Chapter Text
The only superhero memorabilia you own, is of the father of the man who has killed you twelve times.
Thirteen, now.
It’s a huge poster your dad got for a birthday, taking up space in the middle of your wall above your computer. Omni-Man’s heavy eyes watch you, you think, and sometimes, helps you keep count of your deaths.
It is the only thing, across the thirteen lives you have lived, that usually stays the same in your bedroom. Except for one, where you vaguely remember he was never a hero at all.
You’re not even really a fan of him. You know too much about a lot of things to ever really be a fan of superheroes anymore; except Red Rush, you like him.
You have also, across your thirteen lives, repeated Economics and Government at least five times. The other times, you’re certain you died before you could.
It’s about to become six, you think, as you look at your driver’s license. A big, fat 1985 is printed next to your date of birth, and the kitten-themed calendar on your wall says 2003, so you’re seventeen, which you haven’t been in at least three lifetimes.
You’re staring at your ceiling now, brain fuzzy and throbbing in your skull. How did you die this time? You think you remember a bus— not necessarily a car accident, you weren’t jaywalking or anything, but Invincible threw it at you. Around you, really, you think he might’ve just been trying to squish the crowd of people you were with in general, but he hit you nonetheless. Your disembodied soul stared at your splattered guts before you felt that familiar rush of wind and the sound of your ears popping.
Now you’re here. It’s the same routine. Wake up, check the date, pretend like you’ve lived in this body the whole time, get vaguely caught up on the news for homework.
You throw your blankets over your body and roll out of bed with all the enthusiasm you can muster. You don’t know what cruel god has given you the curse of immortality, but you hope they’re at least getting a kick out of watching you die in increasingly creative ways. You have your favorites. Bus ranks pretty low.
The door creaks open just as you’re opening the door to your closet. A man stands there, peeking his head inside, eyes wide. “You’re awake already,” he mumbles, surprised, “you must be really excited for your senior year. This might be the first time you’re not late on the first day of school. You’ve never gotten up this early ever. My daughter’s all grown up.” He cracks a smile, then sniffles, disappearing from the cracked door with a little sob.
Your dad is making a good first impression. You, however, are not; always late on the first day of school? You hope your grades don’t reflect that. Whatever bullshit the you-before-you-arrived was on, you just hope it’s an easy fix.
Getting ready for the day takes as long as it usually does. It’s good to find routine across lifetimes. Lest you spend your idle time remembering things you’d rather not.
“What’s for breakfast?” You ask, and hearing your own voice is still as jarring as ever. You’re alive again. Speaking proves that to you. Your gaze lands on your father at the table, your mother setting up plates at four different chairs. Hey, you’ve got a little brother in this universe.
“The zombie leaves her bedroom.” His tone is teasing, already shoving a sausage into his mouth. Shithead.
“Jarrod, please.” Your mother slaps his hand lightly in reprimand, and Jarrod just shrugs, continuing to eat. “Let’s not ruin your sister’s first day of her senior year before she even gets to school.”
Your dad makes a noise, grinning, “Lia, come on, they’re teenagers. They do this stuff.” Lia, your mother, shoots him a look that makes his face flush red. “No, you’re right. Jarrod,” he redirects casually— you pull your seat out at the table, sitting between your mother and brother— “stop bullying your sister.”
Jarrod sticks his tongue out. “It’s my first day of school too, you know! Sixth grade is an important time in every young man’s life. This is when I make the arbitrary decision of baseball, football, basketball, or being a loser for the rest of my life.”
“You could do wrestling.” You cut up a piece of your sausage and stuff it into your mouth. “Get your skinny little ass into shape.” Lia- you don’t call your parents ‘mom’ or ‘dad’ in any universe, you don’t want to risk getting attached- clears her throat and you meet her gaze with raised eyebrows. Not as receptive to cussing at the table as the last mom, which sucks a bit, you guess. “Sorry.”
“You’re right... Paul, can I sign up for wrestling?” Jerrod bats his eyes at Paul and Lia. “I’ll learn to kick ass. I’ll be undefeatable. I’ll be invincible!” Your moms clears her throat again, but sighs, giving up. You figured you both look pretty different from your parents— if he’s calling your ‘dad’ Paul, and you two look exactly alike, you two must not be their biological kids.
“Maybe. It’d work out, the middle school doesn’t offer it, but I heard the high school wrestling team practices with the middle schoolers. Your sister can take you after she gets done with tutoring.” You blink wildly. You tutor? You allegedly barely make it to school on time, but you tutor? For what subject? Why does your life have to be so difficult?
You glance at Jerrod and he grins snarkily at you. Definitely a shithead.
Breakfast is over pretty quick. Your mom stops you for a couple pictures then practically shoves you out of the door, encouraging you to make good decisions (like being early) for the rest of the year. The life you’re in this time is pretty nice so far. Your house is great, a two-story in suburbia, and your car’s pretty decent, too. A 2002 Toyota Camry, so your family must have money, or you were really good before your last birthday.
Getting to school is an easy affair. That is also the same across every universe. Your grades are not, but if you’re tutoring, they can’t be that bad. You’ll just have to take the warning ticket from the parking lot attendant, though, because for all of the universe’s mercy, getting the same parking spot every new life was not one of them.
You think you might be finding random shit to complain about. Like that your car kinda still has that new car smell, but you’ve got four of those scent tree things hanging from your rearview mirror, which is excessive.
You’re barely into the school when you’re attacked. A small, skinny girl with a school spirit sweatshirt on is currently grinning at you, nudging you with her elbow, muttering your name mischeviously. “You’re here pretty early. Color me shocked. My best friend is awake and moving before 8.” Your grin is your only response, because you’re glancing at the notebook in her arms to see if she’ll make it easy for you by writing her name in the top corner.
“Thaa-anks,” you hesitate, biting your bottom lip, narrowing your eyes, “…Katy.” She quirks an eyebrow, though she seems to buy it, at the very least. “I really enjoy your faith in me.” Katy laughs, and you’re pretty you’re fine.
“Always happy to help. What’s your schedule?” Without asking, Katy unzips your bookbag and starts to dig through it as you two walk. You slow down so she doesn’t trip over her own feet- there’s no way she’s a senior, too. It’s not just her height, she looks young. “Gotta know so I know when it’s okay to bother you for help with my classes. Every junior needs their smartass senior friend.” She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it out as best as she can. Ah, a junior, then.
She looks over it for a minute as you two walk. You’re kind of subtly following her, and she’s more so leading you around, ‘cause you also need to see your schedule. “Yikes. A math class first thing in the morning. I’d say that sucks, but you’re such a nerd I think you might enjoy it.” Katy shoves the schedule back into your bookbag just as the bell rings. “Warning bell! I’ll see you later, ‘kay?” And then she runs off with an energy you can only wish you had at this time in the morning.
Unsurprisingly, every class you have is one you’ve taken before. At least this’ll be easy, until you die, of course. You’re kind of playing a game of tag with Invincible. Or, more like hide and seek, and you never get to be the seeker, and you’re not exactly good at hiding.
As far as you’re concerned, there are no universes where Invincible doesn’t kill you. It’s always something with him— Omni-Man dies and he goes apeshit, or he just goes apeshit because he can— like you said, always something.
But you don’t have to worry about that right now. Not for at least a couple weeks, at least.
With your mind so occupied, you don’t notice that you’re basically walking in the middle of the hallway. People are politely walking around you, except for one, who doesn’t notice you, either, until your shoulders collide. He’s stiffer than you, so you stumble back, staring up at him with wide eyes, hands clutching your ridiculously-sized syllabi to your chest.
“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention…” you trail off, trying to place the face in front of you. He doesn’t look so willing to forgive.
“Then you should pay attention. Watch where you’re going.” He scoffs, walking around you, grumbling beneath his breath. Alright, asshole. You thought he had kind of cute face, if not familiar, but whatever. You need to go to tutoring anyway, according to the text you received from some girl’s mom five minutes after your last period.
You’re getting into your car, one foot in the door, when you suddenly feel like your being lifted off the ground. It makes you lightheaded at first- then you realize it’s not because of the rush of wind, but because someone has their hand around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to burn, to make your ears feel like they’re about to explode off of your head.
“You know, I feel a little bit bad about this,” came the deep voice from earlier, “but I’ve had kind of a bad day. You shouldn’t have bumped into me. I’ve been meaning to blow off steam anyway.” His hand squeezes tighter, but you’ve managed to open your eyes to look at the person in front of you. Goggles, face not at all obscured, mask loose.
Fucking Invincible again. Once, just once, you’d like to be put in a universe where Invincible isn’t an evil asshole. He’s never specifically targeted you in any of your previous deaths, so maybe something’s changing, right?
To be fair, it’s not like you’ve ever initiated a conversation with Invincible, as far as you’re aware. You’re pretty sure you remember his face from earlier, the asshole who bumped into you. Besides, he’s about to kill you. He probably thinks you won’t remember.
“You’re not saying anything. That’s fine.” Invincible tilts his head, still soaring through the sky, your body limp but not completely gone yet. You couldn’t say anything if you wanted. He’s got you by the throat, in case he forgot, which he definitely hasn’t because he’s squeezing tighter now.
Your neck is making a clicking sound in your ear- your bones, you reckon- and then your vision goes black, the wind against your skin thrashes harder, and you’re on the outside looking in once more. Gross; your head is dangling limply in his hand, and he looks pretty proud of himself.
Fourteen. Now fourteen times Invincible has killed you.