The ball bounced off the post with that metallic sound that makes every footballer feel a pang in their soul. Marco Antonio Durán dropped to his knees on the artificial turf, sweat trickling down his forehead, while his teammates from Sunday's pickup game looked at him with that mixture of disappointment and resignation that only a missed penalty can provoke.
" Holy shit, Marco!" Chuy shouted from the other goal. "It was the tie, dude!"
"I know, I know," Marco muttered, getting up and dusting his knees. "I slipped, okay? The grass is smoother than Vegeta's head."
The laughter started immediately, but Marco barely heard it. As he walked toward the bench where he'd left his backpack, he felt that strange sensation that had been haunting him all day. Like something in the air had shifted, like when you're watching a movie and you know the plot twist is coming but you don't know what it is.
At twenty-four, Marco had learned to trust his instincts, though they rarely served him well. Like that time he swore he'd find the taco stand he'd seen the week before and ended up in a completely different neighborhood, or when he decided turning right would get him back home and he ended up in the State of Mexico. His sense of direction was, to put it mildly, utter garbage.
But this was different.
The sky above the Iztapalapa field had turned a strange color, like orange but not quite, more like... gold? No, not that either. It was like trying to describe the taste of mole to someone who's never tried it: there were simply no words.
"Hey, Marco," Rafa called, approaching with two large beers in his hands. "Shall we go get some tacos? Toño says he knows a place that makes some amazing gringas—"
The world exploded in light.
It wasn't gradual or cinematic. There was no warning, no dramatic moment where Marco could shout something epic or say goodbye. One second he was there, smelling the wet grass and the characteristic pollution of Mexico City, and the next he was...
Where the hell was I?
Marco's first coherent thought, as he landed on his backside on what was definitely NOT artificial turf, was that this had to be one of Chuy's jokes. The bastard had always been creative with his revenge, and that missed penalty kick deserved retribution. But when he opened his eyes fully and saw the sky—a sky so blue and clear it looked photoshopped —he knew this was far beyond any joke.
He stood up slowly, circling like a dog chasing its tail. Trees. So many trees. But not ordinary trees like those in Chapultepec Park, no. These were trees straight out of a high-definition wallpaper, the kind of vegetation you see and think, "Holy crap, that has to be CGI."
" Okay , okay, " he told himself, taking a deep breath and trying not to panic. "Relax, Marco. You probably fainted from the heat and this is all a dream. Or maybe you were drugged. But who in their right mind would drug you? It's not like you're a drug lord or a politician or anything important."
He took one step, then another. The ground beneath his Nike sneakers (which, he noticed with horror, were brand new and now caked in mud) was soft and spongy, covered in moss that looked like it came straight out of a BBC documentary. The air smelled like... how to describe it? Clean. Pure. As if someone had taken the air from Mexico City, put it through an industrial washing machine for three days, and then perfumed it with pine and wildflowers.
"This is messed up," he muttered, checking his pockets. Cell phone, wallet, keys. Everything was still there. He pulled out his phone with trembling hands and, as expected, zero signal. Not a single bar. Not even the "Emergency calls only" message. Nothing.
He was putting his phone away when he heard it.
DING
The sound was so clear and crisp that Marco jumped and almost tripped over a root (which would have been incredibly embarrassing considering no one else was around). It wasn't a natural sound. It was digital. Like a video game notification, but more... real?
And then he appeared.
Floating in the air in front of him, like a holographic screen straight out of Iron Man or Sword Art Online, there was a bright blue light rectangle with text that read:
[MULTIVERSAL STORE SYSTEM STARTED]
[WELCOME, NEW OWNER]
Marco blinked. Then he blinked again. He tentatively reached for the screen, his fingers passing through it like smoke, but the text was still there, solid and bright.
"Holy crap," he whispered. "I fell and hit my head. That's it. Or yesterday's tacos were spoiled. It was probably the tripe ones. I've always said tripe is risky, but do I listen to myself? No way , of course not."
[NEUROLOGICAL DIAGNOSIS: NORMAL]
[FOOD POISONING: NEGATIVE]
[THIS IS THE REALITY, OWNER MARCO ANTONIO DURÁN]
The fact that the screen responded to his thoughts was what finally made his legs tremble. He slumped down onto the moss, no longer caring about the mud on his sneakers, and stared at the floating screen.
" Owner of what?" he asked aloud, feeling like an idiot talking to a magic screen in the middle of a forest he had no idea where he was.
The screen flickered and the text changed:
[MULTIVERSAL STORE SYSTEM]
[FUNCTION: INTERDIMENSIONAL TRADE]
[OWNER: MARCO ANTONIO DURÁN, 24 YEARS OLD]
[WORLD OF ORIGIN: EARTH (ALPHA-616 DIMENSION)]
[CURRENT LOCATION: MIDDLE-EARTH, SECOND ERA]
Marco read the last line three times before his brain fully processed the words.
—Middle-earth—he said slowly. —Middle-earth like in The Lord of the Rings? Like in Tolkien, elves, dwarves and all that stuff?
[CORRECT]
[TIMELINE: BEGINNING OF THE SECOND ERA]
[APPROXIMATELY 2,000 YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF "THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING"]
And that's when Marco Antonio Durán, an anime fanatic, a football lover, and possessor of the worst sense of direction known to man, did the only sensible thing he could do in that situation.
He burst out laughing.
It wasn't a normal laugh. It was that hysterical laugh you get when your brain simply can't process any more weird information and decides the best option is to reset the system by laughing hysterically. He laughed until his ribs ached, until tears streamed down his cheeks, until he had to lie down on the moss because he couldn't sit up anymore.
" Okay , okay ," he finally said when he'd caught his breath. "So let me see if I understand. They pulled me out of my Sunday morning routine, dropped me in the middle of Middle-earth"—he paused—"MIDDLE-EARTH, dude. Like where Gandalf and all the gang live. And now it turns out I own a... store? A multiversal store ?"
[TECHNICALLY, YOU'RE THE MANAGER]
[THE SYSTEM IS THE TRUE OWNER]
[BUT YES, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA]
"Awesome," Marco said, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. "And I guess there's no way to, I don't know, turn down this offer? Say 'thanks but no thanks' and go back to my little corner of the world?"
[NEGATIVE]
[THE SELECTION IS IRREVERSIBLE]
[HOWEVER, THE SYSTEM OFFERS SIGNIFICANT COMPENSATION]
Marco sat up, wiping away his tears and trying to put on a serious expression. It was difficult to look serious when you'd just had a fit of hysterical laughter, but he did his best.
—Well, since we're here and I'm obviously not going to wake up... what's up with this store?
The screen glowed brighter, and suddenly information began to unfold. A lot of information. Multiversal Credits, infinite inventory, time dilation, eighty percent discounts, fifty percent commissions... It was like reading the terms and conditions of an app, except these terms and conditions literally determined the rest of his life.
Marco listened (or rather, read) everything with a mixture of fascination and growing terror. The system was... well, it was perfect. Too perfect. It gave him access to literally anything in the multiverse , but it forced him to work for it. It was as if someone had designed the ultimate capitalist system and then given him magical powers.
"So, let me see if I understand," he said when the explanation ended. "I can buy anything in the multiverse , but I need Multiversal Credits. To get credits, I have to sell things to other people in the multiverse . I get an 80 percent discount on everything, but even with that, expensive stuff is still expensive. And all the time I spend in the store doesn't count in the real world, so technically I could spend a thousand years selling crap and come back here five minutes later."
[PERFECT SUMMARY]
[DO YOU WANT TO ACCESS THE STORE FOR THE FIRST TIME?]
Marco was silent for a moment, looking at the forest around him. Somewhere in these trees were elves. Dwarves. Probably hobbits , though it would be about nineteen hundred years before they appeared in the story. And Sauron ... the Dark Lord was out there somewhere, probably plotting how to screw everyone over.
And he, Marco Antonio Durán, from Iztapalapa, Mexico City, had just become the manager of a store that sold literally anything from the multiverse .
"You know what," he finally said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "My pickup game was a bust anyway. And Chuy owes me twenty pesos from the last match, so technically I didn't lose anything important."
He stood up, brushing the mud off his pants.
—Come on then, you damn magic screen. Show me what's up with this store. And it better have good food because I'm really craving those gringas Rafa mentioned.
[STARTING DIMENSIONAL TRANSFER]
[WARNING: THE FIRST ENTRY MAY CAUSE MILD DISORIENTATION]
— Dude , I'm already in Middle-earth. How much more disoriented can I be?
It turned out the answer was "much more." But that, as they say, is a story for the next chapter.
To be continued...