Buenos Aires, Argentina - 2023
The rain pounded against Mateo Díaz Pérez's apartment window as if Zeus himself were throwing a tantrum up there. Irony of fate, he would later think. If there is such a thing as "later" when you die in the most idiotic way possible.
" Go, River, you sons of bitches!" Mateo yelled at the TV, clutching his River Plate jersey like squeezing it any tighter would change the score. The shirt was so worn you could see the loose threads, but it was the same one he'd worn when they won the 2018 Copa Libertadores. It was sacred, man. Sacred.
The clock showed 89 minutes. River Plate was losing 2-1 against Fluminense at the Maracanã, and with that result, they were eliminated from the Copa Libertadores in the group stage. Group stage, damn it. The biggest team in the Americas, the one that had won four Libertadores in the last decade, was going to be knocked out early, like a small-time team.
Mateo was thirty years old, lived alone in a studio apartment in Caballito that permanently smelled of reheated empanadas and cheap air freshener, and his life basically consisted of working Monday through Friday at a logistics company, playing soccer on Saturdays with the neighborhood kids (where he was a midfielder and fancied himself Enzo Francescoli), and watching anime on Sundays. Saint Seiya was his religion. Knights of the Zodiac, for those who were uncultured.
But this... this was different. This was River. And you don't mess with River, damn it.
"Come on, Enzo, put her inside, she's not your wife..." he murmured, leaning forward in the armchair he'd inherited from his mother. His heart was pounding like a drum. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. His hands were trembling.
River's number nine received the ball in the box. Mateo stopped breathing.
The striker scored. The Brazilian goalkeeper stretched out like he was fucking Spider-Man.
Tackle.
Final whistle.
"NOOOOOOOOO!" Mateo's scream came from somewhere deep within his soul, a place where all Argentine passions live mixed with dulce de leche and historical resentment. "IT CAN'T BE, DAMN IT!"
She jumped up, knocking over the mate gourd beside her. The straw rolled across the floor, leaving a green trail. She didn't care. She paced the apartment in circles, her hands on her head, feeling her blood pressure climb to levels that would make any cardiologist weep.
"Eliminated in the group stage... group stage..." he repeated like a mantra of madness. "This isn't happening. It's a nightmare. I'm going to wake up and we'll be in the round of 16, yes, the round of 16..."
But it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. As real as the feeling of oppression that was beginning to settle in her chest.
Mateo clutched his shirt over his heart. A sharp, electric pain shot through his chest as if Ikki of Phoenix had thrust a Phoenix directly into his sternum.
"Uh... what the hell...?" he gasped, staggering towards the armchair.
The pain intensified. His legs buckled. He fell to his knees on the rug that had Pink Panther prints (a gift from his sister; he would never have bought it himself, but it was comfortable, the damn thing).
"No... don't mess with me..." he thought as the apartment began to spin. "I'm not going to die over a football match. I can't. It would be the stupidest death in the history of stupid deaths."
But her heart had other plans.
Mateo Díaz Pérez, thirty years old, a River Plate fan, a Saint Seiya lover, and an eternal bachelor (although he had been close with Yanina from the gym last year), died of a sudden heart attack 89 minutes and 47 seconds after his team was eliminated from the Copa Libertadores.
His last conscious thought was: "Gallardo... you ruined my life... and now death..."
And then, everything went dark.
But the darkness did not last long.
The first thing he felt was... cold? No, it wasn't exactly cold. It was something strange, like being submerged in water but being able to breathe. Or like floating in space, but without the terrifying part of running out of oxygen.
"What's up?" Mateo thought, though the thought felt strange, as if his brain were made of jelly. "Is this heaven? Or hell? Because if it's hell, it's pretty quiet, to be honest. I was expecting more fire, screams, and maybe some Boca Juniors fan torturing me for all eternity..."
He tried to open his eyes. He couldn't.
He tried to move his arms. No luck.
Panic began to climb up his spine (or whatever it was he had now?).
"Uh, dude, what the hell's going on? Am I paralyzed? Am I a ghost? Am I gonna have to go bother my family like in those shitty movies?"
And then he heard voices. Muffled, as if they were speaking underwater, but voices nonetheless.
A woman's voice, tired but relieved: "It's a boy..."
"A boy? A kid? What 's she talking about... wait a minute."
Another voice, deeper, male, excited: "He's beautiful, darling. Look at those eyes..."
"Beautiful? Are you calling me beautiful? Hey, what the...?"
And then, with an effort that felt like lifting the Monumental Stadium by himself, Mateo managed to open his eyes.
Everything was blurry. Enormous figures. Bright lights. And a feeling of being... held?
"Holy shit..."
The realization came as a complete shock (or like a last-minute goal by Boca, which is basically the same thing).
"I'm a baby. I was reincarnated as a fucking baby."
If he could have screamed, he would have. But all that came out of his throat was a sharp, heart-wrenching cry, which made the woman holding him smile.
"No, you idiot, I'm not crying from emotion! I'm crying because I JUST REALIZED I HAVE TO GO THROUGH PUBERTY AND ALL THAT HELL AGAIN!"
The following minutes were a chaotic mix of sensations: they cleaned him up (humiliating), wrapped him in a blanket (unnecessary, it's hot in here), and placed him in the arms of what was apparently his new mother.
The woman was blonde, with green eyes, and she looked at him with that expression of unconditional love that only a mother can have. "Nice girl," Mateo thought, and then he felt strange for thinking that about his new ex.
"Okay, calm down Mateo... or whatever your name is now. Breathe. Think. This is like an isekai, right? Like those anime where the protagonist dies and is reincarnated in another world. Yeah, that's it. I'm the protagonist of an isekai. Maybe I even have powers. Do I have powers?"
She tried to feel something different in her new baby body. Nothing. Just hunger and the urge to poop.
"Great. I reincarnated without any special abilities. This is like Mushoku Tensei, but the Pete version."
The father approached, a tall man with brown hair and an academic air. He looked like a university professor or something.
"What should we name him, Elizabeth ? " the guy asked, stroking Mateo's little head with a finger.
"Matthew," the woman replied, smiling. "Matthew Harkness."
"Matthew? Is that like Mateo in English?" thought the baby-who-used-to-be-Matthew. "Well, at least it's similar. And Harkness? That last name sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it..."
He lay there, in his new mother's arms, trying to process it all. He was dead. Well, he had been dead. Now he was alive again. As a baby. Somewhere where they spoke English.
"The United States? England? Australia? Holy shit, what if I'm reincarnated in England and I have to become a Manchester United fan or some other crap like that? No, River is forever. Tattooed on my soul, literally."
She closed her eyes (or rather, they closed on their own because babies have absolutely no control) and tried to calm down.
"Well, Matthew Harkness. New life. New opportunities. At least I'm not a spider in a dungeon like in that anime. It could be worse."
He fell asleep thinking about River, about Saint Seiya, and about how bizarre it was to be conscious inside the body of a newborn.
I had no idea that I had been reborn on May 27, 1970.
I had no idea I was in the Marvel universe.
And he definitely had no fucking idea that inside his little baby body, slept the powers of Hades himself, God of the Underworld, Emperor of Darkness, the one who had kicked the Gold Knights' asses in the most epic arc of Saint Seiya.
But I would find out soon.
Everything in its own time.
For now, he was just a reincarnated Argentinian baby with intact memories, wondering if there would be Jorgito alfajores in this new world.
Priorities, after all, are important.
END OF CHAPTER 1