keeps me and my family safe. Radioactive Saitama bite, anyone? But jokes aside, I need to get stronger—to live, to protect what matters.

For us to live well. I don't want to end up alone. Call it selfish, but I'm not Captain America. I'm me—a selfish bastard who wants to live surrounded by the people I love.

Anyway, time to hit the books and aim for straight A's. That Oscorp event won't crash itself.