Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Tutorials
"Word on the street is you're the one I need to talk to for a job."
The woman standing behind the desk was tall, strikingly good-looking—because of course she was. Even the extras in the comic book world looked like they walked off a magazine cover.
She gave me a once-over, clearly unimpressed. "I don't know what the street's been saying, but Big Ronnie doesn't hand out jobs for free. You've got to qualify. So, what do you bring to the table, girl?"
I perked up, trying to look confident. "Oh, I'm only a level 2 gamer right now, but I'm climbing fast." Okay, maybe not that fast, but doing odd jobs didn't exactly rack up EXP, which was why I was here chasing merc work. Give me some time, and I'll be Avenger-tier for sure. And by Avenger, I mean the upper tier—like Worldbreaker Hulk or All-Father Thor. "As for skills, I have Observe and Driving at level 2, and Running at level 1." Yes, the bolds were important.
The woman arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow as her fingers typed something across her keyboard. "Anything more concrete? How much can you lift? Are you bulletproof? Any magic?"
Darn. I was hoping she wouldn't ask that. "Uh, I can lift about fifty pounds. I'm not bulletproof or magic—yet—but-" I held up a hand to cut her off before she could dismiss me outright, "-I'll get way stronger in the future. Think of me as a long-term investment."
"Big Ronnie doesn't do investment." She said. "And you sound painfully average, but thankfully we have jobs for you. I recommend packing proper gear before leaving, because some of these jobs are still dangerous."
"Great!" First step to greatness, here I goooooo! "What gear can I get with thirty-eight bucks and some change?"
"Nothing."
"Pfft. Figures." I rolled my eyes. "Guess I'll just take whatever the bad guys are packing."
She turned the monitor toward me, displaying a list of jobs. It wasn't long, and most of the entries screamed high mortality rate. But one caught my eye: rough up some two-bit thugs who skipped out on a loan. Reward: $1,000.
"Easy peasy," I muttered, clicking it.
Quest Alert!
Newbie Job for Newbie Girl
Take your first steps on the Mercenary Path
Quest Reward: 50 EXP
Quest Failure: None
"Good luck," the woman said flatly, already moving on. "Oh, and if you want a costume, Big Ronnie can handle that too, the best in the country. Got a name? A theme?"
"Name and theme?" I parroted. My brain scrambled for something cool, something memorable. This was my shot to make an impression.
"The name's Gwen Poole." I declared heroically. "As for the theme, put it as video games and being awesome."
With that settled, I stepped out of the shop, determination fueling every step. I had a thug to beat, money to earn, and the eternal grind waiting for no one.
"Gwenpool?" Ronnie muttered. "Ronnie guess after Deadpool? Even he has fans nowadays."
Still, Big Ronnie got to work. No sense in finishing the outfit if she ended up dead on her first job, but if she made it back in one piece, at least the design would be ready to go.
Big Ronnie leaned back and hummed a song as she began sketching her outfit. She loved this job.
The city was a wound that never healed, scabbed over in steel and concrete, bleeding neon into the gutters. Rain slicked the streets, washing nothing clean, only spreading the filth thinner. Shadows pooled in alleys where the rats and men fought for scraps, their struggles indistinguishable. Overhead, skyscrapers loomed like gravestones, marking the graves of ambition and decency both. The air tasted like ash and regret, heavy with the stink of desperation. Here, the strong fed on the weak, and the weak prayed to gods who never listened. It wasn't a city—it was a tumor, growing and rotting at the same time.
Narrating everything made things seem cooler. No wonder they did that in Batman all the time. The previous narration felt more like Rorschach, though.
Gwendolyn Poole—age 18—crouched on the rooftop in her best imitation of brooding heroes like Spider-Man and Batman. Was it dangerous? Absolutely. But if you were going to live in a comic book universe, you might as well follow the rules. Below her, the target came into view: Sid Mayer, age 26, flanked by two goons who probably didn't even have names. Sid was your classic low-level thug, owing money to someone really dangerous who was now out to collect.
Gwen watched them for a bit, then began her descent. Quietly, she trailed them for a block or two, waiting for the perfect spot. Soon, they turned onto a deserted street. Showtime. She pulled her balaclava over her face, hyped herself up, and charged.
Time for action, baby!
"Yeah, so you wouldn't believe this," Sid was saying to one of his flunkies. "I actually saw Ol' Tino back in—"
Whatever evil nonsense he was about to spew ended abruptly as I slammed a fist into his jaw. With my 4 STR perfectly synchronized with Sprinting Level 1, resulting in a textbook critical hit. Sid went flying before he even had time to process what was happening.
-80 HP!
54 EXP!
[Level Up!]
[You are now Level 3]
"JESUS CHRIST!" one of his lackeys screamed, recoiling in shock. "What the #$% is wrong with you, woman!?"
Pfft. Look at this dork, trying to swear in a PG-13 setting. Rookie mistake. How did you live this long in the world without realizing the rules? Couldn't expect anything from the generic goons.
Technically, beating these guys up wasn't part of the job—but they looked threatening enough to justify it, and I need the EXP. Whatever. I weaved around a wild swing and drove my fist into the first lackey's stomach.
-9 HP!
Ugh, no critical hit. Lame, but whatever. Still, no time to complain—keep the pressure on before he could retaliate!
"RAPID STOMACH PUNCHES!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
-7 HP!
-12 HP!
-8 HP!
-5 HP!
-11 HP!
-14 HP!
-10 HP!
I pirouetted and capped it off with a picture-perfect kung fu kick to the goon's stomach.
-21 HP!
56 EXP!
[ A new skill is gained! ]
[Brawling LV.1
Brawling (Passive):A measure of your skill in street fighting. Improves all barehanded damage by 1% per skill level.]
Nice! New skill get! Though it was odd that the flunky gave more EXP than the leader.
I watched as lackey #1 crumpled to the ground. Regular guys had about 100-150 HP on average. They usually got knocked out before hitting 0, thanks to critical hits. Even if their HP hit 0, they didn't die outright—not unless you really meant it.
The lackey #2 finally shook off his shock, raising his fists in what I assumed was supposed to be a boxing stance.
"Look," he mumbled as he eyed me nervously, "I don't want to fight a girl—"
"HAIYAH!"
-28 HP!
I kicked him in the chest before he finished monologuing and sent him staggering. Damn goon couldn't even stop himself from monologuing. Stereotype much? Before he could recover and start fighting me fairly, I was already on him and rained a good dozen punches on him.
44 EXP!
[Quest Newbie Job for Newbie Girl Complete!
50 EXP gained. ]
[Level Up!]
[You are now Level 4]
I threw my arms in the air, victorious.
"Wooohooo, top tier, I'm coming for you!"
Two days of mind-numbing fetch quests had barely scraped me to Level 2, but now? One single job catapulted me to Level 4 and gave me a shiny new skill. My instincts were spot on—beating people up was definitely the key to getting stronger!
With that sorted, I got down to the less glamorous task of gathering my loot. Because, of course, unlike any sensible RPG system, mine didn't come with auto-loot. Real heroes don't have it easy, huh? So, I rifled through their pockets, pulling out wallets and phones.
"Tch, all cards." I muttered, tossing the contents aside. "Barely any cash. Whoever invented the concept of a cashless society was probably Satan himself."
I couldn't even sell the phones because those stuff were probably tracked by three different alphabet agencies. Jeez.
After scouring their belongings, I managed to scrape together a grand total of ninety bucks. Not exactly a jackpot, but better than nothing. As for weapons? No luck. I'd been hoping for at least one gun, but all they had was a lousy switchblade. Better than nothing, but still. Which Avenger I could beat with a knife. Hawkeye?
Observe
[Regular Switchblade]
[ Rarity : common
A relatively new and serviceable knife
Damage: 6-11]
Exactly what I expected. Shrugging, I tossed the switchblade into my inventory and started walking away. It took me a few steps before a sudden realization hit me like a critical strike.
"Oh, inventory!" I smacked my forehead, groaning. "Of course! Why didn't I tell Ronnie I have this ability? I could've landed some big-league job! Six figures, easy!"
I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. How clumsy of me. But hey, whatever—let's just chalk this up as the tutorial mission and move on. I'd make sure to tell Ronnie the next time I see her.
Lying on the ground, Sid rubbed his aching jaw. That crazy bint had come out of nowhere and sucker-punched him with everything she had. Damn, it hurt like hell. Still, he gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright, calling out to his friends.
"Val. Norm."
"What is it, Sid?" Val groaned, still clutching his gut.
"What the hell is her problem?" Norm snapped, wincing as he tried to stand. "She just beat us out of nowhere and stole our stuff!"
Sid shrugged, wincing as he touched his bruised face. "Dunno. Definitely crazy, though."
A temporary silence fell among the three of them.
" #$% this city." Val said.
The other two nodded.
"Big Ronnie says congratulations on your first successful job, Gwenpool," the tailor said, barely glancing up from her sewing machine. "Ronnie will wire you the money right away. What's your account number?"
I swallowed a bite of my jelly donut and shrugged. "Don't have one."
Ronnie blinked, finally looking up. "How?"
"I'm an interdimensional traveler," I said casually, taking another bite. "Showed up here, like, three days ago—give or take a few hours."
"But… you're just a normal girl?"
"Everyone's normal where I'm from," I replied, licking a bit of jelly off my thumb. "You're all the weird ones. This whole place is a comic book universe. Seriously, lots of you are very old-school characters. Like Captain America and Black Widow—they're from the 1940s. And don't get me started on retcons. They happen all the time. Like how The Punisher used to be a Vietnam vet, but now? Bam, he fought in some made-up Siancong war."
"Siancong War isn't fictional; it happened almost twenty years ago." She said, frowning.
I pointed my finger at her. "That! See what I meant? The war would always be almost twenty years ago, no matter which year we are published. Unlike the Vietnam War, which always ended in the 70's! Because it's real!"
"I don't get it," Ronnie muttered, clearly baffled. "But Ronnie understands if you want to be paid in cash. Just know I'll take a larger cut for the trouble."
I shrugged. "That's life. When do I get paid?"
"Right now," Ronnie said, pulling out a stack of cash and handing me nine crisp hundred-dollar bills.
"Sweet." I flipped through the money, grinning. "Now, what kind of gun can I get with this, hmm? I guess I can get a couple of guns with some ammo."
"Or," Ronnie said, raising an eyebrow, "you could use that cash to pay for this. Remember how I promised I'd have your costume ready? Well, since you survived your first job, Big Ronnie delivers."
With a flourish, she handed over the outfit. The material was unusual—relatively thick but elastic, somewhere between spandex and cotton in texture. It looked durable, flexible, and surprisingly professional. Alongside the main costume, there was a burglar-style mask with mouth holes, a pair of sturdy boots, and—most importantly—the entire ensemble sported a white-and-pink pixelated design.
It was loud. It was bold. And it was absolutely perfect.
"Where are the pants, though?" I asked.
"There aren't any."
"Why not?"
"How many pixelated pink fabrics do you think Big Ronnie has?" she replied with a shrug. "It's either no pants or no top."
I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. Eh, she was right. I doubted most tailors stocked up on pixelated fabric just for kicks.
"Fair enough," I finally said. "How much does it cost?"
"Nine hundred and thirty dollars, first-timer discount."
"Is the costume bulletproof or…?"
"No. But it's very comfortable."
Costume or everything else? Everything else or costume? Right. I had to think this through. My original cash plus total loot and recent payout came to one thousand and twenty eight bucks—minus four and a half for the donuts. If I bought the costume, I'd have nothing left for weapons or gear, which would definitely complicate future jobs. But then again, a costume was what separated the normies from the supers. Without one, I'd be just another wannabe. Suppose I skipped it and splurged on weapons; what would that make me? A regular girl with guns. I'd barely be one step above a henchman.
The leotard it is.
"I'll take that costume." I finally said. "Take my money."
As Ronnie counted my money—money that had been hers just ten minutes ago—I slipped the costume into my inventory. One handy thing about my inventory? You could group clothes into a "set," which let you quick-equip them like in an RPG. I added the leotard, mask, gloves, and boots into a newly minted "Super Set" and decided to give it a test run.
With a thought, I quick-equipped the outfit, and in an instant, my regular clothes were replaced by the full costume.
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
I shrugged. "My power."
"Your power is changing clothes really fast?" she asked.
"Nope." I replied with a big grin. "That's just one of my powers. See, my power is a video game."
"Big Ronnie thought your power was a comic book?"
"No. Comic books are this world's shtick," I explained. "I got my video game power when I arrived here. It's basically like an RPG. Watch." I cleared my throat. "Status."
Name: Gwendolyn Poole/Class: None/Age: 18
Titles: None
Status: Normal
Level: 4 -EXP: 6/200
HP: 100
MP: 150
SP: 75
STR: 3
VIT: 4
STA: 3
AGI: 4
PER: 4
MAG: 6
SPI: 7
Unspent points: 10
Money: $93.5
"See?" I pointed at the glowing screen before me. "Strength, Perception, and Agility are all obvious. Vitality is my HP, while stamina is SP, which seems to be physical skills. Magic is MP, and Spirit is magic recovery. Not that the last two matters right now since I don't have any magic, so they're basically useless for the moment. The unspent points, I save for the future."
Ronnie squinted. "Big Ronnie didn't see anything. Is that some sort of a parlor trick?"
"No, it's a superpower," I said, slightly offended. "Okay, sure, you can't see my stats, but my inventory is still obvious, right? That's proof enough. It's a pocket dimension, which totally qualifies me for a supers-only job, yes?"
Ronnie scratched her chin in thought. "Sure. Ronnie will list you as a metahuman. However, until you get better experience, all you can take is some entry level jobs."
I shrugged. "Fine by me." Even entry-level super gigs paid way better anyway.
I browsed the job listings for a few minutes, flipping through the usual fare: guard this rich guy, kill that rich guy, rob some other rich guy. Meh. Boring. I needed something that not only paid decently but also promised a good chunk of EXP—and, ideally, armed guards whose weapons I could conveniently borrow.
My eyes skimmed a few more pages until I found it: Burn Kingpin's warehouse.
"I'll take this one."
Author Notes: Gwen is a nerd who gets isekaied to Marvel. This story is simply the natural progression.
Writing Gwen is pretty fun. Just picking a girlfailure and throw her into the wild and see what happens.
If anyone wants to know, I didn't put INT or WIS on her stats because I don't want to make her as some sort of super genius. Plus, I cant write a character smarter than myself anyway.
Enjoy the story.