Marvel: Life is Good

Here I am, sitting in a high chair with a tray, eating porridge, deep in thought. My face? Covered in porridge. My shirt? Covered in porridge. The tray? Porridge everywhere. Mom Judy? Yep, porridge on her too. And yet, I'm so pleased with myself. I might have overdone it a bit, yeah—got a little carried away—but now, with a clean diaper and a nearly full stomach, I'm starting to think I panicked for nothing. All I did was upset Mom. Normally, I'm pretty neat. Sure, my coordination's not great yet, but I don't usually fling food everywhere. My moms love me, and I try to be a good boy. Heh. Oh, by the way, my name is Tobias, so get ready for this: TOBI IS A GOOD BOY! Heh-heh-heh.

Yeah, I overreacted. So what if it's Marvel? So what if there are superheroes and supervillains? Who cares? First of all, I've got some natural, "elephant in the pants" armor, if you catch my drift. Second, according to canon, as long as I don't live in New York, Washington, Latveria, or any terrorist hot spots, I should be fine. And even the 50% population wipe from Thanos's snap isn't worth losing sleep over. Why? For one, it's a coin flip—50/50 survival odds. And for another, the superheroic superheroes always bring everyone back from the backup save file anyway.

Oh, and is Thanos even a guy here? If not, I wouldn't mind checking out Thanosina the Busty Titan. Heh-heh-heh. Ahem. Anyway, there's no point panicking. Just live, grow, eat well, and chill out. When I'm older, I'll head off to college somewhere far away from the Big Apple. Maybe settle down with a beauty—or maybe a few beauties. Heh-heh-heh. After all, what was the dream of most guys in my old world? A harem. And here, it's not just allowed—it's encouraged.

Now, sure, some of you might scoff: "I never dreamed of that. Harems are a hassle, blah blah blah, and I'm a one-woman kind of guy." Fine, one-woman guy, you do you. But let's be real—why are you reading this while your wife or girlfriend peers over your shoulder? 

Anyway, a harem might have been a logistical nightmare in my old world—providing for them, dealing with drama, hiring eunuchs to guard them, the whole nine yards. But here? The harem takes care of you! They pamper you, feed you, scratch your belly, and pet behind your ears. You're basically a cat, except you can't nap on the TV.

And now, I can already hear the grumbling of guys who find the idea of living off their women humiliating. And you know what? I get it. Back in my old life, I looked down on men like that too. But here? I've got the perfect excuse: It's not me; it's society. Heh-heh-heh. That said, I'm not planning to just laze around and mooch. I'll work, contribute to the household budget, make myself useful.

My plan to avoid serious relationships, though? Gotta revise that. Not because it's legally required or anything—this is a democracy—but single guys over 25 get some serious side-eye here. And after hearing about all the perks a harem-holder gets, I'm starting to think, Why not? It doesn't sound too bad. 

I've never considered myself a playboy or anything. Just find a few lovely ladies with nice personalities who click with me. They don't have to be rich or from powerful families—just good people. If I want more variety, I can always add someone later. And cheating? That's not a big deal here. In fact, it's kind of jokingly encouraged in movies and shows, with lines like, "Why are you being so stingy? He's all yours anyway—share him with your sister." Wild, right? For me, yeah. But for the locals, especially the single women, it tugs at their heartstrings.

Honestly, I tip my hat to the governments here. They've managed to maintain stability in a world with such a gender imbalance. If it were reversed—ten men for every woman—we probably would've nuked ourselves into oblivion ages ago.

Anyway, here's the strategy. Grow up, develop myself. School? Hmm… I might be able to speedrun it a bit. My moms already call me a genius. Whether I'm a genius or not, I've got decent education from my past life. I could probably test out of elementary school entirely. Middle school? Well, do they even divide schools into elementary, middle, and high here? I'll figure that out later, but I think so.

For now, the goal is to breeze through school. There are a few advantages: being a small, cute kid will charm the older girls, and I won't have to deal much with the little ones. Also, it'll be a plus on my record—look at this smart boy, skipping grades. That said, I'll need to make some choices. Learn a few languages—that's a must. Russian and German, in particular. I need to come up with a cover story for knowing them, though. I'd love to swear in Russian without raising eyebrows. But S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching, Hydra's scheming and Leviathan's skulking around in the Red Room. I don't want any suspicion. I just want a quiet, comfy life.

Also, computer science. Back in my old life, I was a self-taught programmer, but my education had gaps. I enjoyed the job, so I'd like to stick with it here—but as a properly skilled and seasoned professional this time. Between programming and languages, I'll have options—translator gigs, travel, networking with rich and powerful folks. Hell, my future boss might even parade me around like a trophy. "Look at my star employee! So cultured! So skilled! Toby, tell them what the capital of England is!" "London." "Good boy, Toby! Here's a cookie."

Jokes aside, I think I'm set up for success. I've got decent looks—or so I suspect. How do I know? Well, here's the fun part. Normally, two women can't get pregnant on their own by bumping uglies. You're probably thinking, "No way, Toby! Then how were you born? Is it a miracle?" Nope. No divine intervention here. My dad's a sperm bank. I even have the address. I could go visit when I'm older, hug the wall, and cry out, "Dad!" Heh-heh-heh. Not that I'm actually going to do that. I'm not that dumb. Probably.

Anyway, in this version of the U.S., artificial insemination and sperm donation have a fascinating system. Everyone's rated—no, not Hogwarts points, but a real societal ranking. Your standing is based on your job, education, health, achievements, and even your parents' success to some extent. 

For example, I've already got a boost for my "rapid cognitive development," and Mom Judy scored major points for giving birth to a male child, especially one who's potentially a genius. Even my biological dad got a karma bump for contributing to my existence. It's all very intricate.

What I mean is: when a couple of women, whether in a relationship or just close friends deciding to raise a child together, want to have a baby, they have three options. The first is obvious—find a guy. Straightforward, but not the focus here.

The second option is through a government program. Yes, a government program. All sperm banks are state-owned, and they fully support artificial insemination programs. The process is simple: you submit an application, and based on your rating, you get a list of donor options. No photos, no names—just text-based descriptions of physical appearance, nationality, height, weight, inclinations, and traits, down to favorite foods and hobbies, along with the donor's lineage, medical history, and health records. Very thorough.

But this is America, the land of capitalism, so naturally, if you've got the cash—and we're talking a lot of it—you can upgrade to access higher-rated donors, all officially, of course.

Remember I mentioned we bought a TV relatively recently? That's because my moms saved up to let Judy, who has the higher maternal score, afford premium-rated donor options. That's why we've been living modestly—not poor, but careful. I'm not complaining; compared to my past life, this is a silver spoon in my mouth and considering I am a proud owner of a "crotch hose", I am somewhere platinum. My moms are smart—they save their government child benefits as a rainy-day fund. Betty plans to join the "young moms club" soon, though with girls, you don't get nearly the same perks. They're hoping for another boy but aren't holding their breath. Statistics, like gravity, can be cruel.

Their plan? Until I turn three, Judy devotes herself to raising me while Betty works. Then they'll swap—Betty gets pregnant, and they'll hire a nanny to help, because, let's face it, Betty's not exactly domestic goddess material. She breaks dishes about ten times more often than Judy does. Meanwhile, I'll start "socializing" at the local daycare.

So, yeah. That's the situation. Oh, right—the third option for them to have a child is the dumbest in my opinion: buying sperm on the black market. Why dumb? Because even the dumbest can see the chances of getting scammed are sky-high. Not worth considering.

Let's sum it up. Looks—check. School—check. Next step: pick a sport. Something light and non-extreme, like swimming. I had a friend who was a swimmer—his physique was amazing. Not gonna lie, Sasha, I was jealous. Light sports, by the way, means low risk of injuries.

Now, I know fans of transmigration stories are yelling, What about martial arts? Karate! Wushu! Drunken hedgehog death punch styles! Go to Konoha and become a ninja! Nah. I want swimming and dancing. In my past life, I danced like a one-legged John Silver. But now, I am already preparing to be popular with the ladies. Noble Sir wants to dance!

(Author's Note: Ugh, ugh! Bring rotten tomatoes, people! Fresh ones are too hard. Cut me some slack. I know the protagonist seems like a smart ass, but hey, it's all in the description!)

Brrr. Got a shiver down my spine. Hope I'm not gonna catch a cold or something.

Ahem. Where was I? Right—school, sports, learning languages, programming. That's the 10-year plan. Oh, and since I'll know English, I can finally read Bradbury in the original. If he even exists in this world… wait, what about plagiarism? Oh yeah, the infamous transmigrant clichée stealing ideas. Like ripping off Harry Potter or singing old songs by Vysotsky.

But I won't. It's unethical. Yes, I know—it's funny for someone who's excited about having a harem, being coddled by said harem, and potentially cheating on them, to talk about ethics. But I love those books and songs. The effort their creators poured into them deserves respect. Even if those works don't exist in this world, I can't bring myself to steal them. Taking $100 is one thing, but stealing someone's soul-baring creation? That's another level.

Besides, even leaving ethics aside, there's the technical challenge. Writing a book takes time. Recalling every plot detail? Hard. Adapting it to this world? Even harder. And after all that, it might flop. Same goes for music—I don't have a musical education, and in my past life, my singing was limited to drunken karaoke.

Even if it succeeded, I'd feel awful knowing the credit wasn't mine. So yeah, no plagiarism for me.

"I'm done eating." I look at Mom. She's a bit sad—that's my fault for making a mess. "Mama Judy, don't be sad." Cue the sad puppy eyes.

"Oh, Toby, you're such a sweetheart—even if you're a little piggy!" Bullseye. Direct hit. Ten points. No more sadness—just cuddles… but first, a clean-up.

I stoically endure my punishment—getting washed up. I earned it. Food isn't a toy. Once I'm clean and changed, Mom tidies up my mess… and damn it, my conscience kicks in. I'm almost the perfect kid, and this was a one-time incident, but guilt still eats at me. Ugh.

Once she's done, she'll sit next to me for a cartoon before nap time. That's our routine. By the way, naps are important. My eyes are already closing. She'll sit down, and I'll crawl into her lap and hug her tight. Tell her I love her so much. Harems are far in the future, but my moms are here now. I didn't value family in my past life—stupid me. But now, I'm a seasoned kid. Not just my moms want me to be happy—I want them to be happy too.

On the screen, Captain America is kicking some Nazi supervillain ass. Epic. Powerful. He knows his stuff. Awesome. Speaking of superheroes… there's a chance I could meet some of them. Not that I'd go out of my way, but New York's big, and heroes stand out—especially in those costumes. Heh.

I wouldn't aim to drag a superheroine into my harem—too much drama. Villains targeting her through her loved ones? No thanks. But chatting with one, maybe getting an autograph? That'd be cool.

Also, should I consider getting superpowers myself? Do I even need them? If so, what kind? And most importantly, how the heck do I get them?

The easiest option? Becoming a vampire. But let's be real—hanging out in dark basements, occasionally sucking…? Total trash. Plus, Blade's in this universe. And he, or she (depending on the continuity), would slice my ass into kebab meat faster than you can say Daywalker. So, no thanks to being a red-eyed sucker. Not to mention the whole "serve your matriarch/patriarch" thing or being a flunky for the one who turned you. Bottom line: vampires are the Aquaman of Marvel. They suck.

What else is there? Dr. Connors' Lizard formula? Ehh… If I remember right, it messes with your mind, plus you end up looking like a bipedal crocodile. Sure, girls like crocodiles—but only in the form of handbags and boots. Sorry, Doc, but sewer squad life isn't for me either.

Mutants? That'd mean having the X-gene. There's a slight chance it could awaken with age, like Rogue's, but honestly, that's like rolling the dice with dinosaurs. Fifty-fifty. Either it activates, or it doesn't. Then there's Stryker, who gave people powers, but his methods? Creepy chimera experiments and freaky augmentations. That's probably cool with the Omnissiah, but I'm not in Warhammer 40K. I'm not about to scream liturgies to the Emperor and charge at an ork horde.

Oh, and Venom—can't forget about him. Or Carnage. But those symbiotes? Total insanity-inducing psychos if I remember comics right. Something about crazy aggression hormone overdoses. I don't remember the exact science, but I do know one thing—biting off people's heads doesn't fit into my peaceful, happy life plans. Same goes for the goblin serum from Osborn. That comes with a bonus: an obnoxious laugh that wouldn't suit my vibe at all.

Ugh, almost fell asleep there. Mom noticed and scooped me up. She's carrying me to bed now. Sleep-sleep-sleep… Still got time to figure this out later. I'm only two. For now, the priority is eating well and staying active.