Fighting Chance 4

The first thing that hit was the weight.

A sudden blur, a shift in air pressure—then the entire world tilted off its axis entirely. Andrew Airs barely even had a moment to register the impact before his back slams into brick. His teeth rattled in his skull, the breath jarred from his lungs. His briefcase twisted midair, fingers jerking loose from the handle, and for one surreal second, the businessman felt almost weightless—feet kicking against nothing, body crushed between a wall and something  else.

Then came the pressure. A sharp, urgent force at his throat, pinning him with force that prevented the breath from rushing back into his lungs.

His pulse skyrocketed, heart racing in his chest.

His brain scrambled, trying to process exactly what the hell was going on—trying to catch up—but there’s nothing to catch. The moment’s already happened, the present crashing down around him in the form of a mugger with breath like stale cigarettes and body odor, shoving a forearm against his windpipe.

"Hey, hey, wait—!" He rasps, hands flailing up in a useless attempt to shove the guy off.

The mugger didn’t like that. A blade flashed, steel catching the afternoon light, and something deep in the businessman’s gut drops.

"Wallet. Now."

The words hit harder than the wall did.

His mouth opened. No words came out.

Options flickered through his head—fight, run, yell—but none of them stick. Not when a knife is involved. Not when his body feels stuck, frozen mid-breath.

"I know you heard m—"

BAM.

The mugger was gone.

One second he’s there, breathing down his neck, and in the literal blink of an eye—his body jerked violently to the side, airborne for a split second before smashing full-force into the wall just to the side.

Bone on brick. 

Despite himself, Andrew felt an instinctive twinge of sympathy, deep down in the back of his animal brain for how much that had to hurt as he watched the mugger fold, the man slump onto the pavement like a bag of dirty laundry.

Andrew stayed plastered against the wall, lungs stuttering, heart hammering like a drum, briefcase forgotten at his feet. He forces himself to breathe. 

To move.

And that’s when he sees the kid on the ground.

Because that’s what it has to be.

A kid.

Black hood up, denim shorts, black skin. Barely thirteen.

The boy picks himself up a little bit unsteadily from the ground, adjusting his hoodie, and then just stretching one knee like he’s at the gym, about to do a workout.

"Ow," he muttered to himself, cracking his neck. "Didn’t roll that one right."

The businessman’s mouth opened. Closed. Whatever his mind was doing, computing was not one of those things.

Because this child—this barely-a-teenager, scrawny, absolutely-not-an-adult—just sent a full-grown mugger flying across the alley with all the casual ease of a playground scuffle.

Like it was nothing.

And then—because reality clearly isn’t bizarre enough—he watches as the kid steps over the groaning mugger without a second glance, crouches, and starts rifling through his pockets.

Like this is normal.

Like this is just what he does.

The businessman barely managed to make a sound—some confused, startled noise stuck between a gasp and a protest—but the kid didn’t even bother looking up.

"Yo, this dude broke as hell," he muttered, tone dripping with judgment.

The businessman blinked.

Because what the fuck.

Is this a reverse mugging? The businessman’s mouth opens again. Still no words.

What… is he even looking at?

This was—this was not how these situations played out.

You get mugged, you lose your wallet, you file a report, you spend the next two days canceling credit cards. That was the expected flow of events. The logical structure of a city crime.

What you don’t do is get assaulted, get saved by a random child, then watch that same child proceed to mug the mugger. What the fuck.

He watched silently as the kid swiped a shitty off-brand smartphone, a decent switchblade, and a single twenty-dollar bill surrounded by some crumpled singles and a few fives before standing up, rolling his shoulders. 

No hesitation. No guilt.

Just business.

The man’s jaw finally, finally rediscovered the gift of speech as he dropped down to collect his briefcase and stepped forward gingerly. "Hey, uh—"

"Yeah, yeah," the kid waved him off like he’s already bored of whatever gratitude is about to be thrown his way. "You're welcome. Whatever."

The businessman stared.

The kid stared back, completely unfazed.

Aaron ran a hand through his hair, trying to find something—anything—to say that makes sense. Eventually, he settled on, "Is there… any way I can thank you?" It’s half instinct, half desperate need to ground himself in some sort of normalcy. 

He just didn’t actually expect the kid to blithely respond, "You got fifty bucks?"

The businessman blinked.

Stared harder.

Like this kid just personally offended his entire family tree.

The absolute audacity. "You—" His voice caught in his chest, somewhere between bewilderment and sheer indignation. "Are you seriously charging me for—"

The kid raised an eyebrow. “Usually when a service is provided, you pay. That’s how it works, right?”

The businessman pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. He does not have time for whatever this situation has spiraled into. He pursed his lips, dragging out his wallet with a long, suffering exhale. "I don’t assume you have change for a hundred."

The kid grinned, shaking his head.

Of course he doesn’t.

Of course.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The masked guys in the alley. The flash of steel. That single, frozen second where his brain whispered—this is it. This is where I die.

Zain wasn’t letting that happen again.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’d been since he crashed through that abandoned window, lungs heaving, locked himself in some rank-ass bathroom stall, and spent the whole night shaking so bad his teeth knocked together. Since his pulse refused to slow, rattling through his chest like something trying to break out. Since the whole world shrank to the sound of his own breath, the sharp memory of footsteps pounding after him, the whisper of a blade sliding free.

He should’ve died that night.

But he didn’t.

So?

He was going to make sure that next time, nobody would get the chance to fix that mistake.

At the very least, if they wanted to kill him? They were gonna have to put in work.

First week? The city beat his ass.

Running? He could do that. Running smart? Whole different thing.

Zain thought he had the basics down—go fast, don’t stop, don’t trip. Turns out, he didn’t know shit. First time he tried hopping a fence at full speed, his shoe caught the top rail, and the rest of him kept going.

WHAM. 

Laid out flat. Eyes on the sky. Just laying there, wheezing, brain still catching up to the pain in his ribs.

"Okay," he rasped. "That was—dumb as hell."

Did that stop him? Nah.

If this city was gonna keep trying to kill him, he had to get faster. Meaner. Smarter.

So, he stole a burner, hopped on YouTube, and started watching.

Vault this. Wall-run that. "Bro... bro... it's easy, bro. Just tuck and roll with it, bro."

Yeah, okay. Aight. 

He tried that.

Jumped off a dumpster, aiming for a ledge just across the alley. Missed.

Scraped half his palm off trying to catch himself against the wall and hit the ground hard enough to rattle his spine.

Fun fact: trying to pull off a lot of shit without the adrenaline of your life being in danger... 

Way harder.

Who would have guessed?

Day two: Guess what? He tried again.

Only to slip down a fire escape, bite his tongue so bad his mouth filled with blood.

Day three of all of this? He got cocky.

Tried jumping rooftops—missed.

Shin cracked the ledge so hard he saw god.

Fell.

Landed chest-first on a fire escape. The whole thing groaned like it was about to rip off the damn building.

He lay there, wheezing, staring up at the sky, waiting for his ribs to stop threatening murder.

"Okay," his mouth hung open as he gasped for air. "That was—nah, that was real bad."

For five minutes, he just lay there, staring at the sky, breathing through his teeth, trying not to cuss himself out.

Then he shoved himself up, rolled his shoulders, shook out the sting in his wrists, and glared at the next rooftop.

Alright.

One way or another, he was getting this.

Didn’t matter how many times he ate pavement. Didn’t matter how much his ribs screamed or how bad his hands burned or how many times some part of him muttered, this is stupid, stop doing this, you are literally going to break your legs.

Zain wasn’t letting this city beat him again.

So he kept going.

Every time he fell, he got back up. Every bruise? Another lesson. Every hit? A reminder.

By week two, it started clicking.

Not all at once. Not some dramatic movie moment where the music swelled and suddenly he was flying between rooftops like some parkour god.

Nah.

It was small.

The first time he didn’t second-guess before vaulting a railing. The first time he didn’t panic mid-jump. The first time he landed light instead of crashing down like an idiot who’d just barely survived.

That kept him going and he kept pushing.

By the end of March?

Fire escapes. Drainpipes. Ledges. His territory.

He wasn’t stuck on the ground anymore.

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The first time Zain stopped a mugging, it wasn’t about doing the right thing.

It was impulse. Like everything else.

He was walking. Minding his business. Looking for a spot to crash when he caught it—

An old lady, frail as hell, clutching a plastic grocery bag. And some dude, hood up, knife flashing in his hand, in her space, talking all close like he wanted her to break down crying then and there.

Zain wasn’t gonna get involved.

He was not gonna get involved.

He was not—

The guy shoved her.

And Zain’s foot was already moving.

The dude’s jaw snapped back, hit the pavement so hard it stole the breath right out of him.

Zain raised an eyebrow at how quickly the guy went down. …that’s a glass chin, bro.

The old lady gasped, wide-eyed, frozen in place even as the guy groaned, rolling over, fingers twitching for his knife—

Nope.

Zain’s foot shot out and kicked it halfway across the street and kicked the guy again in the face, the man crumbling and groaning.

Zain dropped to the ground, his hands already moving, rifling through the guy’s hoodie.

Wallet.

Phone.

Crumpled hundred-dollar bill.

Zain’s fingers curled around them like they belonged there.

The old lady was still talking, her voice all high and shaky, her hands shaking against the grocery bag like it was the only real thing in the world.

“Oh—oh my Lord, young man, you—oh, bless you, thank you, I—”

Zain barely nodded. “You good?”

She kept talking.

Zain glanced down at the dude on the pavement.

And that’s when it hit him.

Maybe he should— “Hm?”

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Turns out?

Mugging muggers? Pretty good way to get some extra bread. Being honest, what the hell were they gonna do about it anyway? Report him to the cops. Pftttt...

Anyway, as it turns out, most of these dudes? Zero clue how to fight when it came down to it.

To be fair, he wasn't exactly challenging them to a fair boxing match or anything. No, more of a dynamic entry to the face as often as he could.

Still, even when he couldn't get the jump. They barely knew how to throw a good punch.

Like, at all.

Zain knew he wasn’t some master martial artist or anything. He had four months of kickboxing before his mom made him quit last year, and he could barely remember the actual techniques.

But his body? It moved like it knew more than him.

Like it had been in hundreds of fights before.

His speed and reaction time felt off the charts.

His hits landed harder than they should’ve.

And once he fully got over the whole holy crap, I just knocked a dude out with one hit thing?

He started getting smart about it, which wasn’t really hard either. Criminals may have been a superstitious and cowardly lot, but they also weren’t great at thinking ahead either. Even the ones that were smart enough to pick spots with no cameras, they often forgot to pick good escape routes too.

Zain watched. Learned. Picked which ones to take down and which ones to ignore.

Sometimes, the haul was good—fat wallets, expensive watches, smartphones.

Other times? A couple crumpled singles and a cheap switchblade.

Pawnshops didn’t ask questions.

A half-decent knife could still get him a meal.

By week two, he had this shit down to a pattern. It didn’t take long to figure out which neighborhoods had the most lowlifes. Hell’s Kitchen and Harlem were easy go-tos, even if they didn’t really get him much compared to most places.

He figured out which pawn shops had the best prices for which items. Several chains had been snatched, phones had been taken, and honestly, even cheap knives could get him at least ten bucks half the time.

He knew that Chinatown was an easy place to get good meals without worrying about getting low on cash, too. 

Was it the big life?

Nah.

But he wasn’t starving.

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Only thing was the real problem that  started when he went looking for answers. After trying his family’s and friends' numbers on every phone he could find and steal got old — also, people need to lock their phones, man — Zain decided to take the search somewhere else that wouldn’t make him feel insane for trying the same thing over and over and over.

So, yeah, public libraries still existed. And so did Google.

Zain stared at the computer screen, fingers drumming anxiously on the desk. The glow of the monitor reflected in his eyes, his pupils flicking back and forth as he scanned the page.

Thousands of results for “Janice Annette Powers” but none of them were the ones he was looking for at all.

His stomach tightened. His mom wasn’t some celebrity, but he knew she had something—a Facebook account, an old LinkedIn profile, maybe even a PTA meeting she got dragged into. 

But no, there was nothing.

He clenched his jaw, cleared the search bar, and typed in his dad’s name.

No results found for “Patrick Ulysses Powers”.

Okay. Fine. Maybe his dad never did online stuff. That wasn’t that weird. Except it was, because his dad was a doctor and had written a couple of books, and he’d done interviews about the books before so—

Calm. Calm. Calm.

So he tried his grandma’s name.

She had a landline. She had a church group. She was old-school, sure, but she existed.

Except, apparently?

She didn’t.

His pulse pounded.

He swallowed the weird feeling clawing up his throat and tried himself.

No results found for “Zain Austin Powers”.

It wasn’t just that they were gone. It was like they’d never been there at all.

His hands tightened into fists on the keyboard. What the hell is happening?

And then?

Then it got weirder.

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It started in pieces. Little things. Stuff that should’ve felt normal—billboards, newspaper headlines, casual conversations overheard on the street—but they weren’t.

Because they weren’t real.

Not supposed to be.

Zain was in a bodega the first time he saw it less than a week in, flipping through a magazine while pretending to debate stealing a candy bar just to fuck with the guy at the front.

Page seven.

A full-page ad for Stark Industries, showing off some sleek-ass, high-tech reactor thing.

The kind of tech that didn’t exist in real life

He squinted, flipping the page, wondering when comic book ads got so real-looking, only to freeze once he awa the next page.

"The Real Captain America: The Lost Hero Returns."

The words didn’t register at first. His brain short-circuited, stuck in a logic loop it couldn’t escape.

There was a picture.

A real glossy photograph, not some art print, not some promo. A man—blond hair, blue eyes, broad as hell—shaking hands with the President.

Several questions went through his head all at once.

One of them fought their way out of his mouth first. “I… Is that Johnny Storm?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Later that afternoon, he was at the public library. Doing some more research.

(Stealing WiFi.)

Google loaded up slow as hell on the old-ass library computers. Zain sat there, bouncing his leg, hands drumming against the desk.

Typed it in.

Iron Man.

Interviews. Press conferences. A clip of Tony Stark smirking at a crowd of reporters, saying, “I am Iron Man.”

He almost punched the screen.

War Machine? Also real. Nobody knew his name or even called him War Machine — news articles called him the Steel Man — but the fact that Tony Stark’s best friend was an Air Force colonel named James Rupert Rhodes made it pretty fucking obvious to Zain who he was.

He scrolled. Clicked. Scrolled again.

Then he saw it.

2008: Battle of Gulmira.

It was shaky cam, and blurry as all hell, but Zain still could make out what was happening. A whole town wiped off the map, Stark in a red-and-gold suit, flying through the sky, blasting terrorists.

Zain slammed the keyboard so hard the lady next to him jumped.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She gave him a look and gathered her things like he had a disease.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

A few hours after that.

Hulk. 2010. Harlem.

The footage wasn’t just blurry hand-cam videos this time. 

It was news broadcasts. Helicopter angles. 

Military coverage.

The Hulk—like, actual, green-as-hell, mountain-smashing Hulk—going toe-to-toe with something huge.

At first, Zain thought it maybe could have been The Thing, the weird Johhny Storm look of this world’s Captain America still rattling around in his head.

Then he got a better look.

The spikes. The sickly, warped muscles. The wrong eyes.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but when the articles referred to the guy as ;an abomination’, Zain realized pretty quickly.

Real.

Moving.

Destroying buildings.

Tossing cars like candy wrappers.

He almost shut off the library computer, like that was supposed to somehow make what he was seeing make sense.

That wasn’t supposed to exist.

None of this was supposed to exist.

So yeah. This wasn’t his world.

It looked like his world.

Smelled like his world.

But it wasn’t.

Because if the Hulk was real, then Spider-Man should be swinging around somewhere.

Right?

Except...

Zain searched.

Hard.

Nothing.

No articles. No pictures. No Daily Bugle headlines screaming about a wall-crawling menace.

The Daily Bugle existed, sure, and so did J. Jonah Jameson, but… not the actual guy.

It was like the dude had never happened.

Zain’s fingers curled against the desk, heart hammering.

That wasn’t just wrong—it was impossible.

Maybe it’s too early?

He racked his brain, trying to remember the exact timeline from the comics.

How old was Peter supposed to be now? Fifteen? Sixteen?

Had he not been bitten yet?

Or was it worse than that?

Did something happen that erased him?

The thought made his skin crawl.

Either way?

Zain was keeping an eye out for any teenagers in red and blue tights.

So yeah.

Three weeks in, and Zain had a basic understanding of the new rules.

• He didn’t exist.

• His family didn’t exist.

• He apparently dropped into the Marvel Universe.

• He was pretty sure he had some kind of fighting superpower.

• He had no idea of anything else.

Which meant?

He had to figure it out himself.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The mugger on the ground groaned as the businessman quickly made his way out of the alley, rolling his eyes after handing Zain a fresh hundred-dollar bill.

The teeanger glanced back at the man on the ground, the would-be mugger rolling back over as his scraped face turned his way.. "Ugh... I think you broke my ribs."

Zain blinked. "I missed the part where that's my problem."

And then?

He was gone.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

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