Chapter 2: Budgeting for Bagels
Day one.
Aria sat at a corner table inside the shelter's common room, staring at the chipped surface like it owed him rent money. A foam cup of questionable coffee steamed half-heartedly next to a slice of dry toast. His stomach growled at the offering like it was an insult.
"Be grateful," he muttered to himself, tearing off a corner of the toast. "It's carbs. Carbs are friends."
The shelter wasn't awful—just… grim in that way only places designed to be "temporary" could manage. Beige walls, old posters about employment support, and a constant humming noise that might've been the light or maybe existential dread.
He'd checked in the night before with barely a glance from the tired woman at the desk. No fuss. No questions. Just a room key, a list of rules, and a plastic bag with a toothbrush, two mini soaps, and a pair of socks that were definitely meant for someone with smaller feet.
Now, he had three days until school started and exactly zero dollars.
Okay—technically, his MetroCard still had a few rides. And someone had left a crumpled $1 bill in his donated hoodie pocket.
He pulled it out like it was sacred.
"One American dollar," he whispered, solemn. "A symbol of freedom, fast food, and absolutely no ability to buy a full meal."
Maybe a bagel? If he smiled enough?
He sighed and tucked it away.
First order of business: figure out how to survive New York with anime hair and broke teen energy.
Second order: don't die.
---
[You Have Zero Skills. Good Luck.]
By noon, Aria was walking the streets of Queens with no clear destination. His steps took him through blocks of laundromats, bodegas, and dollar stores—all strangely comforting in their quiet chaos. He passed kids dragging backpacks twice their size, a woman yelling into a flip phone, and a man trying to sell pirated DVDs that had definitely seen better days.
No one paid him any mind.
He looked like every other high schooler in the neighborhood—too thin, too quiet, too easy to ignore.
Still, his stomach growled like a bear every time he passed food.
He stopped in front of a corner deli and pressed his forehead to the glass, staring longingly at a rotating hot dog.
"Don't look at me like that," he whispered.
The hot dog continued to spin, smug and glistening.
Then—
"Hey, you okay there, champ?" a voice asked behind him.
Aria turned.
A deli guy—late thirties, beanie, tired eyes—was watching him through the door.
Aria straightened. "Just window shopping."
The man raised a brow. "You new around here?"
"Yeah. Uh, just moved."
The guy nodded slowly. "You look like you've been through it."
Aria gave a noncommittal shrug.
There was a pause.
Then, the man opened the door wider. "Here. Got a sandwich that's gonna go stale in thirty. Take it before I toss it."
Aria blinked.
"You serious?"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't make it weird."
It wasn't much—a half tuna sandwich wrapped in wax paper. But to Aria, it might as well have been a Michelin star meal.
He took it with both hands, bowing slightly. "Thanks, really. You didn't have to."
"You've got a good face, kid," the man said, stepping back inside. "Honest. Like someone who wouldn't steal my register."
Aria blinked again.
A strange warmth pulsed through his chest.
Subtle. Gentle. Like someone had lit a candle in his ribs.
Compliment detected.
Wait—what?
He didn't know where that thought came from. It wasn't loud. Not even a voice. Just a… ping. Like a notification in his brain. Something that felt true.
He blinked at the sandwich.
Honest face?
That… triggered something?
But he didn't feel different. No sudden urge to tell the truth. No magical glow. He looked at his reflection in the deli window—same hair, same hoodie, same teenaged mystery face.
"Huh," he murmured.
Maybe it was nothing.
Or maybe… he was going insane.
Either way, free sandwich.
Aria unwrapped it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact, and took a bite.
He chewed in silence, then exhaled like a man reborn.
"Oh my god," he said. "Food."
The sandwich was gone in under three minutes.
Aria stood outside the deli, licking mayo off his thumb and trying not to moan from sheer satisfaction. Real food hit different when you'd almost considered eating ketchup packets for lunch.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then turned his attention to the bigger problem: money.
More specifically, the complete absence of it.
The dollar in his pocket wasn't going to multiply like Jesus and the fish. And with three days left before school started, he needed at least some kind of cash—bus fare, pencils, a decent snack that wasn't two weeks expired.
He eyed a nearby lamppost cluttered with flyers.
HELP WANTED – FLYER DISTRIBUTION – CASH PAID SAME DAY
"Bingo," he whispered, yanking the number tab.
---
The job turned out to be run by a guy named Vic, who looked like he lived inside his van and hadn't met shampoo in several moons.
"Cash job. No questions. You hand out these flyers—restaurants, laundromats, traffic lights, whatever. Just don't dump 'em or I'll know," Vic warned, tossing a stack into Aria's arms. "Twenty bucks if you're not useless."
Aria nodded solemnly. "I am, in fact, very functional."
Vic squinted at him. "You do look like the type who'd get stuff done. Quiet and focused."
Ping.
That strange warmth again. Subtle. Just a flicker.
Compliment detected.
Again?
Aria blinked but kept his face neutral.
So that was twice now. Once for having an honest face. Once for looking focused.
Still no fireworks. No sudden surge of strength or magical ninja powers.
But something was definitely happening. Like layers of himself slowly clicking into place.
"Hey," Vic snapped. "You listening?"
"Yes. Posters. Poles. No dumping. Twenty bucks. I got it."
Vic gave him a suspicious grunt but let him go.
---
For the next two hours, Aria plastered every surface that wasn't actively on fire. He hit bus stops, corner walls, empty phone booths, and the occasional parked truck. The flyers were for some off-brand laundromat offering free starching. Who even cared about starching?
Still, he worked fast and smart—doubling up where he could, skipping high-wind zones, and making a mental map of every block he hit.
He was halfway through the last batch when an old woman called out from her stoop.
"Hey, boy!"
Aria turned. "Ma'am?"
"You puttin' that garbage on my mailbox?"
"No, ma'am," he said quickly. "Only on public stuff. Mailboxes are sacred."
She gave a loud snort. "Hah. Got some sense, at least. Sharp kid."
Ping.
Compliment detected.
He paused mid-staple. Was this how it worked?
Every compliment triggered… something.
Except the upgrades weren't dramatic. More like quiet clicks—like parts of his brain waking up. He suddenly remembered exactly where he'd passed that coffee shop three blocks ago. Could recite the names on half the business awnings he'd seen.
His memory felt… clearer.
He blinked at the staple gun in his hand.
"Whoa."
Not superpowers. Not yet.
But… enhancements.
Little ones.
He looked up at the gray sky and gave a slow grin.
This might actually work.
---
Two hours later, Aria slapped the last flyer onto a rusty payphone and returned to the van with sore arms, ink-smudged fingers, and a weird new confidence humming in his chest.
Vic eyed him suspiciously as he flipped through the remaining pile.
"You actually did it?"
"Every flyer."
Vic pulled out a wad of bills and handed over a crisp twenty.
"You're better than most."
Aria pocketed the cash with an exaggerated bow. "Thank you, sensei."
Vic rolled his eyes and drove off in a cloud of fumes.
---
Back at the shelter, Aria flopped onto his thin mattress with a triumphant sigh.
One meal, twenty bucks, and a possible mutant brain upgrade.
Not bad for day one.
But as he stared up at the water-stained ceiling, a realization crept in:
He still had no idea how he got here.
No real memories of how he ended up in this world, or why it was so familiar.
But something told him he'd need every bit of help he could get.
Especially if his powers depended on other people noticing him.
And that?
That was going to be a problem.
---
The shelter's common room was quiet that evening. A flickering TV bolted high on the wall played the evening news over the soft hum of vending machines and the occasional cough from the guy two bunks down.
Aria sat cross-legged on the scratchy couch, a microwaved burrito on a paper plate beside him, half-listening as he leafed through a discarded Time magazine from 2006. The pages still smelled like someone else's fingers.
He was about to give up and try to sleep when a news segment caught his ear.
"…CEO of Stark Industries, Howard Stark's son, continues to stir headlines with his latest weapons demo in the Middle East…"
Aria's head snapped up.
The screen showed a smirking man in a sharp suit, arms spread wide in front of a missile test.
TONY STARK, CEO OF STARK INDUSTRIES
October 2nd, 2007 – CNN Feed
"No," Aria whispered. "No freaking way."
He leaned closer, staring at the screen like it might start playing Avengers theme music.
It couldn't be.
Could it?
The news anchor continued, "…Stark, known for his playboy lifestyle and genius-level intellect, is expected to unveil a new line of defense systems next quarter…"
Playboy. Genius. Weapons manufacturer.
Aria's mind raced. His heart started pounding.
"Okay. Okay, okay—calm down."
He grabbed a remote and tried flipping to another channel. Late-night reruns.
And there—between commercials for cough syrup and jeans—was a talk show featuring someone casually name-dropping Rand Corporation and Hammer Tech.
"…we tried bidding against Stark, but you know how he is," the guest said, laughing.
Aria slumped back into the couch, eyes wide.
"Oh my God. I'm in the Marvel Cinematic Universe."
He looked around, half-expecting someone to burst through the walls in spandex.
Nothing. Just old Frank snoring in the corner.
Okay. Okay. It's fine. Don't panic.
But he was absolutely panicking.
The timing hit him like a truck. October 2007.
Which meant—if he remembered the movie timeline right—Tony Stark would be kidnapped in like… three months.
And then came the suits. The aliens. The gods. The snap.
Aria slowly lowered his face into his hands.
He wasn't just broke, alone, and magically compliment-powered in some random world.
He was in the MCU.
The worst possible universe to be a background character in.
Especially one without plot armor.
"…I'm so screwed," he muttered into his palms.
Aria did not sleep that night.
He lay on the shelter bunk, eyes wide, staring at the water-stained ceiling as if it might suddenly crack open and drop a Chitauri invasion on him early. Every creak of the building, every distant siren, every pigeon coo outside made him flinch.
He kept whispering to himself, "Okay, Aria. Chill. Don't be the guy who dies in the opening montage."
By the time the sun rose, he'd made a plan.
Rule One: Don't get noticed.
Rule Two: Do not help superheroes.
Rule Three: Never say things like "what could possibly go wrong?" aloud.
After splashing cold water on his face and eating the last of his vending machine dinner—a granola bar and expired chocolate milk—he left the shelter with one goal:
Blend in.
Hide in plain sight.
Become background furniture.
He even practiced walking like someone who definitely didn't know anything about the future.
"Just a guy," he muttered, passing a group of teenagers on the sidewalk. "Just a very average guy. Look at me, so normal. Wow."
One of the teens looked at him funny.
Aria ducked into the nearest bodega and pretended to browse instant noodles.
The clerk behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "You okay, kid?"
"Fine. Totally fine. I'm just… admiring the… MSG."
Great. Now he was suspicious and broke.
He slipped out after buying a single banana with the last crumpled dollar in his hoodie pocket and decided to walk the long way to nowhere, just to shake off the nerves.
But the city didn't let him forget where he was.
Everywhere he looked, the signs were there. Literally. A newsstand had a copy of the New York Bulletin. Headlines about some guy with a baseball bat cleaning up a rough neighborhood. Posters on a nearby wall showed Stark Tech sponsorship ads. And someone had spray-painted "Vigilantes Suck" across an old construction site.
It wasn't movie obvious. No superheroes swooping down. No flying cars.
Just… hints.
Little things.
Like the background noise of a story just waiting to explode.
Aria picked up his pace.
The plan was simple: Go to school. Keep his head down. Avoid any and all glowing objects, men in suits, lab internships, or people named "Peter" or "Stephen."
And definitely avoid making any friends who looked like they might be recruited by Nick Fury in the next six months.
He'd already survived forty years of real-life adulting.
He could survive high school in the MCU.
Right?
…Right?
…It wasn't glamorous. But every little gig bought him something important—an egg sandwich here, a pack of instant noodles there, a can of soda cold enough to feel like a luxury. He ran deliveries for a deli owner who called everyone "kid" regardless of age. Helped an old lady carry her groceries up four flights of stairs and ended up listening to her rattle off conspiracy theories about pigeons and President Bush.
Sometimes people paid in cash. Sometimes they handed him food and said, "You look like you need it."
He took it. No shame. Pride was expensive.
It wasn't much, but it made him feel like he existed.
Like he wasn't just some ghost shoved into a borrowed body in a borrowed world.
Still, he kept his head down. The MCU—if that's really where he was—was not a place for bold moves. Not yet. Not for someone with zero powers, zero allies, and barely enough cash for bus fare.
He wasn't going to pull a Peter Parker and accidentally invent super-adhesive and get bitten by a genetically altered thing. No thanks.
So he blended in. Swept, folded, nodded, and walked home with sore feet and quiet thoughts. Slept on a lumpy cot at the shelter, one ear open, hoodie tight around him like a cocoon.
He didn't make friends.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't draw attention.
He was playing the world's most cautious game of hide and seek—with gods, billionaires, and radioactive spiders just waiting in the wings.
No hero speeches. No plans.
Just two more days.
Then school would start.
And with it, whatever this weird new life was supposed to be.