DAY ONE
The training hall was quiet when Elias arrived.
No whirring machines. No holographic enemies.Just an open space with polished marble-like flooring and warm sunlight pouring in through simulated skylights.
Then she stepped in.
Tall.Calm.Regal.
Wonder Woman walked with the grounded strength of someone who could lift a tank with one hand and a broken heart with the other.
"Elias."
Her voice was like warm bronze—soft, but with weight.
He swallowed. "Hi, Miss—uh—Wonder—ma'am—"
She smiled gently."Diana is fine."
He nodded, cheeks hot.
She approached, studying him with those impossibly wise blue eyes.
"I have reviewed your file."She circled him slowly."Your power is… remarkable. Dangerous. And lonely."
Elias's chest tightened."Y-yeah… that sums it up."
She stopped in front of him."And yet, you wish to help others. You wish to belong. And you are terrified of failing at both."
His breath caught.
How did she—
Diana lifted the golden Lasso of Truth from her hip.
"Because this," she said softly, "does not lie."
He blinked."Oh. Right."
She wrapped it lightly around her forearm.
"Today's lesson is not combat."Her tone shifted—calm but firm."It is intention."
She gestured for him to follow.
"Combat without intention is chaos."
She faced him fully.
"Your power obeys your voice. But before your voice… it listens to your heart."
Elias's pulse spiked."Oh no. That sounds like emotional work."
"It is," she said kindly.
"Noooo… Batman training was easier."
She laughed—a warm, soft sound.
"Elias, stand ready."
He stood.
"Now—attack me."
He froze."I— I can't!"
"Why?"
"Because you're Wonder Woman!"
"And?"
"And you'll… block it… and then I'll look stupid!"
She smiled knowingly.
"There it is. Truth."
She tapped his chest with two fingers.
"You fear humiliation more than consequence. Your power will always be unstable until you accept yourself fully—including the parts you dislike."
He stared at her.
She tied the lasso around his wrist gently.
"Tell me, Elias: What are you afraid of right now?"
A warm, tingling sensation wrapped around him.
And the words tore out of him uncontrollably:
"Everything."
His heart slammed.
"I'm scared of hurting people.Scared of messing up.Scared of losing control.Scared of being useless.Scared of being seen."
The last one hit him like a punch.
Diana nodded.
"And?"
His throat tightened.
"…Scared that if people really knew me, they'd hate me."
The lasso glowed.
Diana's expression softened deeply.
"Then today, Elias, we begin the process of knowing yourself."
She lifted the lasso off and let it fall to her hip.
"Training begins now."
------
Back in his room, Elias sat cross-legged on the bed, the thin Watchtower blanket wrinkled beneath him.The room was quiet—too quiet.Silent in a way that made him hear his own heartbeat like a ticking clock.
His encounter with Diana yesterday had left him rattled in a way he wasn't used to.
She hadn't punched him.She hadn't tested his durability.She hadn't demanded control like Batman.
She had simply…looked at him.And somehow saw every fear he'd been duct-taping together since the moment he fell into this world.
His chest felt cracked open.Raw.Exposed.Breathing hurt a little.
He lifted his hands in front of him.
Same hands he always had.Same lines, same scars, same shape.
But they didn't feel the same.
They felt like they were carrying something.Something coiled.Something waiting.
Miss Martian's face flickered in his mind—her gentle smile, her apology, the way she said he didn't have to be afraid of her.
He swallowed.
Maybe…Maybe he didn't have to be afraid of himself either.
He took a slow breath.
"…Okay," he whispered to the empty room, as if saying it quietly made it safer."Just a small test."
He brought his hands together, palms cupped as if holding water.
Nothing happened at first.
Just the faint tremble of his fingers.The warm thump of his heartbeat.
Then—
A flicker.
Not light.Not color.Not anything solid.
Just a distortion—like heat rising from asphalt on a summer day.A tiny shimmer in the air between his palms, bending the space just slightly, as if reality held its breath.
His own breath hitched.
It wasn't bright.It wasn't dramatic.It wasn't even fully visible.
But it was something.
Some part of reality rippled when he focused.Some thread responded to his intention.Like a spark trying to understand fire.
His pulse quickened.
He whispered, barely audible:
"A small shimmer… appears in my hands."
The air sharpened—His palms tingled with pressure—The shimmer deepened subtly, like a mirage forming.
Beautiful.
Subtle.
Alive.
The shimmer between his palms flickered and dissolved like fog touched by wind.Reality relaxed back into place.
This power always takes something back.
He blinked through the lingering ache.
He hadn't collapsed.He hadn't blacked out.He hadn't bled.
He looked at his hands again—hands that had held something that wasn't quite real, but wasn't imaginary either.
A weak, exhausted smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"I can do this," he said softly.
Not confidently.Not fearlessly.
But for the first time—
believing it.
------
Elias returned to his room after Red Tornado's mandatory medical check, the door sliding closed behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss.
The android's words still echoed like a clinical stamp in the back of his head:
"Neurological patterns stabilizing. Avoid excessive rule formation. Hydrate."
Elias had nodded, pretended he was listening, pretended he wasn't already planning everything he should not be doing tonight.
The moment the door sealed, he exhaled loudly and flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Being monitored like some kind of cosmic science experiment was stressful enough.Being cared for was worse. He didn't know what to do with that imbalance—people weren't supposed to take responsibility for him.
But here, suddenly, they did.
His chest tightened at the thought.Warm.Unfamiliar.
He sat up slowly, taking in his room:
A small desk.A metal shelf.A reinforced window with a view of Earth turning like a soft blue lamp in the dark.The faint hum of Watchtower tech hidden behind the walls.
And at the center of the desk lay his notebook.
His entire life since arriving—everything he understood, everything he feared, everything he suspected about his power—lived in those pages.
He dragged himself off the bed, grabbed the notebook, and closed the blinds.
Time to test again.
He sat on the floor, cross-legged, grounding himself with slow breaths.
"One more check," he muttered, mimicking Red Tornado's flat tone. "Neurological stability: questionable. Self-preservation instinct: optional."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Okay. Three small rules. Baby steps."
TEST ONE
He held his right hand palm-up, fingers trembling slightly.
"My hand… feels light."
A ripple.Not visual—felt.Like the molecule-deep shift of reality slipping into another mode.
His hand lifted a centimeter without effort.
Backlash hit a second later:a dull pressure behind his forehead, like someone pressing an ice cube into his skull.
He breathed through it.
"Mild headache," he said aloud, grabbing his notebook and scribbling it down.
TEST TWO
He swallowed, focusing on a point of air in front of him.
"The air in front of me warms slightly."
Another ripple.
A faint shimmer in the space before him.Heat—just a whisper—like the air sighed.
Then—
"Nngh—"His nose stung as a warm trickle slid down his upper lip.
He wiped it with his sleeve.Blood.
Of course.
He wrote quickly:
Rule: warm air. Backlash: nosebleed. Cause unknown. Possibly "energy expenditure spike."
His handwriting trembled slightly.
TEST THREE
He shut his eyes for the third test.
"My focus improves by ten percent."
Reality didn't flicker or shift this time.There was no shimmer.No warmth.
Just suddenly—his thoughts sharpened.Edges crisped.Noise dimmed.
Then—
His inner ear spun.The room tilted slightly.Dizziness.
He steadied himself against the bed frame.
"Okay… not terrible…"
He wrote:
Focus rule: dizziness. Backlash neurological, not physical.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Every time he made a rule, the backlash changed.Sometimes pain.Sometimes disorientation.Sometimes blood.
But always something.
Still, he pressed forward.
He had to understand this.
He opened his notebook fully now, flipping back through the last few days of scribbles, arrows, diagrams, and frantic question marks.
He reread everything:
Diana's words about knowing himself.
J'onn's explanation of subconscious defense.
Red Tornado's scan data.
Superman's warning.
Batman's blunt diagnosis: "He is dangerous."
He swallowed hard.
"Yeah… I know."
He flipped to a clean page, clicked his pen, and wrote across the top:
ANALYSIS — BEHAVIOR OF NEW ORDER
He glanced at his hands again.
They didn't look dangerous.
They didn't shimmer or glow.They didn't feel warm or strange.
They were just hands.
But hands that bent something beneath reality's skin.
He began organizing his notes, voice low.
"Rule one creation: headache.Rule two creation: thermic air shift, nosebleed.Rule three: neural clarity, dizziness.No external factor seems to change the intensity."
He tapped the pen against the page, thinking.
Each rule came out full force.Not moderate.Not weakened.Not partial.
Absolute.
He frowned at the word.
It sounded fancy—like a philosophical problem or a threat algorithm—but it felt right.
He turned to a fresh page and wrote the word at the top:
ABSOLUTE
He let the pen sit there for a moment, staring at it.
"What does that even mean… exactly?"
He dug back through memories he wished he could forget.
Arkham flickering like a glitching video file.Light bending in angles that shouldn't exist.Air thickening.Pressure dropping.Reality warping when he panicked.
Raven feeling him from across the city.A psychic signature like a beacon.
Bruce watching him as if Elias might crack the Watchtower in half if he sneezed wrong.
He felt sick.
But he kept writing.
Because someone had to understand this.Even if the someone was him.
He wrote slowly:
MY POWER DOES NOT DO HALF-MEASURES. EVERYTHING IS FULL FORCE.
His hand shook.
He set the pen down and stared at the words as if they belonged to someone else.
He whispered the rest:
"No gradient.No soft setting.No distance weakness…"
The realization sank like a stone into the pit of his stomach.
Stars and Stripes had limitations.
Her rules bent under certain circumstances.She could hold two at once.She got tired.
Elias's version was different in all the wrong ways.
"I don't get tired," he muttered.
He picked up the pen again.
"I get hurt."
He scribbled fiercely across the page:
Unlike Stars & Stripes, my New Order:— doesn't fade with uncertainty — doesn't weaken with time— doesn't bend to external factors
He stopped.
His breath shook.
He underlined the last line three times:
It is absolute.
Suddenly, everything made sense:
Why the lights flickered around him in Arkham.Why the air pressure warped when he panicked.Why Batman had stared at him like a time bomb.Why Raven felt him the moment he fell into this dimension.Why every rule hit him so violently afterward.
Absolute power.
With absolute consequences.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, fingers brushing the golden streak near his temple.
"Terrifying," he whispered to the empty room.
The soft hum of the Watchtower answered him.
Then, surprising even himself, he added softly:
"…Pretty xxxxxxx cool."
He let the word settle on his tongue.
It wasn't confidence.Not pride.Not arrogance.
It was the quiet truth of knowing:
He had something incredible.Something dangerous.Something that could be shaped—if he learned how to survive it.
Both terrifying and empowering.
Both at once.