"…might as well, no?" I muttered with a shaky grin, grabbing the suit and slipping into it.
The material clung tight—too tight—but not uncomfortable. Just snug, like it was meant for me. The batons felt surprisingly natural in my hands, like I'd held them a thousand times before. Muscle memory I didn't earn.
I turned to the mirror.
Yep. I looked ridiculous.
Like "cosplayer who got lost on their way to a Comic-Con" ridiculous.
But this was Marvel, right? Looking ridiculous was basically a rite of passage.
"…I guess it's okay?" I said to my reflection, adjusting the mask. "I hope."
I stood there for a second longer, just staring. I wasn't strong. I wasn't super. But for some reason, the suit didn't feel like a joke anymore.
It felt like a beginning.
Still, I couldn't help myself.
I turned sideways, flexed one arm—what little there was to flex—and gave the mirror my best grim superhero scowl.
With my hands up like I was about to throw punches, I muttered "I can do this all day" trying to sound like Captain America.
My voice cracked halfway through.
I dropped into a crouch, baton in one hand, the other bracing against the floor—very Daredevil. Then I stood, pointed at my reflection like Spider-Man. "Friendly neighborhood Kick-ass... ugh, idiot."
I straightened up and let out a breath.
"Okay" I said to myself. "It's dumb. I look dumb… but it's something. Better than just wearing the wetsuit I ordered, I guess."
One last look in the mirror.
Then I turned away.
It was time to go to school. Again...
---
God, I'm such a fucking retard.
Why did I wear the suit under my clothes? I feel like an undercover stripper. Or an exhibitionist with extra steps.
Every time I move, the material squeaks slightly and clings in all the wrong places. I keep tugging at my shirt like that's going to help. It doesn't.
Anyway—Peter.
If there's anyone who'd know something about this whole Groundhog Day reboot I just lived through, it's him. Nerd and geek combo package. He probably dreams in sci-fi logic and multiverse theory.
And hey, if anyone could explain why I got a super-suit after getting stabbed and trucked, it's probably the guy who aces physics for fun.
So I tried to repeat everything that happened yesterday—I mean today—just like it happened the first time. Same jokes, same walking speed, same everything.
Which, by the way, gave me the worst déjà vu of my life.
Anyway, I kept the routine up until we sat back down at the cafeteria.
That's when it hit me.
How do you even start telling someone you relived the same day without sounding completely unhinged? Like, hey Peter, what's up? By the way, I died and came back, and time might be my bitch.
Yeah. That'd go well.
I hesitated. So I tried a softer approach.
"Yo" I said, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. "Have you ever… I don't know, just talking nonsense here, but… ever dreamed you died? Like, really died. And then woke up like nothing happened?"
Smooth. Real subtle.
Peter was hunched over his laptop—Oscorp-branded, of course. A gift from one of their outreach programs or whatever. Peter's broke, like the rest of us, but his brain? Apparently rich enough for corporate charity.
He paused mid-type, raised an eyebrow at me like I'd just told him I saw a unicorn.
"Have you?" he said, smirking. "Maybe you hit your head too many times."
Smartass.
"Ugh, forget it" I muttered, waving him off.
But then I leaned forward a bit, voice lower, more curious than joking.
"Hey… ever wonder why no one's, like, doing anything? No vigilantes. No heroes. Like in the comics. With all the crap that happens in this city, you'd think someone out there would put on a mask and start punching muggers."
No Spider-Man yet. Just the usual chaos and a whole lot of silence.
Peter looked thoughtful for a second, then snorted.
"You mean like Captain America? You do know he had, like, super strength, right? Government juice and all that. What—" he smirked, "—you think you could pull it off?"
He leaned back in his chair, rearranging his glasses. He can really get on people's nerves.
"There's no Nazis in Queens, at least I hope not. Though, knowing this place... wouldn't bet on it."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm just saying. You'd think someone would try. Doesn't have to be Cap-level. Just… y'know. Try."
Peter gave me a look. One of those quiet, calculating ones like he was seeing past what I was saying.
"Alright" he said slowly "what exactly did you dream, Warren?"
I took a deep breath, tapping my fingers on the cafeteria table as I glanced around. No one was paying attention—but I still leaned in a little, just to set the mood.
"Okay, so… don't laugh" I started, voice low. "But this past week? After school? I've been… helping people."
Peter raised an eyebrow, like I'd just told him I started knitting.
"Helping people?" he echoed. "Like what, therapy? You join a hotline or something?"
"No, man, I mean… like, real-world helping. Little stuff. Helping old people cross the street, stopping kids from stealing gum at the corner store, that kind of thing."
He blinked. "You're kidding."
I held up my hands. "Swear to God. And I don't know—maybe I felt good doing it. But that's not the weird part."
Peter leaned in, clearly intrigued now. "Go on."
I lowered my voice more. "So… last night, I had this... dream. Felt super real. I was walking home, right? And I saw this guy harassing a woman—like, bad. I stepped in, told him to back off. Thought I was gonna get my face rearranged, or my guts spilled, but he actually walked off."
Peter narrowed his eyes. "Okay… still sounds like a dream, though."
"Just wait..." I said, holding up a finger. "I start walking away—legs shaking, heart pounding—and bam, a truck hits me. Just like that. Dead."
Peter's lips parted slightly, like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or ask if I was okay. "Uh… damn."
"Yeah. But then I woke up. In my bed. And it's today. Again. Same Friday. Same morning. Same everything."
I stared at him, hoping to see even a flicker of understanding. Peter just frowned.
"And get this," I continued. "At the foot of my bed? There's this wetsuit. The one I ordered online. A Kick-Ass suit. And with it? Batons. Like, actual batons."
Peter blinked. "Wait. Hold on—what kind of suit?"
"A hero suit."
His eyes widened a little. "You what? You bought a costume? For fighting crime?"
I shrugged, already regretting saying anything. "I mean, yeah. I didn't think— but it was there. Folded. Perfect. Like a welcome gift."
Peter leaned back, frowning. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about? Are you okay? Like, genuinely? You bought… crime-fighting gear?"
"It's not like it came with a gun or anything! Just batons."
"Oh, well that's so much better" he said, deadpan. "You do realize how this sounds, right? You've been watching too many movies or something—this isn't a Captain America comic. People get hurt."
I sighed. "I know, okay? I know how it sounds. But it's not just about the suit."
"Still" Peter said, rubbing his temple. "You're scaring me a little. You're not actually thinking of running around Queens in a wetsuit, right?"
"…Define 'thinking' Peter."
"Warren!"
"What?! It fits!"
Peter just stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Okay" he said slowly. "Let's… maybe take a break from ordering superhero crap off the internet, yeah? And maybe talk to someone who isn't me next time you 'wake up in the same day' with a hero suit and a death dream."
I gave him a look. "So, you do think I'm crazy."
He hesitated. "…I think you're in something. I just don't know what."
"I swear, dude."
He leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, you're saying you got hit by a truck in a dream, woke up in the same day, and now you've got, what, magical vigilante pajamas?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds insane."
"Because it is insane."
I exhaled, rubbing my face. "Look, I know how it sounds. But it feels real. My body even aches in weird ways. Like I trained for a fight I never remember having."
Peter didn't say anything right away. He just looked at me for a beat, like he was trying to figure out whether I'd gone insane or stumbled onto something real.
"…Okay" he finally said. "Let's say, for argument's sake, this isn't you going nuts. What do you think it means?"
I shrugged, defeated. "No clue. But it feels like a… retry? Like someone gave me a second chance."
Peter scratched his chin, the wheels clearly turning now. "Okay. If it is real… what are you gonna do with it?"
I looked him dead in the eye.
"I think I'm gonna try being a hero."
Peter blinked.
"…God help us all."
"Dude, fuck off… I'm really trying to do something good, okay?" I snapped, a little louder than I meant to.
Peter blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.
"Look..." I muttered, frustrated, and yanked down the zipper of my hoodie just enough to show the bluish green material underneath. "I'm not joking. I'm actually trying."
The wetsuit peeked out, clinging to my collarbone like some stupid badge of honor. I instantly felt exposed. Like I'd just walked into the middle of class wearing nothing but socks.
Peter stared at me, confused, skeptical—but quieter now. His usual sarcasm dimmed just a little.
"You're seriously wearing it? Under your clothes?" he asked.
I rubbed my face. "Yeah. Like a goddamn weirdo. I don't know why I did it, I just… I guess it made me feel like I had to mean it. Like this isn't a phase or a joke. Like a dumbass."
Peter snorted. "You are a dumbass."
"Dude, fuck off, okay?" I groaned, rolling my eyes. "This—this isn't a bit. I'm not doing this for laughs. I don't know what's happening to me, but I know it's not normal. And instead of sitting around waiting for the universe to kick me in the balls again, I thought I'd do something."
Peter held up his hands defensively. "Okay, okay—chill, man. I'm not making fun. I mean… maybe a little. But seriously. You're kinda freaking me out."
I leaned back in my seat, rubbing my temples. "Yeah? Try being me."
There was a beat of silence between us.
Then, Peter leaned in again, quieter this time. "So, what now? You gonna go full Cap? Beat up some purse snatchers in the alley after school?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I thought I'd start small. See if yesterday—I mean, today—happens again. Try not to get pancaked by a truck this time."
Peter stared at me, processing. Then he exhaled and said:
"…You're serious."
I nodded.
He looked down at his tray, then back at me.
"…Okay. Then I guess I'm in."
That caught me off guard. "What?"
"I mean, not in in. I'm not wearing spandex" he said quickly. "But if this is real, and you're not completely losing it… someone should keep an eye on you. Maybe I can be your guy in the chair. help you not die again."
"…You don't even have a chair."
"I have a rolling stool."
I chuckled. "…Close enough. Thanks."
He gave me a crooked smile. "Don't thank me yet. I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' if you end up in the ER wearing a wetsuit."
"Deal."
It was stupid. It was insane.
But it felt like the first step toward something real.
---
So, like I said—second time's the charm.
This time, I had the suit. A pair of batons. Now I know how to dodge a punch. And I had Peter.
Yeah.
He didn't say it out loud, but I think part of him wanted more than he let on. Maybe the idea of helping people appealed to him. Or maybe, just maybe, some part of him already felt the itch to do something bigger. Like fate was poking him, same as me.
Makes sense, right? He's gonna be Spider-Man eventually.
So we did everything I'd done the first time around. Hit all the same beats.
The same stuff I've been doing all week.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't cool.
But it was good.
And then, finally, the mugging.
Same spot. Same guy. Same terrified woman, shielding her chest with one hand while he clutched the other like a trophy.
Only this time, I wasn't limping. I wasn't clueless.
This time, I was ready to actually kick his ass—if I had to.
"Call the police." I whispered to Peter, slipping off my hoodie and jeans. The Kick-Ass suit clung underneath, snug as always. I pulled the mask over my head, unzipped the backpack, and took out the batons. The weight felt natural. Familiar.
Feet planted. Arms steady. Batons ready.
Peter stayed back, tense but focused, phone already in hand. I could almost hear the calculations running through his head. Physics equations. Probability. Damage estimates.
Me? I was already walking forward.
Heart pounding. Breath slow. Eyes locked.
The guy hadn't noticed me yet. Too busy yelling at the woman—his breath sour and hot in her face, one hand gripping her wrist, the other hovering near her waist like he couldn't decide whether to steal from her or something worse.
Big, ugly, and filthy—both in looks and intent. Just a predator who saw an easy target.
And just like before, I stepped forward. Not running. Not shouting. Calm. Controlled.
"Hey" I said, voice low but cutting through the air. "Let her go."
He froze for a half second, then twisted his neck to look at me. Confused. Then amused.
His eyes scanned the wetsuit, the batons, the mask.
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
"What the hell are you supposed to be?" he barked. "Captain Discount?"
Behind the mask, I blinked. smart ass...
"I'm someone who doesn't want to see anyone get hurt, I'm Kick-Ass." I said trying to sound cool.
He let go of the woman—more out of surprise than anything—and took a few steps toward me, posture widening, arms spread out like he was trying to look bigger than he was.
The woman stumbled back, eyes darting between us, confused and desperate—like she wasn't sure if she'd just been saved or if this was about to get worse.
She didn't thank me. Didn't scream. Just ran—barely keeping her balance as she disappeared into the night.
I didn't blame her. Hell, if I saw someone dressed like me stepping into a fight, I'd probably run too.
The guy watched her go, then turned his full attention to me. His lip curled.
"Oh, I get it," he said, pointing at me with a mocking grin. "You think you're some kinda Daredevil, huh? Got the little sticks and everything. Cute."
He stepped closer. I didn't move.
"I said I don't wanna fight," I repeated, firmer now. "Just walk away, man. You can still do that."
But his grin widened like I'd just handed him permission to swing.
"You're wearin' a fuckin' costume, dumbass. You want a fight. That's what all you wannabe freaks want. You get off on this shit."
I tightened my grip on the batons. My pulse was pounding now—heat in my ears, tension in my legs. He was trying to bait me. Drag me down to his level. I couldn't let that happen.
"I don't get off on anything" I muttered. "I just don't like creeps who corner women in alleys."
That wiped the smile right off his face.
"Fuck you."
The mugger cracked his knuckles.
I took a breath and rolled my shoulders, shifting my weight into a ready stance. Batons loose but steady in my hands.
He charged—shoulder first, sloppy and angry.
I sidestepped, just barely, one foot scraping against the concrete. My baton smacked against his arm, not hard, more of a warning tap than anything. But he grunted and stumbled back, more surprised than hurt.
"Seriously, man" I said, backing up with my hands up. "You don't wanna do this. Just go."
And out came the knife—small, ugly, more like a boxcutter than a real blade, but again gleaming under the streetlight.
"I ain't scared of you, Spandex Boy," he spat, brandishing the knife. "Let's see what you're really made of."
Okay. Now I was allowed to be scared.
But I held my ground. My knees were shaking, sure—but my feet didn't move. I was still here. That had to count for something.
"I don't want to hurt you" I said again, slower this time. "I don't want anyone to get hurt. You still have a choice."
He laughed. "You think this is some movie?"
"No. I think it's a second chance."
That was the last thing I said before he lunged again—knife out, swinging low and wild like he didn't really know how to use it. I dodged sideways, not cleanly, felt the blade graze my suit on the forearm. It didn't cut skin, but it was close.
Instinct kicked in. My arm swung. The baton smacked against his wrist, hard this time.
The knife clattered to the ground.
He yelped in pain, stumbling back again—and now he looked scared. Just for a second.
We stared at each other.
I didn't press forward.
Just stood there, breathing heavy, batons still raised.
"Go" I said, voice shaking. "That's your last warning."
He looked at me. Then the knife. Then at Peter—who had stayed frozen in the shadows, phone in hand, probably already dialing the cops.
And then the guy ran.
No dramatic monologue. No last word.
Just dirty footsteps disappearing into the dark.
"Fuuuuuck..." I exhaled, stumbling back until my shoulder hit the alley wall. I let gravity do the rest, sliding down until my ass hit the pavement.
Heart pounding. Hands still trembling.
I looked over at Peter and gave him a crooked, self-satisfied smirk. Thumbs up with the shakiest hand in Queens.
He jogged over, eyes wide. "Dude. Dude. Are you okay?"
"Yup" I said, breathless. "Didn't die. And I didn't get stabbed. That's, like... two wins, right?"
Peter crouched beside me, glancing in the direction the guy ran. "You actually did it."
"Told you." I grinned. "I'm basically Daredevil now. If Daredevil had zero training and almost pissed himself."
Peter let out a breathy laugh. "You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm insane and heroic."
He offered a hand. "C'mon, hero. Let's get outta here before the cops think you're the mugger."
"Fuck off" I muttered, but I took his hand anyway.
---
Home. Sweet Lonely Home.
The front door creaked open and closed without resistance. No voices. No footsteps. No questions. Just silence.
Great.
Mom's probably still at work, buried under paperwork or meetings. Dad… who knows. Maybe at the bar. Maybe at work. Maybe pretending I don't exist.
I stood there for a second, my backpack hanging off one shoulder like dead weight. The house smelled like nothing. It looked like no one had lived in it for years.
I don't even know when I stopped calling them Warren's mom and dad.
Maybe somewhere between the fourth missed dinner and the second time I ordered takeout with change I found on the counter.
Maybe somewhere around the first time I realized I could scream and no one would hear me.
I kicked off my shoes, let the door close behind me, and wandered up to my room.
It was the only space that felt remotely mine.
I tossed my backpack to the floor and peeled off the suit under my clothes, still half-sweaty, half-charged from the adrenaline. It smelled like effort and street grime.
Battle stench. I've earned it.
Then I crashed onto my bed face-first before rolling onto my back and just… stared at the ceiling.
Wide grin creeping up my face.
A weird, stupid laugh bubbled up from my chest. A little breathless, a little unhinged.
I did it.
Helped people. Saved a woman. Didn't get stabbed. Peter saw it. I wasn't crazy. Or at least, not completely.
"I'm not just a loser with bad luck with trucks," I whispered to nobody, my voice barely louder than the hum of the quiet house.
I raised a hand, palm open to the ceiling like I was about to catch something—maybe the weight of everything I'd done. Or maybe just a high-five from God.
"Warren Wade, you beautiful dumbass" I muttered with a grin, the day's adrenaline still fizzing in my veins. "You actually pulled it off."
I stood and walked over to the mirror, the reflection of some idiot in a wrinkled shirt and messy hair looking back at me.
Then I reached under the bed, pulled out the mask, and slipped it back on.
The voice I used was stupid. Overly dramatic. Like I was auditioning for a Saturday morning cartoon.
"I'm… Kick-Ass!" I declared, throwing a jab at the mirror and laughing.
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