Flying at high speed brought me to the Big Apple. I hovered in the air, arms crossed over my chest, gazing at the city sprawled before me like a vast, living mosaic. I froze, feeling the wind wrap around me, my eyes taking in the entire city, every corner seeming alive, brimming with hidden stories and movement. Below, the city blended into a single whole, yet I could discern every facet, every detail. The city's sounds reached me as faint but persistent echoes, not fully resonating until I focused on something specific.
At the city's heart stood towering skyscrapers, like titans rising in the night. They gleamed, their facades glowing, reflecting moonlight and the spotlights illuminating their surfaces. Countless windows, lit from within, were thousands of tiny worlds, thousands of individual fates, each person living their own life. I couldn't make out who hid behind those glass walls, but I knew life pulsed there—I felt its rhythm, despite my distance. Somewhere down there, my temporary teacher awaited me.
Neon signs blurred in the darkness, their bright, almost shouting colors living their own independent lives. They flickered in the night, casting colored glints on everything around, turning even dark alleys into fantastical scenes. Here an ad, there a sign, and elsewhere the glow of streetlights, their dim light painting golden lines on wet asphalt. It was still damp—likely from recent rain—and there was something special in that. The moisture reflected light, creating surreal images, as if the whole city had slipped into a dream, part of some grand reverie.
But it wasn't just light and reflections. I saw shadows too, delving deeper into the city's heart, concealing real forms. Grimy courtyards, abandoned buildings, empty squares—unnoticed, swallowed by the gray veil of night. The walls of houses on those streets were long coated in dirt and mold. Some windows were shattered, and through those gaps, I saw only darkness, a vanishing space that devoured light. Time seemed to stop here; the city's noise didn't penetrate. People who'd lost everything hid in this darkness—people whose lives were endless shadow.
Then I shifted my gaze to the streets where life unfolded. I could make out people, though they appeared as tiny, barely discernible figures. A group of young folks walked along the sidewalk, laughing and chatting, their voices reaching me as if from the other side of the world. Suddenly, one of the girls pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and a thin wisp of smoke curled upward, dissolving into the night air where I, too, blended.
New York smelled of metallic coolness and hot asphalt, with sharp notes of fresh coffee, gasoline, and cigarette smoke. The air carried a salty ocean tang, laced with urban dust and food—pizza, roasted nuts, shawarma. Near the outskirts, a strong chemical odor hit—factories, machinery, rubber, and oil mingling. The streets seemed to exhale hundreds of scents from hundreds of people: subtle hints of perfume, sweat, humidity, and fresh newspapers. In the city's chaos, even smells didn't pause—they merged and raced. And then there was the dirt and sewage. That's why I didn't like big cities. Too much of what I'd rather not sense.
Cars streamed along the roads like ants, moving on endless routes. Traffic jams at intersections. Motorcyclists weaving past, leaving roars and whistles in their wake. I felt this rhythm without being among them—in the air, in the vibration, in the constant motion that never stopped. The streets unfolded, split into parts, yet connected into one whole. Cars merged into a single flow, with only headlights and mirrors tracing their paths. This city was alive.
Looking down, I saw rooftops forming a giant puzzle, partly shrouded in shadow. Some were green with plants, others covered in rusty iron sheets. Here and there, smoke rose from brick chimneys, thick and gray, as if each building hid a secret fire. Invisible, but its smell lingered—coal, trash, and dampness mixed with the essence of life trapped in this place.
Dark alleys and small squares amid high-rises were hidden corners where faint lights glowed. Life there was usually invisible. The streets were old, reeking of sewage, the air worse. Forgotten, shadowed, hidden from those who viewed the city from afar. Yet something drew me to these places—their cruel beauty. Behind every corner, something alive might lurk: tiny shops, old stalls where dust seemed centuries-old, and elders sitting in doorways, watching lives pass by.
Amid it all, I noticed a park or avenue—a patch of green in the gray concrete jungle. A few trees, their branches swaying as if trying to shake off the night's weight, offered a bit of light and fresh air to this sliver of nature in the metropolis. In the shadows, more lights flickered. I made out people on the sidewalk: someone reading on a bench, someone walking a dog, someone just standing, watching the world like me. But I was higher.
Gazing at it all, I realized this city couldn't be mere chaos. It was a vast organism with cracks and patches, noise and silence, color and grime, pain and joy. Everything before me encapsulated that complexity, this bright and dark world living its own cycle. In every part of the city, I saw something that reminded me of myself, my thoughts, my feelings. I was here, yet not here—almost part of this city.
Pushing aside thoughts of my life and Tori waiting for me, I softly slipped into a state of speed to avoid notice. No need to draw attention to a new hero arriving at Doctor Fate's. The card I'd burned indicated the Tower of Fate was right in the center. My eyes quickly found it—a thirty-story building. The first ten floors were empty, the rest opaque to my vision. That was my target.
A flash, and I stood atop the building, its flat roof bare of doors or passages. But then a golden light pierced the darkness of the ever-awake city, and Fate appeared. I descended slowly, signaling I was a guest, and stood before a tall man in a helmet.
"Hello, Doctor Fate. Batman sent me," I said, extending my hand, unsure how to interact with this… person?
He shook it firmly and spoke in a deep voice that seemed to resonate with the world: "Welcome, young Cain, first of your kind. Come in." With a sweep of his cape, he conjured a door from thin air. Magic.
Eyeing the door critically—it evaded my hearing, sight, and smell—I realized it was hidden from me.
"First of my kind?" I whispered as we passed through, stepping into an old-fashioned study, like something from the twentieth century. Instantly, I felt an atmosphere of vintage comfort and calm. The floor, covered in a dark carpet with a traditional pattern, softly absorbed my steps. My gaze caught a massive desk in the room's center, its dark wood and carved edges striking. On it sat a neat stack of books, a quill pen, and an inkwell, as if the owner had just stepped away. Across from me, a marble-framed fireplace gleamed, its polished surface softly reflecting light. No fire burned, but ash and cold stones hinted it often warmed this spacious corner. On the mantel stood an antique clock and a bronze statuette, and above hung a painting in a heavy frame, its detailed work drawing the eye. I stepped back to take in the rest of the room. A chair by the desk, upholstered in dark leather with a high back and armrests, seemed the owner's spot for long hours of writing or thought. In a corner stood a bar with bottles and glassware—for rare moments of relaxation.
Lining the walls were bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes. The scent of old books mingled with faint wood and dust, creating a sense that time slowed here. Light filtering through windows, partly veiled by heavy velvet curtains, cast a warm, muted glow. I approached a window and looked out—not at the city, but at mountains and meadows. Strange. Another door led who-knows-where, and escaping this cage, if needed, would be tricky but intriguing.
Gesturing to a chair, he sat at the desk's head and removed his helmet. Kent Nelson, a middle-aged man with short blond hair and a beard, wore a gold-and-blue suit. Sighing wearily, he smoothed his hair.
"Sorry for the cold welcome, Cain." He snapped his fingers, and a steaming teacup appeared before me. "Tea?"
Smiling as if it were nothing, he materialized a solid object and liquid from thin air, then sipped from his own cup.
Magic, again.
---
"So, why do you need training in a spell to slip between worlds?" Kent asked, setting his cup aside. Our talk had stretched on for about an hour. Kent was a gentle, refined man, and we'd discussed Bruce, what he was like out of costume, and Gotham, which had improved under his watch. He recalled old times, comparing them to now—night and day. I briefly mentioned my exploits to avoid delving deep, and Nelson shared his, from being born in the 1900s—yes, last century—to battling Lords of Chaos. Fascinating stuff about creatures aiming to plunge the universe into chaos, opposed only by Lords of Order and their agents, like Fate, in an endless struggle. Our casual chat flowed calmly, but now, signaling a serious turn, we set aside our cups of tasty black tea.
Not wanting to deceive my pleasant host, I answered, "Two possible reasons." Possible, because I wasn't sure of what I was saying. I wasn't sure of anything around me—or myself, for that matter. "First: I don't want to end up in a situation like this again."
Raising my index finger, I said.
"Fair, fair. No one likes being yanked from home and asked to fight a war that's not theirs. My apologies for that, friend, but you understand…"
"I accept your apology," I nodded and continued. "The second is to escape bad circumstances in my world."
No matter how much I thought about protecting myself and Tori, the trauma that sparked my care for her haunted me. No solid ideas came to mind. War would reach my Earth, sooner or later. The ship's predictions could be wrong—forecasts mean little when you're caught in unexpected gunfire in your underwear. It was clear I alone couldn't change a cosmic war's outcome. Even here, I was just a stand-in, a small rocket launched one-way to delay defeat or push the enemy back a few steps.
Believe in the noble cause I'd apparently been summoned for? In heroes and planetary protection? What nonsense. I'm not ten, blindly trusting strangers, even heroic ones. Every being in every world has selfish motives, and being dragged from my world to fight for some grand goal infuriated me, though I hid it.
Heroes bear the weight of tough decisions, and sacrificing me instead of Kal-El was predictable. Why kill the local Superman when there's an outsider? Wars aren't won by heroes or generals but by soldiers whose bodies litter battlefields. I didn't like being a soldier.
Or maybe I'm just a fool, a pessimist seeing only the worst. A war against an empire led by Darkseid? A playful skirmish where no one dies, like a PG-13 cartoon. Sure, sure…
Sadly, my life's no fairy tale, and the odds of dying are high—especially in war. Strength and abilities are great, but I'm not invulnerable. Everyone has weaknesses. The corpses of those left in the deserts from my past life still flashed before my eyes—corpses of those who believed themselves invincible. Now, looking at the man who'd give me a way out in the worst cases, I knew my thoughts were right.
"Of course, your world's at war, and only you can save yourself and your family. I understand."
"But?" I could see his hesitation.
"But Nabu only permitted me to teach you this spell," he said, gesturing to the helmet, which gleamed. Or did it? "Sorry, I can't offer more."
I smirked, staring at the helmet. "Fine. Where do I sign in blood?"
No mage career? Whatever. I'd have an evacuation button to pull me out of any mess.
---
"Nabu might not approve," he said, crouching to my eye level with a smile. "But I'm not a slave, right?"
After explaining the intricacies, he said I'd first need to learn to manipulate my body's energy before touching high-level magic like spells. When I asked how I'd use such a spell as a magic novice, he assured me it was atypical for this world, originating from distant realms. Anyone with enough power could use it—only the energy mattered. He and Constantine spent two weeks gathering ingredients and strength for my summoning, exhausting them for a week. It was that energy-intensive. But he was confident I could use it on raw energy alone, seeing it overflowed in me. When I asked what energy, he said I'd figure it out. Now we were here.
Touching my forehead, he unlocked a new facet of my powers. Per Kent, all beings manipulate energy to some degree. Meta-humans like Flash use it intuitively, not fully grasping their potential. He cited Barry Allen, tapping a fundamental universal force, nearing what Nelson was teaching me. Manipulating energy was a young mage's first lesson—without it, no spell was possible. Rituals existed, he added, but that was another realm. I shrugged; it was all magic to me. Using my physics-breaking body was familiar, but creating something from nothing was mind-blowing.
Lying on the soft carpet as instructed, he said he'd awaken my energy manipulation so the spell would work. A mage's word was binding, he said—even demons twisted their promises to keep them. I tensed when he mentioned demons; I didn't need those in my life. His sidelong glance when I joked about signing in blood didn't help.
But his touch silenced my thoughts.
It was a star exploding. Everything I'd done before felt meaningless, everything I thought perfect now seemed primitive. I'd been a blind mole, not a being who could move continents. A tiny frog at the well's bottom, ignorant of the vast world. A world filled with energy.
I saw a sphere. A sphere of energy burning in my chest, between my ribs. Apple-sized, perfectly round. Like a star, it spun, and in my closed eyes, it was a hot purple focal point, pulsing and spreading purple energy like blood through my body. Like a black hole, it sucked in red, green, blue, and yellow particles every second. But only purple energy waves emerged. What if…
But I couldn't manipulate it. My efforts were silent, unanswered. Trying to flip a switch did nothing. Instead, my x-ray vision kicked in. Weird.
"Now what?" I asked, looking into Kent's eyes.
"Now…" Standing from the carpet, he waved, and the room transformed. It grew vastly larger, wider. We stood in an empty white room with seamless walls. Light glowed, but I saw no lamps or electricity. No doors or passages—my senses detected nothing outside. "Now, my temporary student, you learn."
"Learn?" I thought I'd just manipulate energy and cast the spell. He nodded, frowning.
"Learn, so you don't kill anyone with your powers. Your energy's too aggressive."
"I control them," I countered.
"Use your weakest ability," he said. I shrugged, my eyes glowing red. A minimal heat vision shot to prove I was fine.
The beam was so wide it hit the entire wall. It burst from my eyes, melting the wall dozens of meters deep in an instant. The room's temperature spiked, and Kent waved, extinguishing purple flames that began melting stone. What the hell?
Staring at Nelson in shock, he said, "That's what I meant, young Cain. Your power's too great to leave here untrained."
I nodded dazedly, watching the last flicker of flame from my minimal-effort laser attack.
---
"You shouldn't have done that," said the helmet, floating nearby, invisible to the straining boy trying to tap his source. Kent shook his head.
"I spoke the truth, Nabu. I'm not a slave, and my intentions were for Order's good." He was certain.
"He's not meant to wield this power. He could destroy the Order we build, spark Chaos," the helmet insisted.
"Like Kal-El?" Kent asked, recalling how he'd slighted his League friend when Kal asked for magic training. The helmet had refused him then, but now it couldn't enforce its will.
"The Kryptonian's fate is written, not for you or me to change. His power's too great—it could break our reality. In your sentiment, you risked Order."
"And the boy's fate?"
"You know it. From the moment he arrived, it was set. A quick death by the World Destroyer—a good death. A hero's death," Nabu said coldly, but Kent was human, not a spirit trapped in a helmet.
"A hero's death," Kent echoed. "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe you don't see what I do, Nabu."
"I'm never wrong," Nabu said. "I'd rejoice to err once in my countless years and see fate favor the living. But it's impossible. If this boy survives, your actions will shift polarities, fate will blur, and if what's meant to be doesn't happen, Chaos will consume many worlds, countless lives. Their souls will be on your conscience."
"Your mistakes are just history's threads. Didn't you say that?"
"I did," Nabu agreed. "Just ensure your mistakes don't prove true, and truth doesn't become a mistake."