Consciousness returned to me suddenly, and with it—weakness and pain. Pain that seemed to be everywhere in my body. And the thirst was so intense, as if I hadn't drunk anything for days.
"Where am I, and why do I feel so awful?" The first thoughts flashed through my mind, and of course, no one answered.
With great effort, I pried my eyes open and saw only a dirty ceiling. Trying to turn over sent a new wave of pain through my body, making me groan. With almost inhuman effort, I managed to roll over and then carefully, slowly slid off the sunken mattress, which seemed to be lying directly on the floor. On shaky all fours, I crawled toward the silhouette of a sink visible in the dim light of the room. With difficulty, and at the cost of black spots appearing before my eyes and a traitorous tremor in my arms and legs, I finally reached my goal. I grabbed the cold edge of the sink and pulled myself up. I found the faucet, turned it, and pressed my mouth to the stream, greedily gulping down the cold water.
The water helped me come to my senses a little. The pain even dulled slightly. Only then did I dare to lift my head and look in the mirror above the sink.
The reflection showed a young, very pale face with dried blood at the corner of the mouth and huge bruises. The hair was black, hanging over a dirty, sweaty forehead, and the brown eyes were frozen in pain and confusion. But the most important thing—this wasn't me. This was someone else. A stranger. A stranger's face, a stranger's apartment, and a stranger's body, battered by brutal beatings.
Suddenly, the room spun before my eyes. I nearly collapsed to the floor but managed to grab the edge of the sink. Gathering all my strength, I crawled back to the mattress to sink into the black, merciful oblivion.
For two days, I burned with fever, tossed between heat and cold. My body ached nonstop. Especially my head. I was haunted by dreams-memories, like fragments of a cheap melodrama. From time to time, I came to, forced myself to get up, and crawled to the sink to drink greedily from the tap, then crawled back to the dirty mattress on all fours. I even found the toilet somehow, but it all felt like a feverish haze.
By the third day, I finally came to enough to realize one simple fact: this was not a dream. It was real. Now I was someone else. My memory held both my own and someone else's memories: books read, movies watched, I had a name, a family, friends… but now it was all selectively erased, leaving only vague recollections. I remembered going to school, then university. After that, I worked as a programmer, lived in an apartment, had a family. But I couldn't remember a single name or face of someone close. I didn't remember what city I was from. And I clearly felt that I was much older. And knowing that the most precious things were lost forever was perhaps the most terrifying. But despite the despair, I forced myself to get up and, more consciously this time, looked around "my" apartment.
A one-room studio. It was dirty, though not a complete pigsty. It was clear that the "previous me" had tried to maintain some semblance of order, but everything around was so old and worn out that a proper cleanup was impossible.
The mattress on the floor was old and sagging. Nearby lay the blanket, sheet, and pillow I had pushed aside while regaining consciousness, scattered on the floor. The room had one chair and a nightstand with a chipped corner. On the only table stood a laptop—old, battered, but with a lit indicator, meaning it worked. In the corner, which could loosely be called a kitchen, stood a small refrigerator. Driven by hunger, which gave me both strength and motivation, I shuffled toward it.
In the fridge, I found a couple of pieces of dried pizza and a can of some soda. I took out the pizza, spotted a mug on the table, rinsed it, filled it with water, and finally drank my fill. The water was cool, with an unpleasant aftertaste, but even so, it seemed like the best drink in the world. There was no stove, but there was a microwave that had seen better days. Next to it was an electric kettle.
Rummaging through the only kitchen drawer, I found an almost full pack of tea. I made tea, sat down on the chair, took a piece of pizza in one hand and the mug of tea in the other, and began to think.
So, the fragments of memory painted a rather grim picture. In my past life—and in this one, judging by the memories of my current self—I had read about this in books. A transmigrator. Only in books, everything was fun and exciting, but here… there was pain, dirt, and complete hopelessness, to put it mildly.
This guy… Or rather, the current me… Alexey Vetrov. Twenty-two years old. Originally from a Russian orphanage. A guy who dreamed of America as a child, the America painted by Hollywood movies and cartoons. After the orphanage, he went to a technical school, where he chose to study programming. Funny how in both lives, my main profession was the same. During his studies, he worked odd jobs, saving up for a laptop and a ticket to his dream. And then, in his final year of study, some kind of turmoil happened in New York—there was a lot of hype and destruction. And he, the fool, decided it was the perfect moment to realize his dream. Without finishing his studies, he dropped out of technical school and went to conquer America, because right now, New York was being rebuilt, which meant there would be work, and cool work at that. He arrived… but for a Russian guy without proper language skills or documents, there was almost no work—dishwasher, odd jobs, and courier. At least those were the jobs he managed to try.
Over the years in America, he had somehow improved his language skills, but a thick accent remained. He had lived in this dump for a couple of years. And on the day I arrived… he was on a delivery. His last order was to a crappy neighborhood. He completed the order and took out his phone to plot the route back. Someone called out from behind, and when he turned around, the dumb and heavy work of fists on his ribs and face began. Two Black guys took his work backpack, phone, and bicycle. They didn't forget to go through his pockets, taking his wallet and personal flip phone.
And so, beaten and robbed, Lyokha somehow made it home, collapsed without undressing, and then… I woke up in his place.
The tea gave me a little strength. After finishing it and setting the mug aside, I reached for the laptop. The lid creaked. The screen was covered in small scratches. The internet here was slow, but it was there; Alexey, by the way, paid extra for it to have at least some connection to the world.
The first thing I searched for was news. My memories were chaotic and general, so it was hard to tell what was fiction and what was real. I decided to start with that very event that had abruptly turned Alexey's life toward the States. Names. Titles. Events. And the more I read, the colder I felt inside. This was not just "some event."
An invasion. The Chitauri. Tony Stark. Captain America. The Avengers.
My hand instinctively reached for my forehead. I could feel the blood draining from my face, and a swarm of goosebumps ran down my spine.
"God. This is… Marvel. The Marvel Cinematic Universe. And I'm sitting in an old, shabby apartment on the outskirts of New York, in the body of a Russian immigrant, and outside the window… a fictional world."
But at the same time, my mind clung to the justification and hope that kept me from slipping into shock and hysteria:
"And there are superheroes and beauties here. And I know the plot." And these thoughts brought relief and almost childish joy. "I'm in the world of superheroes! I can see them! I know everything! And that's incredible!"
But the euphoria subsided as quickly as it had come. It was replaced by a heavy and unpleasant wave of realization.
"Only I'm not a superhero. I'm an extra, the little guy who gets smeared on the asphalt when Hulk runs over him. And I live in a city that someone regularly tries to destroy. And…" I remembered. "The timeline. Judging by the news, the events of the first 'Avengers' have already happened. Loki has already attacked the city and been caught. The Avengers are already active. And Thanos has started collecting the Infinity Stones."
Thanos. The snap. The death of half of all living beings in this world, and with a fifty percent chance—me. And yes, I remembered well that the Avengers would save everyone in the end. But where was the guarantee that this was the same universe and that they would succeed? Besides, the circumstances of my arrival clearly showed that this was not the light and pleasant story I had once read. So it was better to assume the worst from the start.
"Well, fuck!" I blurted out in pure Russian.
Panic. Pure, animal panic began to rise and choke me.
"Breathe. Just breathe," I tried to calm myself mentally. But there was no escaping the thoughts of the impending apocalypse.
"I'm alone here. Completely alone. No money, no connections, no strength. I can't even speak properly."
Despair overwhelmed me, and it was at that moment, right before my eyes, that a line of pure, bluish light appeared.
[Integration of the Development System into the bearer's soul and consciousness is complete.]
[To open the status menu, mentally say: "Status."]
I froze. Then blinked slowly. The inscription didn't disappear. It hung in the air. Semi-transparent and emitting a faint glow.
"This is a hallucination from nerves, hunger, pain, or all of it together," the first thought flashed through my mind.
I rubbed my eyes, even looked around—to see if it was a projection from somewhere? But no. The inscription hung right in the center of my vision, not changing position.
My heart suddenly began to pound with renewed force, not from fear, but from hope. Wild, crazy, almost impossible hope.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and said:
— Status.
A game-like interface immediately unfolded before me. Simple, with numbers, bars, and icons. I was stunned, staring at it. A system. Damn it, a real system! Like in those novels I used to read. A transmigrator with a system. This… this was a ticket. A ticket to a better life.
Okay, system. Let's see what you're all about.
I stared at the window hanging in the air. It was semi-transparent, bluish, and the room was slightly visible through it. It looked completely surreal. The interface was divided into two main sections.
On the left were the attributes. For some reason, I expected to see a bunch of things, but no. Everything was extremely simple and practical. Only four items, each with a bar without percentages or numbers:
[Strength: 3]
[Agility: 4]
[Endurance: 3]
[Perception: 5]
Not great numbers, to put it mildly. Although I didn't know the scale, if we assumed it was out of 10, things didn't look bright. Strength and endurance at 3… Agility at 4—probably from working as a courier, running and biking around the city. And perception at 5… Probably from trying to program and the constant need to be on guard, watching for danger in these damned neighborhoods. And there were also some Will Points.
[Will Points: 0]
I didn't immediately understand what they were or what they were for.
On the right was the "Features" section. It was just a gray list with a bunch of names that now looked pale and inactive. I scanned them with my eyes: "Steel Foundation," "Nerve Rope," "Limits"… It sounded interesting, but everything was unavailable, and I didn't see any descriptions.
Looking more closely at the interface frame, I noticed three small icons in the top right corner: a cross, a question mark, and a gear.
The cross was clear. I mentally tapped it, and the interface immediately disappeared. The room became ordinary again.
"Damn, what if it doesn't come back?" A panicked thought flashed, and I immediately mentally said:
— Status.
The window reappeared in the same place.
"Phew. Good. It closes and opens. Now the gear."
A mental click—and another window, smaller, appeared over the main one. "Interface Settings."
"Oh, now this is interesting."
Transparency sliders, a "sound notifications" checkbox, color scheme selection… I reduced the transparency so the numbers were clearer and changed the color from calm blue to neutral white. In my opinion, this way the interface wouldn't be so jarring. I checked the box for sound notifications and closed the settings.
Only the question mark remained, and as soon as I mentally clicked it, information flooded my mind. These weren't words, but direct knowledge poured straight into my consciousness. I reflexively grabbed my head, expecting pain, but there was none—just slight fatigue, as if I had just watched a tiring documentary or educational film.
And judging by the information received, everything was as I had already begun to suspect. No levels, dungeons, inventory, system quests, gifts for newcomers, or skills like "fireball" or free knowledge. Yes, there wasn't even a "English language" skill here. Everything boiled down to four attributes: Strength, Agility, Endurance, and Perception. The limit for an ordinary person was ten. And Captain America was the benchmark human with tens in everything. Great. And I, unfortunately, was a "three-pointer," at least not in everything.
And to improve these attributes, I had to… train. For real. Until I was drenched in sweat, until muscle failure, until I wanted to vomit. The system wouldn't make me stronger just like that. It would only show how much I had grown after I tore all my muscles in training. As one of the bonuses, the system prevented attribute regression. So even after a long break, I would retain the same stats.
The second bonus and essentially the only way to become something more in this world was Will Points (WP). And they were also given for certain efforts. Reading the conditions made me feel a little uneasy. Training to the limit and overcoming the impossible. Surviving in difficult conditions. Consciously accepting unbearable pain. I had to deliberately get into shitty situations to earn WP and then invest them in "Features," which also required pumped base stats.
The system didn't offer easy paths. It was as if it directly said: "Want to survive in this world—work. Work like a packhorse and take risks. Otherwise, you're dead."
The euphoria from the system's appearance subsided, replaced by an understanding of the situation. This wasn't a cheat code to join the heroes. The Development System was… a harsh and merciless trainer. A mentor who would kick me off the floor and make me run further when I couldn't, dangling a carrot in front of my nose in the form of WP.
I leaned back in the chair, which creaked softly. The apartment again appeared before me in all its shabby glory: the sagging mattress, the empty fridge, the dried piece of pizza in my hand. The pain in my ribs, dull and aching.
"Well then. Lyokha, you wanted to be in an American movie? Here's your movie, complete with full immersion and hardcore mode. Not Warhammer, thank God, and not a resort."
I looked at my hands. Thin, with visible bruises. Strength 3. Endurance 3. I was weak. Very weak. And the world around me was deadly dangerous. And Thanos' snap loomed on the horizon like the sword of Damocles.
But now I had a chance. A harsh, unpleasant, painful chance, but a chance. And I essentially had no choice. Either I start climbing up, overcoming myself every damn day, or I'll just be crushed by another battle of supers or mutants on the streets of New York.
I finished the cold tea and, despite the specific taste of the dried pizza, ate it anyway. It was fuel. The first fuel for a new life.
When I got up from the chair, my body ached again, but not as sharply. I approached the cracked mirror. The same guy with bruises on his face and pain in his eyes looked back at me. Alexey Vetrov.
— Alright, Lyokha, I muttered to my reflection in a hoarse voice. — Either we make it, or we don't.
In response, only a silent gaze. But something inside me stirred. Tiny, but stubborn. A spark of will. First things first—find food. Then—any kind of work. And then… then the real fun would begin.