Chapter 1: Awakening
I wake with a throbbing pain in my head and the taste of copper on my tongue. Everything is hazy at first. My eyes blink open to a world of blurred shapes and muted colors. I'm lying face-down in damp dirt, the scent of earth and decaying leaves heavy in my nose. A groan escapes me — a low, resonant sound far deeper than my voice should be.
Slowly, I push myself up to hands and knees. The ground feels strangely soft under my palms, and when I shift my weight, the soil gives way, forming depressions like my body weighs a ton. I pause, breathing hard. Something is off. My arms… they're huge, corded with muscles that definitely weren't there before. I'm dressed in some kind of bulky outfit, reddish-brown and rigid. There's a weight on my shoulders and head, as if I'm wearing a football helmet made of solid iron.
Confusion churns in my gut. The last thing I remember — what was the last thing I remember? A flash of sitting in my apartment, late at night. I was… reading something? Or maybe falling asleep at my desk. I recall a fanfiction story open on my laptop and a half-empty coffee mug at my side. Now I'm here, wherever here is, waking up on the forest floor in broad daylight, in a body that isn't mine.
I rise unsteadily to my feet. The motion is oddly slow, not because I'm weak — quite the opposite. My limbs feel powerful, brimming with a barely contained strength, but it's like I'm driving a bulldozer when I'm used to a compact car. I have to concentrate just to stand without overdoing it. Leaves and twigs crunch loudly under my boots. Boots? I glance down and take in my appearance.
I'm massive. Seven, eight, maybe nine feet tall. My body is encased in an armor of sorts: thick bands of dark red metal or leather around my chest and waist, matching gauntlets on my hands, and those enormous boots. My arms are bare, skin a tanned, earthy color bulging with muscle. I flex my fingers and see huge knuckles crack. It's all so vivid and impossibly real.
My breathing echoes inside the confining helmet covering my head. I reach up and touch it — it's cylindrical, enclosing my entire head except for narrow slits at the eyes and mouth. I feel a bolt of recognition as my gloved hands trace the smooth, domed surface. This helmet… this body…
No. No, it can't be.
A name bubbles up from my memory, and with it a surge of disbelief: Juggernaut. The Juggernaut, from Marvel Comics. A fictional character. A powerhouse of muscle and magic, virtually unstoppable. Cain Marko.
I give a shaky laugh that comes out more like a growl. This has to be a dream or some hallucination. Maybe I had an accident, or I'm still asleep at my desk drooling on the keyboard. Any second now, I'll snap out of it.
But everything feels so real. The chill in the air, the weight of the helmet, the rich smell of pine needles and moss. My heart — a much stronger, slower heartbeat than I'm used to — thuds steadily in my chest. I feel panic rising, and I force it down. Freaking out won't help. I need to figure out where I am and what's going on.
I take a careful step forward. My foot sinks into the loam, leaves crunching. The forest around me comes into focus as my eyes adjust — tall evergreens and oaks reaching toward a grayish sky. The light suggests morning or maybe late afternoon; the sun is hidden behind clouds. The woods are quiet except for distant bird calls. No sign of civilization from where I stand, just trees and undergrowth.
I test my voice. "Hello?" I call out hesitantly. My words reverberate inside the helmet before escaping, deep and rumbling. No answer, of course. Only a startled flock of birds taking flight somewhere to my left. I guess I'm alone.
Alone, in the body of the Juggernaut, in the middle of nowhere.
My pulse spikes again, and I close my eyes, trying to center myself. Think. If this is real, if I've somehow become the Juggernaut… then there might be other changes too. Juggernaut is strong, incredibly so, and nearly invulnerable. In the comics, once he builds momentum, nothing can stop him. He's also… Cain Marko, a man with a very distinct history. Am I… him? Or am I just me, wearing his form like a suit?
Only one way to find out. I need information — about myself, and about where I am.
First, I need to see me. A river or pond would be great, but I don't hear running water nearby. I scan the area and spot a shallow puddle between some roots, shimmering with a thin film of rainwater. It's small, but it might do.
Carefully, I kneel down, mindful of my immense weight. The earth squelches. Leaning forward, I attempt to remove the helmet. It takes a second to figure out — there's no obvious strap. I find slight indentations near the base. With a firm tug, the heavy helmet slides off, and immediately the world gets louder and clearer. The chirp of insects and rustle of leaves swell in my ears, now free of the metal echo chamber.
I set the helmet aside on the ground. It lands with a heft that shakes the dirt. I lean over the puddle and stare at my reflection.
A broad, rugged face stares back. The face is familiar from countless comic book panels and even a movie screen or two: square jaw, stubble roughening the chin, a nose that looks like it's been broken a few times. The eyes are a deep brown, almost black, with a hard set to them even in surprise. I raise a massive hand to touch my cheek and the reflection follows. Cain Marko's face. Older than I expected, maybe in his forties, with a few scars along the temple and jawline that I somehow know are from shrapnel and battles long past.
The shock of seeing that face — one I've only ever seen drawn or portrayed by an actor — nearly sends me reeling. It's not like looking in a mirror; it's like looking at someone else standing where I should be. Yet when I furrow my brow, the man in the puddle furrows his. When I bare my teeth in a grimace, he does too. That face is me now.
I feel lightheaded and sit back heavily against the trunk of a tree, causing it to shudder. My hands tremble as I rub my temples. The thoughts in my head are racing, splitting between my own and… something else.
Images flicker at the edges of my mind: a young boy cowering in fear from a towering man with a belt in hand, the stench of alcohol in the air. Two teenagers — one of them me? — brawling behind a school gym, jealous anger boiling over. Years later, slogging through a muddy battlefield under monsoon rains, stumbling into a hidden temple carved with eerie crimson symbols. A glowing red gem resting on a stone pedestal, beckoning…
I gasp and blink, and the visions fade. My heart is hammering now. Those were memories — Cain Marko's memories. They flitted through my head like unwelcome ghosts, overlapping with my own thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to recall them fully, but they slip away like smoke through my fingers, leaving only impressions. Abuse, resentment, war, and a grasping greed for power.
So it's true. I'm not just in Juggernaut's body; I'm carrying pieces of his mind as well. The idea makes me recoil. I have to be careful — I can't lose myself to him. Right now, I still feel like me — the guy who was reading fanfiction a lifetime ago. But Cain's memories are in here, and who knows what else of his might surface? His anger? His thirst for violence? I won't let that take over.
My hands clench into fists involuntarily, and I hear the leather of the gauntlets creak. I take a deep breath and force my fingers to relax. Focus. I have power now, unbelievable power, but I need to stay in control.
Speaking of power… I should get a handle on what I can do. A part of me — maybe the part that's trying very hard not to panic — is actually curious. In this bizarre nightmare or miracle, I'm effectively one of the strongest beings imaginable. The Juggernaut. In the comics, he can punch through mountains, even go toe-to-toe with the strongest superhumans without faltering.
I look around for something sturdy I can test my strength on without causing a disaster. A fallen log lies a few yards away, moss coating one side. It's about two feet thick. I walk over, boots thudding against the ground. Instinctively I try to move quietly, but stealth is impossible when every step sinks deep and snaps branches underfoot.
The log is half-rotten, but it'll do. I plant my feet and bend down, wrapping my arms around the middle of the log. With a steady breath, I lift.
For a split second, I expect strain — the burn of effort in my muscles. Instead, the log practically flies upward, weightless in my grasp. Caught off guard by the ease, I stagger back a step. My shoulder clips a tree trunk, splitting the bark. The log, all several hundred pounds of it, is hoisted overhead like it's a pillow.
"Holy—" I blurt, eyes wide. I toss the log lightly from one hand to the other. It feels like I'm juggling a foam pool noodle rather than a massive chunk of wood. A laugh of astonished delight rumbles out of me before I can stifle it. This is unreal.
I decide to push it further. With hardly any windup, I heave the log straight up. It sails high — clearing the treetops by a good twenty feet — and crashes down about a dozen yards away, exploding into damp splinters and a puff of decayed wood dust. The impact underlines just how quiet the forest was; now, startled crows take off from the treetops, cawing angrily at the disturbance.
My grin fades as I survey the destruction. I didn't even throw it that hard. If that had been someone's car or, god forbid, a person… I swallow hard. I need to be extremely careful. Every move I make can be dangerous at this size and strength.
Still, a part of me is exhilarated. I feel a tingling in my limbs, an almost eager energy humming under my skin now that I've let a bit of the Juggernaut's strength loose. It's like the power wants to be used. My heart beats a little faster, and I catch myself clenching my fists again, a rush of aggression bubbling up. The urge to cut loose, to really let go and smash everything around me, whispers from somewhere deep inside. Is that me, or Cain's influence? Or maybe the gem of Cyttorak that granted these powers in the first place, fueling a need for destruction?
I breathe out slowly, letting the aggression ebb. Not now. Not here. I won't give in to that.
Focus on the practical: finding out where I am. I need signs of life — a road, a house, anything. Standing among the trees, I can't see very far. Perhaps if I get to higher ground or a clearing.
I slide the heavy dome helmet back on — as unsettling as it is, it might be safer to wear it if I encounter people, if only to hide my face and protect my head. The helmet thuds into place, and my vision narrows again to the slit view. I'll have to get used to that.
Choosing a direction at random, I start walking. Each step covers yards at a time thanks to my long stride. Underbrush crumples beneath me; thorns and branches scrape harmlessly at my legs. It's a bit like moving through knee-high water — there's some resistance as shrubs and saplings snap against me, but nothing actually stops me. I suspect if I charged at full speed, I'd plow straight through this forest like a runaway freight train. I'm tempted to try running, but I hold off for now. One accidental slip and I might level a patch of woods or trip and create a small earthquake. Best to take it slow until I'm out of the trees.
After a few minutes of trudging, I notice the forest thinning. Soon I reach a slope where the trees give way to scrub and rocks. I carefully climb up, my armored bulk making the incline feel trivial underfoot. At the top of the rise, I finally get a view beyond the woods.
Spread out below is a narrow valley with a ribbon of gray asphalt cutting through it — a road. Relief washes over me at the sight of something man-made. A highway means people, and people might mean answers. From here I can see the road curves past what looks like a small structure, maybe a gas station or diner, just a mile or two to the east. A few vehicles are parked outside. Beyond that, the road disappears into more forest. No town in sight, just that lone outpost of civilization.
I crouch there for a while, scanning for any sign that might tell me where this is. The landscape is mostly forest and gentle hills. Off to the far north, I think I see a line of mountains, hazy with distance. Could be the Appalachians? Maybe I'm somewhere on the East Coast, or possibly the Pacific Northwest — lots of trees either way. If only I could spot a sign or a license plate on one of those cars, but it's too far to read anything.
The sky has darkened with thickening clouds, and a light drizzle starts to fall. Rain patters on my helmet and shoulders. It doesn't particularly bother me — the cold, wet sensation is muted, almost an afterthought against my magical durability. But daylight is dimming as evening approaches. I realize I've lost track of time while coming to terms with my situation.
Should I approach the gas station now, or wait until night? A nine-foot tall armored giant isn't going to be well received, to say the least. If I stroll up in broad daylight, whoever is there might have a heart attack or call the cops. Considering the era of this gear, they might even think I'm some Cold War experiment or a movie monster. Not that nighttime will make me any less conspicuous, but at least fewer people will be around to see.
On the other hand, I need information desperately: Where am I? When am I? The when is a disturbing question I haven't answered yet. Juggernaut's memories hinted at events decades ago that don't line up with my own life timeline. If Cain Marko fought in a war that felt like Korea, that would mean—
I shake my head. One thing at a time.
I decide on a cautious approach. I'll get close enough to that gas station to maybe snag a newspaper or overhear a conversation. Minimal interaction if possible. With luck, there might be an outdoor vending machine or a trash bin with a discarded paper. That could give me the date and location without anyone ever knowing I was there.
Plan in mind, I make my way down toward the road, keeping to the treeline as much as possible. As I near the highway, I take it slow and quiet. Quiet for me is relative — every footfall still crunches twigs and gravel — but with the rain picking up, the noise is masked by the patter of droplets on leaves.
About fifty yards from the gas station, I pause behind a clump of pines. From here I see it clearly: a weathered Sunoco sign, two gas pumps, a small convenience store building glowing under fluorescent lights. It's definitely open; the interior lights are on and I glimpse a figure moving behind the counter. There's only one car parked by the pumps at the moment — an old blue pickup truck, really beat up and probably from the '70s by the look of it. Nothing obviously futuristic, which supports the growing hunch that I'm not in my original time.
I scan for what I need. Yes — next to the door of the store, I spot a newspaper vending box, the kind that sits on street corners. It's painted red, with white lettering on the front. I can't read the name from here, but I can see papers stacked inside through the glass. Perfect.
Now, how to get one without drawing attention? I doubt I have any pocket change stuffed in this outfit (and even if I did, trying to finagle coins with these giant fingers would be an ordeal). I could try to just open it; maybe it's unlocked. Or… well, I am Juggernaut now. I could rip the door off easily, but that would make a hell of a racket and leave evidence.
I bite my lip. Perhaps I can be delicate — or as delicate as someone my size can manage. Just pry it open enough to grab a paper.
That requires getting right up to it, though. I look toward the store window. The clerk — a middle-aged guy with a trucker cap — is engrossed in a magazine, feet up on the counter. He hasn't noticed the giant crouching in the rainy dusk outside. Good.
Taking a deep breath, I creep out of the treeline and move in a low crouch along the side of the station. My heart is pounding even though logically I know I could handle any confrontation with ease. But the fear of discovery, of exposure, has me on edge. It's such a human feeling — a reminder that I'm still me inside this goliath.
Reaching the vending box, I hunker down. The machine is a metal box with a coin slot and a handle you lift to open the front panel. The headline of the top newspaper is visible: "Reagan Announces Defense Initiative" in bold print. Reagan… that places me solidly in the 1980s, given Ronald Reagan is President. My guess of the time period was right.
Rainwater drips off the edge of my helmet as I gingerly test the little metal handle. Locked tight. Figures.
I glance nervously at the window. The clerk is still nose-deep in his magazine. He hasn't heard a thing over the rain.
Alright. Ever so carefully, I hook a finger into the handle's lip and apply a bit of pressure. The metal bends with a faint squeal. I grit my teeth and increase the force a hair's breadth more. With a soft snap, the latch inside breaks. The front panel pops open with a creak of hinges. I catch it before it can swing wide and clang.
For a tense second I freeze, holding the door half-open and listening. Through the rain, I hear the muffled sound of the clerk shifting inside. I duck low beneath the window's line of sight. My heart thuds. A moment later, I risk a peek. The clerk is standing at the counter now, looking toward the door of the shop rather than outside. After a few seconds, he shrugs and sits back down, perhaps dismissing the noise as the storm or an animal knocking something.
I exhale slowly. That was too close.
Turning back to the box, I quickly snatch one of the newspapers from the stack. The paper crinkles in my grasp, nearly tearing under my brute strength. I manage to ease it out without ripping it to shreds, then gently push the metal panel closed again. The latch is broken so it won't lock, but at a glance it appears shut. Hopefully the clerk won't notice anything amiss.
Time to retreat. Keeping the newspaper tucked under one arm, I slink back the way I came, moving as swiftly and quietly as I can around the side of the building and into the darkness. Within half a minute, I'm back under cover of the trees. Only then do I release the breath I was holding. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline. Sneaking around as the Juggernaut… not exactly what this body was made for. But it worked, and without incident.
Back up the hillside where I first spied the station, night has fully fallen. I huddle under a large pine for some shelter from the drizzle and finally take a look at the paper I grabbed. It's gotten a bit damp, but it's still readable. The masthead reads The New York Times. They even have this out here? Must be a day-old issue shipped in, or maybe we're not that far from a city hub.
My eyes go to the date at the top: March 7, 1983.
1983. Early 1983, just as I feared. I murmur the date under my breath to make it real: "March 7, 1983." That is… over forty years in the past from the last year I remember. Not only am I in the wrong body, I'm in the wrong decade.
I skim the front page. There's an article on President Reagan and a "Defense Initiative" (sounds like SDI, the Star Wars program). Another piece talks about Cold War tensions. All very much normal news for the era. For a moment, I almost let myself hope that maybe this is just the real 1983, that maybe only my form is out of place and the world itself is the one I know from history books.
Then my eyes catch a smaller headline, halfway down the page: "Coast Guard Reports 'Golden Man' Sighting."
My breath catches. Golden Man? In 1983? I quickly read the article:
"Authorities confirmed another sighting of the mysterious caped figure known as the 'Golden Man' yesterday off the coast of Maine. Coast Guard officials report that the flying individual assisted in the rescue of a fishing vessel caught in a sudden squall, lifting three men to safety. This marks the third verified appearance of the superhuman entity in the past month, approaching the one-year anniversary of his initial emergence in May 1982. Scientists remain baffled by the Golden Man — dubbed 'Scion' by some researchers — as he has not communicated or responded to attempts at contact, leading to widespread speculation about his origin and intentions…"
The words blur before my eyes. I have to steady myself against the tree trunk as the enormity of it sinks in. Golden Man. Scion. A year since his initial emergence in May 1982 — that lines up exactly with Scion's first appearance in Worm lore.
A cold chill cuts through me that has nothing to do with the rain. My thoughts race back to everything I know about the world of Worm, the web serial about parahumans and the horrors they face. Scion — the golden man — is the first and most powerful parahuman, who appeared mysteriously in 1982 and began a new age. This world I'm in… it's not Marvel Earth, not the literal past of my own Earth. It's the Worm universe. Earth Bet, to use the terminology. I'm decades before the events of the story itself, but it's definitely the same world.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, a strained sound inside my helmet. I was literally reading about scenarios like this before I woke up here — the whole "self-insert into Worm" trope, though usually not as the Juggernaut. Yet here I am. Some twisted part of me thinks, Congratulations, you're isekai'd into one of the most dangerous worlds imaginable. Lucky, lucky me.
But there's no humor when reality settles in. The newspaper trembles in my hand. I force my eyes to continue reading, taking in every detail of the article to confirm beyond any doubt:
"…dubbed 'Scion' by some researchers…" There. The name Scion jumps out. In my original world, only fans of Worm would recognize that name. Here it's in black-and-white newsprint as an emerging term for the golden superhuman. It's real. All of it is real.
I slowly lower the newspaper. Rainwater runs off the brim of my helmet and splashes the page, blurring the ink of Scion's name. I don't need to read more; I know how the rest goes, or at least how history will unfold from here.
A swirl of emotions churns inside me. On one hand, there's a bizarre flicker of excitement amidst the dread. Worm's universe is something I only read about, debated on forums, imagined from the safety of fiction. Now I'm here, living it. Part of me is intensely curious about so many things — the early parahumans, the way society will change with the introduction of capes, events that were mere backstory in the original narrative.
And I have knowledge that no one else in this time could possibly have. I know that the Protectorate and the PRT (Parahuman Response Team) will officially form in about a decade, on January 19, 1993 if memory serves. I know some of the identities of the "big names" who are just teenagers or children right now — people who will become legends like Alexandria, Legend, and Eidolon. I even know a bit about the secretive organization Cauldron, which even now in the '80s is laying groundwork behind the scenes to manipulate events.
I also know the first Endbringer, Behemoth, will attack in 1992, causing untold destruction; Leviathan and the Simurgh will follow in the years after, terrorizing the world. And I know the terrible endgame of this universe — the looming apocalypse around 2013 when Scion reveals his true nature and all hell breaks loose.
All that knowledge swirls in my head. It's overwhelming, but it's also a form of power in its own right. The question is: what do I do with it?
Then, on the other hand, there's fear. A deep, gut-wrenching fear, the kind that even Juggernaut's near-invulnerability can't shield me from. Because the Worm world is not a kind one. It's cruel, dark, and dangerous beyond anything Marvel Comics ever threw at Cain Marko. Sure, Juggernaut has fought entire teams of superheroes in his old world, trading blows with other beings of immense strength that shook buildings. But this world has threats on an entirely different scale.
Endbringers — monstrosities that can sink cities and shrug off nukes. Scion himself — an alien god masquerading as a hero, whose wrath can obliterate virtually anything. Even with all my strength, I doubt I could survive going toe-to-toe with them if it came down to it. Not without help.
And those are just the major, apocalyptic threats. There's also the chaotic mess of lesser capes and villains that will rise in the coming years. Warlords carving out territories amid collapsing governments. Organized crime with superpowered enforcers. Secret cabals like Cauldron pulling strings in the shadows, willing to sacrifice innocents for the greater good. Plus the endless smaller tragedies — the kind that made Worm such a gritty story — rampant street-level crime, trigger events born of trauma, cities struggling with the emergence of superheroes and villains without a playbook yet.
I feel a heavy responsibility settling on my broad shoulders, as weighty as the armor I wear. I have power here — perhaps more raw power than almost anyone currently alive in 1983. What does that mean in a world like this? In Worm, power can save lives, or it can cause untold destruction. Cain Marko used his strength selfishly, for petty revenge and personal gain, at least until much later in his life. I have to be better than that. I will be better than that.
I flex my fingers slowly, recalling how easily that log shattered under my grip. If I'm not careful, I could become a one-man catastrophe. The thought of accidentally harming innocent people because I didn't control myself… it makes me feel ill. I won't let that happen.
But if I am careful… maybe I can actually make a difference. Maybe I was put here — for whatever mysterious reason — with these powers and this knowledge because there's something I'm meant to do. Perhaps I can change how some of those events play out. Prevent some of those tragedies, save a few lives, maybe more. Even if I can't stop the Endbringers or Scion alone, I could help others be better prepared.
Lightning flashes in the distant sky, illuminating the valley for a split second. In that brief stark light, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rain-slick surface of the newspaper box down by the gas station: the hulking silhouette of the Juggernaut crouched among the trees, a solitary figure in the storm. A year ago this world gained Scion, a glowing savior from the unknown. Now, it seems, it has gained the Juggernaut as well.
The only question is, what role will I play?
I inhale slowly, the damp air filling my lungs. Amid the fear and uncertainty, a resolve begins to form. I'm going to use this power the right way. I have foreknowledge of dark times ahead — the rise of monsters and the chaos of the early cape era. If there's anything I can do to mitigate the coming disasters, I have to try. Even if it means standing against threats Cain Marko never dreamt of. Even if it means altering the course of history in unpredictable ways.
I know I can't do it rashly. This is 1983, and the world doesn't yet understand people like me. If I reveal myself without care, I could cause panic or become a target. The authorities might see me as a monster. And worse, if the wrong people realize who and what I am, they might try to neutralize or control me. I have to be smart about this and pick my battles.
The rain has eased to a faint drizzle, and a misty steam rises from the ground around me. I carefully fold the damp newspaper and tuck it under one arm. Despite its soggy state, I want to keep it — as proof that this night really happened, and as a reminder of the path I'm choosing.
I stand, towering above the underbrush, and gaze out toward the faint lights of the gas station and the empty road beyond. The clerk has shut off the lights now; the station looks dark and deserted. Only the hum of a streetlamp remains, a lone beacon in the gloom.
My mind is still racing, but there's clarity now. I'm a man out of place and out of time, wearing the form of an unstoppable force. Fate or some higher power has seen fit to drop me into the early days of Worm's world. I don't know how or why, and perhaps I never will. But I have been given the tools — strength, durability, and knowledge — to survive here, maybe even to do some good.
I set the helmet firmly back on my head, fastening it snugly. Within its metal confines, I feel a certain steadiness. The narrow eye slit frames my view of the dark road ahead. One step at a time, I remind myself. I don't have to solve everything tonight. I just have to keep moving forward.
Turning away from the gas station, I begin to walk along the edge of the woods, paralleling the highway but staying within the cover of shadows. Each heavy footstep feels a little more sure than the last. I don't know where I'm going yet — perhaps to find a safe place to lie low and plan my next move, perhaps simply onward until I figure it out. Whatever the case, I won't stop. Nothing will stop me. I'm the Juggernaut, after all.
As I vanish into the night, a solitary titan in a world about to face incredible storms, I carry with me a growing resolve. The dawn of a new era is still a decade away for this world — an era of heroes and villains, of wonders and nightmares. By the time that dawn arrives, I intend to be ready for it.
For now, I walk on through the drizzle and darkness, alone but determined, each stride taking me further into the uncertain future of this Worm universe that is now my home.