I woke up to screaming.
Not mine, surprisingly. Though if you consider the internal sort, I was totally shrieking.
I couldn't move much—mostly because I was a friggin baby. Not metaphorically. Not in a "reborn with a fresh start" type of sense. I mean literally a mushy, screaming, oversized-head-having infant.
Congratulations, it's a boy. One with full memories of his prior life and the increasing understanding that he now had to go through teething again.
Kill me. Again.
I squinted frantically at the harsh overhead light of what I could only think was a hospital room. A woman's sweaty, tired face came into view, tears in her eyes. Then a man leaned over her shoulder, gazing down at me with the type of pride normally reserved for discovering you've won the jackpot by accident.
"Look at him," the woman said. "He's perfect."
Lies, I thought. I'm hairless, I'm sticky, and I just pooped myself. Nothing about this is flawless.
But it was official. I had been reborn.
The deity hadn't lied, regrettably.
As the nurse handed me over to my new mom, I stared about in newborn fright. No floating deity. No cosmic screensaver. No elevator music. Just a normal, actual hospital in what seemed like modern America.
So far, so MCU.
"Welcome to the world, Manjil," the woman cooed sweetly.
I blinked. Wait—Manjil?
"Isn't that the name you liked from that Indian actor?" the man questioned.
My new mom grinned. "Yes. It signifies 'auspicious.'"
So… not only did I get my original name back, they accidentally picked the exact name I had before?
Somewhere, the god was watching and going, "Eh, poetic irony. Nailed it."
Fast-forward to Year One: The Toddler Trials
Let me tell you—being a baby with adult cognition is the worst form of jail. You know what's going on, but you can't speak, walk, or stop others from making airplane noises as they put mashed peas into your mouth like it's gourmet cuisine.
And don't get me started on diapers. Changing time was a personal attack on my dignity.
But my new family? Surprisingly wholesome.
My mom, Aanya Sharma, was a great biomedical engineer and a specialist in passive-aggressiveness. My dad, Jacob Walker, was a charming disaster of a freelance photographer who somehow survived on three hours of sleep, cold coffee, and pure vibes.
Together, they built a chaotic yet loving household where sarcasm was the local language and mealtime regularly descended into conversations such, "If Hulk sneezed mid-jump, would he land wrong?"
Spoiler: I said yes. Dad said no. Mom replied, "Why are you two like this?"
My big sister, Zoe, was six years older than me and had already begun her "I'm smarter than everyone" phase. I liked her. She once tried to convince Mom I could talk since I appeared judgmental.
She wasn't wrong.
Year Five: Kindergarten and Existential Panic
By age five, I had mastered the holy trinity of toddler skills: walking without face-planting, holding in a fart at inopportune moments, and—most importantly—testing out my time-stop ability.
I'd been too terrified to try it at first. I mean, what if it didn't work? Or worse, what if I accidently destroyed time and wound up in the stone age surrounded by mammoths?
But curiosity triumphed. It always does.
I picked a peaceful evening when Zoe was busy playing video games and Dad was snoring like a speedboat on the couch. I went to the backyard, stared at a fluttering leaf mid-fall, took a big breath, and whispered:
"Time… stop?"
Everything froze.
The leaf dangled in mid-air like it was in a photoshoot. Crickets went silent. Even the neighbor's dog—who growled at virtually everything—was caught in a mid-growl snarl.
It works.
Holy crap, it actually worked.
I took a step. No resistance. I waved my hand in front of the leaf. No distortion. My heart pumped with excitement. Then I did what any rational person would do with endless time-stop powers.
I swiped all the cookies from the kitchen without being caught.
Power? Corrupting? Me? Never.
Year Ten: Mildly Evil Science Fair
By now, I'd found out how to abuse time-stop to maximum humorous effect.
I wasn't a villain, per se. Just... an admirer of harmless chaos.
Like that one time during the school science fair, where my opponent Kyle showed up with a volcano built of baking soda and vinegar. Classic. Boring.
So, naturally, I time-stopped, replaced his combination with mustard and soda water, and resumed time.
Boom.
Yellow foam everywhere. His parents yelled. The janitor took a personal day. I won first place. Justice.
And the best part? No one ever suspected me. How could they? I was only a ten-year-old who looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth—because I had already taken the butter, frozen time, and used it to rig every vending machine in school to only accept leaves.
But Reality Was Coming…
As I approached age 12, things started to feel… odd.
Weird news reports arose. Whispers of unusual phenomena—freak lightning storms in New Mexico, a scientist gone missing after a gamma radiation experiment, some tech company named Stark Industries making noise again.
I knew these symptoms.
Marvel's main timeline was about to begin.
Iron Man. Thor. Hulk. The Avengers.
All of it.
And I was smack dab in the middle of the prequel.
Worse, I had no idea who I was destined to become in this world. Hero? Villain? Snarky side character who dies in Episode 3?
The only thing I knew for certain?
I had a power no one else had—and the capacity to have the entire MCU go off-script in the most chaotic way possible.
The god—that god—hadn't visited since I was born. But I was prepared to bet he was watching from a beautiful beanbag chair with popcorn in hand, whispering, "Let the games begin."
Oh, it's on.