So, let me get this straight. You wanna know why there's a gigantic smoking crater where a U.S. Army lab used to be, don't you? Why the sky's a little too orange and the air smells like burnt protein powder and regret?
Well, strap in, bucko. This wild ride started exactly 21 days ago when I — formerly known as Kyle, a 21-year-old egotistical couch burrito — made one too many dumb life choices. You see, I had just binge-watched the entire The Boys series and read the books. Twice. Without eating. Without sleeping. Without even blinking, probably. I was in peak degenerate mode, absorbing superhero content like a black hole eats light.
Then — as if that wasn't enough cinematic crack — I decided to rewatch Captain America: The First Avenger. Big mistake. Huge. Because just as Steve Rogers was turning from a soggy raisin into America's beefcake, I keeled over like a used iPhone battery. Dead. Just like that. No last words, no dramatic gasp — just "Huh, my chest feels weird–" and boom. Darkness.exe.
Next thing I know, bam, I wake up in a body that isn't mine. Not just any body, though — I'm talking vintage model. Classic bones. Baby soft skin. Name: Benjamin. Son of a World War I veterinarian. A kid with daddy issues, an upcoming war, and — oh yeah — a front-row seat in Uncle Sam's "Let's Make Super Soldiers Because Hitler's a Dick" program.
You might be wondering: "Hey Ben, how did the lab explode?"
Well, first of all, rude. Second of all — I AM THE EXPLOSION.
Turns out, this body's fine. But my soul? It's a little... spicy. Guess the cosmic soup stirred in some extra ingredients. My reincarnated soul and the experimental serum didn't quite vibe. They had beef. And not the friendly kind. The result? BOOM.
Big bada-boom. Like, Michael Bay meets Area 51 meets Chernobyl level boom.
The serum reacted with my... let's call it "god-tier soul," and everything went full anime. Lights. Screams. Scientists flying like rag dolls in a blender. I woke up buried under rubble, naked, glowing, and with a mental rod on my chest — literally, they were trying to contain me with a rod. Like I'm some kind of radioactive ferret.
And then I said it.
I looked at my reflection in a shard of broken lab glass and whispered:
"Oh no. I've become... Soldier Boy."
(Insert dramatic The Boys theme music here.)
But let me tell you something — I ain't no Dollar Tree Captain America. No sir. I'm the chaotic bisexual cousin of every overpowered patriotic cliché. I've got sass, I've got a death glare, and I definitely have a god complex the size of Texas. And maybe bipolar disorder, but we don't talk about that unless we're feeling dramatic. Or manic. Or both.
I think in memes. I talk in sarcasm. And I narrate in fourth person, which means sometimes even I don't know who's telling the story. Is it me? Is it future me? Is it a confused squirrel on Red Bull watching this all unfold? No clue.
Anyway, the real kicker? WWII is about to start. In, like, 30 days. Yeah. Just a casual heads-up. Hitler's stretching. Stalin's foaming. Churchill's already drinking. And me? I'm stuck in a secret bunker with army dudes, government secrets, and a highly unstable superhero juice sloshing around in my veins like I'm a walking slushy of destruction.
So now, I've got to:
Survive.
Not explode again.
Escape the military lab.
Somehow use my knowledge of superhero lore, meme culture, and modern-day slang to manipulate this 1940s reality.
And — most importantly — figure out if I can punch Hitler really hard without rewriting history too badly.
Because if I'm gonna be stuck in the past, I might as well make it a movie worth watching.
Cue the dramatic slow-motion walk away from the explosion... again.