Marvel: Terror Stream

"Luke, Luke, wake up!"

"Mm, yeah, Mom. I’m up. I’m up,"

The boy, Luke, muttered, dragging himself upright and slumping back against the headboard with all the grace of a half-dead sloth.

’Still here, huh.’

He sighed—a long, weary exhale that belonged to someone who had just lost a very private bet with the universe.

Yup. Officially Day Two in this brave new world.

See, when he cracked his eyes open yesterday morning, he was staring at someone else’s ceiling... in someone else’s body.

Transmigration!

That ridiculous plot device he had only ever read about in web novels had actually happened to him. Never in a million years did he think the universe would look at his boring, perfectly normal life and go, "Nah, let’s yeet this guy into a whole new freaking universe."

But oh well.

The hope he’d carried to bed last night—that this would all turn out to be some spectacular fever dream—had been thoroughly murdered by the merciless arrival of morning. So. No choice left but to accept reality.

Well, technically, he’d accepted it yesterday, too. It’s just that acceptance looked a lot easier just before bed; the closed eyes and calm mind gave you time to really think about everything you’d lost.

Anyway.

After waking up yesterday, he’d done the full transmigrator’s drill: checked the new body out (hardware was decentish, nothing too big but might get an impressed eyebrow raise from his future wife or girlfriend), and then—all hail the internet—figured out what kind of world he’d been dumped into.

Marvel.

Yes, he was in Marvel.

The one with a green rage monster, a star-spangled patriot, a tin-can billionaire, and enough world-ending threats to keep a guy up at night.

’And don’t even get me started on the golden-finger situation. Whatever cosmic entity dropped me here had clearly read the "make it complicated" memo because the powers I—’

"And what’s up with you, Luke?" Mom’s voice sliced right through his two-second internal monologue. "Is this ’sleeping in until noon’ thing gonna become a new hobby?"

Luke blinked. Right. Conversation. "It’s barely 9.30, Mom,"

She turned around, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip, "Well, come downstairs for breakfast."

With that, she left the room.

And closed the door behind her.

With her foot.

Luke stared at the door for a long moment.

He rubbed his face with both hands, then let them fall to his lap.

Right. We’re in Marvel.

And the power that I’ve been granted is a terrorist system.

’Yeah, no, it’s not a system that terrorises me, it’s a system that’s asking me to terrorise.’

He unlocked his phone. His thumb hovered over the app icon as it might bite him.

T Stream. Or Terrorist-Stream, see, he had renamed the app icon to preserve what was left of his dignity.

Yesterday, in a fit of paranoia to confirm it was not just some random app or game, he had tried everything.

Uninstall. Factory Reset. Nothing worked. It came back every time.

And then there was the... other thing which completely removed any doubt.

Yesterday, when he’d forgotten his phone somewhere and idly wished it was in his pocket... and it manifested. He’d tested it a dozen times after that. Every time, wherever he willed it, the phone would appear near him.

It even floated for a couple of seconds as if smug that it could do it.

Like some sort of teleportation that worked exclusively for this one device.

Luke let out a slow breath.

’Congratulations. I’ve unlocked the most situational superpower in existence.’

He had immediately decided this ability was:

Extremely useful.Completely impossible to explain.Something that would 100% get him dissected by a government or secret organization if demonstrated publicly.

So yeah. Emergency use only.

His thumb finally tapped the app.

The screen shifted.

A clean interface loaded in — minimalistic.

Dashboard: Locked

Shop: Locked

Stream: Locked

Tools: Locked

About: Locked

’Love that. Big fan of having absolutely no information.’

Why even have an about page if he couldn’t read about it?

He scrolled.

One tab remained.

Quest Details.

Of course.

Because why would a mysterious, morally questionable system bother with explanations when it could just hand out assignments?

He tapped it.

The screen refreshed.

And then—

The words appeared.

[ Beginner’s Quest: Live Terror Stream ]

[Objective: Conduct a live-streamed terror operation using the Start Stream feature within any commercial or public facility.]

[ Conditions:

15+ minutes duration 5+ hostagesZero Casualties must occur during the quest duration by the user.]

[ Reward: Quirk- Explosion + 50 Terror Points ]

[ Failure: In case of failure to achieve the given conditions or declination of the quest, the Terrorist System will be removed from the user’s device forever. ]

[ Accept/ Decline]

Luke stared at the screen.

He didn’t know what the terror points would get him but...

"That’s Bakugo’s quirk, isn’t it..." he muttered.

Perfectly suitable for a terrorist in making.

Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight!

But still...

That was... not a small reward.

His fingers hovered lightly against the accept button.

Then stopped.

Because—

Five hostages. Not mannequins. Not NPCs. Actual people.

He let out a long breath through his nose and read the fine print again.

Failure: The terrorist system will be permanently removed from the user’s device.

Failure also meant a few years of Jail!

But still...

The system wasn’t asking him to commit a crime because it was evil. It was giving him a choice. It operated on a very simple principle: do the thing or lose the chance to gain powers in a chaotic universe.

Luke leaned back against the headboard, phone dangling loosely in his hand.

’So either I become a terrorist, or I permanently lose the only power-up I’ve been offered in a universe where world-destroying threats are statistically likely to show up at yearly or monthly points.’

There was a perfectly normal, happy, and slightly modern family living in this house. Their sounds of joy would evaporate if their son got caught holding five people at Starbucks.

Right now, Luke was eighteen. New body, new face, new life. But in his past life—the boring, perfectly normal one—he’d been twenty-eight. A well-paid IT worker who spent his days fixing bugs and his evenings wondering if he should pick up a new hobby.

Not old enough to have gained age-old wisdom, but old enough to have learned one thing:

Impulsivity was for people who didn’t have to live with the consequences.

He locked the phone.

"Right," he muttered, tossing it onto the bed. It landed with a soft thump that was frankly too innocent for something carrying a literal terror campaign in its homescreen. "Breakfast."

He entered the Bathroom.

His reflection greeted him in the mirror—brown hair still a disaster, a handsome face, and a lean physique that worked out regularly.

His reflection, unhelpfully, just looked back at him with the same existential exhaustion.

Luke turned on the faucet.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little thought echoed: The quest doesn’t have an expiration date.

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