The void after death was nothing like Mike had imagined.
There was no tunnel of light. No film reel of his life's greatest hits. No deceased relatives waiting with open arms and vague reassurances about the nature of the afterlife. There was just awareness—pure, unanchored consciousness floating in a space that wasn't quite space, experiencing time that didn't quite flow normally.
Mike existed without existing. Thought without a brain to think with. Observed without eyes to see.
It was, objectively, the most unsettling thing he'd ever experienced.
"Adjustment period," the entity said, its voice emanating from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. "Your consciousness is separating from your previous physical anchor. The human mind struggles with this. Try not to panic."
"I'm dead and floating in cosmic nothingness talking to an eldritch being about becoming a supervillain," Mike replied, surprised he could still form coherent thoughts. "I think panic is a reasonable response."
"Panic is chemical. You have no chemicals. What you're experiencing is existential discomfort." The entity's presence shifted, becoming somehow more present. "We should begin. Time is relative here, but not infinite."
The void around Mike began to change. Not brightening, exactly, but gaining definition. Boundaries. Structure. It felt like someone was loading a game environment around him, textures and objects phasing into existence.
When it stabilized, he was standing—somehow, impossibly standing—in a space that resembled a brutalist gallery. All angles and clean lines and intimidating negative space.
"Before we proceed," the entity said, "you need to understand what you are."
"Dead?"
"Specifically." The entity manifested more fully now, taking a form that was almost human-shaped but definitely not human. "You are not being rewarded. Your death was convenient timing, not divine intervention. You are not reincarnating. You are not getting a second chance at life."
Mike felt something cold settle in his non-existent stomach.
"You are being assigned," the entity continued. "You are a tool I am deploying to solve a problem. The fact that you have consciousness, agency, and opinions is relevant to your function but does not change your fundamental purpose."
"Well," Mike said weakly. "At least you're honest about it."
"Deception serves no purpose here. You need to understand the terms before you select your parameters."
"Parameters?"
Three objects materialized in the space before him. Not dossiers, exactly—more like sealed containers of information, each one humming with potential energy.
"Your function requires assistance," the entity explained. "Not companions. Not friends. Not guaranteed loyalty. Simply variables that may—if you deploy them correctly—increase your probability of success."
Mike approached the objects slowly. They were identical in size and shape, translucent cubes that seemed to contain entire universes of data compressed into impossible density.
"You may choose one," the entity said. "The individual you select will not know why you chose them. They will not be compelled to trust you, like you, or cooperate with you beyond their normal inclinations. They will not receive special knowledge of your purpose."
"So I'm just supposed to what—convince a superhero to help me be a villain? That's the plan?"
"Heroes are not tools," the entity said, and for the first time Mike detected something like warning in its tone. "They are variables. Complex, unpredictable, capable of changing the entire equation. Choose poorly and they will become obstacles. Choose well and they become force multipliers."
Mike stared at the three cubes. "And I only get one?"
"Your role is not to build a team. It's to build scenarios. One ally—if you can even call them that—is already more than most agents of change receive."
"Comforting."
"It isn't meant to be."
The first cube opened at his mental touch.
Information flooded Mike's consciousness—not like reading, more like knowing. A complete tactical assessment of an individual, clinical and comprehensive.
**Option One: Batman**
The Dark Knight materialized in Mike's mind: Bruce Wayne at peak capability, every contingency plan, every fear and strength laid bare in brutal detail.
**Strengths:** Preparation bordering on precognition. Intellect that could reverse-engineer alien technology or outmaneuver gods. Contingency plans for every Justice League member, updated quarterly. Resource access that made him functionally unstoppable given enough prep time.
**Weaknesses:** Paranoia that bordered on pathological. Emotional distance that isolated him from potential allies. Control issues that manifested as surveillance states and betrayal protocols. Trust issues so profound they'd caused more than one team schism.
The entity's voice cut through the data. "Batman does not share authority. He does not forgive manipulation. He will discover what you are eventually, and when he does, his response will be... comprehensive."
Mike pulled back from the cube, slightly shaken. "You're saying he'd be too dangerous to work with?"
"I'm saying he would never stop trying to control you. The question is whether that serves your purpose."
Mike thought about every Batman story he'd ever written. The obsessive planning. The emotional walls. The man who kept kryptonite in his belt because he trusted preparation more than people.
"He's too dominant," Mike said slowly. "I'd spend all my energy managing him instead of managing the scenarios."
"Accurate assessment."
The cube sealed itself and faded.
The second cube opened.
**Option Two: The Flash**
Barry Allen blazed through Mike's consciousness: kinetic energy personified, optimism incarnate, and a smile that could defuse apocalypses.
**Strengths:** Speed that made him functionally untouchable. Optimism that could rally broken teams. Adaptability that let him pivot strategies mid-crisis. A genuine, almost naive belief in redemption and second chances.
**Weaknesses:** Emotional impulsivity that overrode tactical thinking. Timeline instability—his very existence created temporal ripples. A tendency to solve problems by running faster, which sometimes created more problems than it solved.
"Flash creates ripples simply by existing," the entity explained. "His presence accelerates everything. Every plan. Every relationship. Every failure."
Mike watched data streams showing timeline fractures, alternate realities spawning from seemingly minor decisions, cascading consequences of velocity applied to delicate situations.
"He's chaos," Mike said.
"He's acceleration. Whether that chaos serves your purpose depends on how precisely you can control variables you barely understand."
Mike thought about writing Flash stories—how difficult it was to maintain tension when your protagonist could literally outrun consequences. How every story became about emotional stakes because physical ones didn't matter.
"I can't control him," Mike admitted. "Not reliably. And if I'm trying to architect precise scenarios, having someone who accidentally time-travels when he's emotional..."
"Wise."
The second cube sealed and faded.
The third cube opened.
**Option Three: Hawkgirl**
Shayera Hol manifested in Mike's awareness, and immediately he sensed something different. The data wasn't just tactical—it was personal. Layered. Complicated.
**Strengths:** Combat experience spanning multiple lifetimes and civilizations. Tactical instinct honed across centuries of warfare. Decisiveness that made her willing to act when others hesitated. A warrior's pragmatism unclouded by idealistic notions of heroism.
**Weaknesses:** Trauma from deaths and resurrections she couldn't fully remember. Memory fragmentation that left emotional landmines in her psyche. Deep, profound mistrust of cosmic games and higher powers manipulating heroes for "the greater good."
The entity was notably quiet as Mike absorbed the information.
What struck him wasn't her power level—she was formidable, but not overwhelming. It wasn't her tactical ability, though that was impressive. It was something else. Something the dossier didn't quite say explicitly.
She was underrated. Consistently underutilized. In most Justice League lineups, she was the bruiser, the blunt instrument, the one who hit things while the real strategists planned.
Mike had always thought that was bullshit.
He'd read her arcs. Knew her history. Shayera Hol was a warrior-scholar, a diplomat who'd failed to prevent a war and spent lifetimes trying to atone. She understood sacrifice and duty and the weight of impossible choices.
She felt... real. Not in the way Superman felt real—an ideal made flesh. Real in the way damaged people were real. Complicated. Contradictory. Capable of surprising you.
"She's less likely to overshadow the scenarios," Mike said, working through his reasoning aloud. "Batman would dominate every plan. Flash would destabilize them. But Hawkgirl..."
"Yes?" The entity's tone was carefully neutral.
"She's tactical enough to execute complex operations. Experienced enough to adapt. But she's not... she won't try to control everything. She'll be a partner, not a commander."
"Is that your choice?"
Mike hesitated. Something felt incomplete about this assessment, like he was missing data the dossier should have contained. But the logic was sound. Strategic partnership. Someone who could operate independently but wouldn't override his scenarios with their own agenda.
He thought he was choosing a weapon.
He had no idea he was choosing a mirror.
"Hawkgirl," Mike said firmly. "That's my choice."
The entity paused. It was a small thing, barely perceptible, but Mike had written enough dramatic pauses to recognize one when he experienced it.
"Are you certain?" the entity asked.
"Yes."
The third cube flared bright and sealed itself, but unlike the others, it didn't fade completely. It remained present, hovering in Mike's peripheral awareness like an unfinished thought.
"Now," the entity said, and the gallery space shifted again. "Your capacity."
Three new objects materialized. These weren't cubes but something more abstract—geometric shapes that hurt to look at directly, each one representing a fundamental alteration to whatever body Mike would inhabit.
"You are not becoming superhuman," the entity explained. "Your role is architect, not warrior. But you need survivability. Utility. Some advantage that lets you operate in a universe of gods and monsters without immediately dying."
"Again," Mike added.
"Again."
The first shape unfolded.
**Option One: Enhanced Durability**
Mike understood it immediately. Not invulnerability—nothing so clean. Just the ability to survive almost anything. Falls that should shatter bones. Impacts that should pulp organs. Energy blasts that should incinerate flesh.
Survive it all.
Feel every second of it.
"You would be very difficult to kill," the entity said. "You would also be intimately familiar with every form of pain the human body can experience."
Mike shuddered. "Pass."
The shape collapsed.
**Option Two: Cognitive Acceleration**
Thinking faster. Processing information at superhuman speeds. Tactical analysis in real-time. The ability to outthink almost anyone in any situation.
Never turning it off.
Never getting a moment of quiet in his own head.
Mike thought about writing characters with super-intelligence. How lonely it made them. How isolated. Every conversation moving at glacial pace. Every relationship filtered through the awareness that you were always three moves ahead, always seeing the patterns, always thinking.
"I'd go insane," he said quietly.
"Eventually," the entity agreed.
The second shape collapsed.
**Option Three: Teleportation**
Mike felt it before he understood it: the ability to be elsewhere. Not cosmic-level teleportation. Not across dimensions or planets. Just short-range. Line-of-sight at first. The capacity to be here and then there, to control positioning, to rewrite the fundamental rules of approach and escape.
It required intent. Deliberate choice. Mistakes—teleporting into solid matter, miscalculating distances—would be catastrophic.
But it was clean. Precise. A tool that didn't fundamentally alter his consciousness or torture his body.
Mike thought about narrative positioning. About how much of writing came down to controlling where characters were in relation to each other. About escape routes and entry points and the power to rewrite engagement on his terms.
"Teleportation," he said.
The entity went very still.
"Are you certain?"
There was that question again. The same one it had asked about Hawkgirl. Mike felt like he was missing subtext, like a student taking a test without realizing there was a second page.
But the logic was sound. Teleportation gave him control without overwhelming power. It was a tool for someone who manipulated situations rather than overpowering them.
"I'm certain," Mike said.
The third shape flared and collapsed inward, and Mike felt something change. Not in his body—he still didn't have one—but in the fundamental structure of whatever he was becoming.
He didn't understand yet that teleportation would force him to confront distance. Absence. The act of leaving people behind. The geometry of presence and abandonment.
He just knew it felt right.
"Terms," the entity said, and the gallery space began to dissolve at the edges. "Hawkgirl will not be told the truth about your purpose. The power will evolve with use—what starts as line-of-sight may become much more, or much less, depending on how you wield it. Every interference has consequences. Every scenario creates ripples."
Mike nodded, feeling the first stirrings of actual sensation returning. Weight. Temperature. The promise of a body waiting somewhere for him to inhabit.
"One final warning," the entity said, and its tone carried something Mike couldn't quite identify. Not quite sympathy. Not quite amusement. Something older and sadder.
"Heroes do not fall in love on purpose."
Mike blinked. "What?"
"Consider it context you may need later."
"That's—that's not—I'm not—" Mike struggled to articulate why that warning made no sense. "This is a professional arrangement. Strategic partnership. I'm not going to—"
"Of course not," the entity agreed, but there was something in its tone that made Mike deeply uncomfortable.
The dissolution accelerated. The void rushed back in, but this time it wasn't empty. It was full of potential, of becoming, of a new reality crystallizing around him.
The last thing Mike saw was Hawkgirl's dossier, still hovering in his awareness.
Not locked.
Not sealed.
Just... waiting.
Like an unfinished story he'd already started writing without realizing it.
Sensation crashed back into him all at once.
Gravity. Weight. Breath. The shocking solidity of having a body again, of taking up space in three dimensions.
Mike gasped—actual air filling actual lungs—and opened eyes he'd forgotten he had.
He was standing in an alley in a city he didn't recognize, wearing clothes he hadn't chosen, inhabiting a body that felt simultaneously familiar and foreign.
The teleportation power sat dormant in his chest like a held breath. Available. Waiting. He could feel the potential of it, the elsewhere always hovering at the edge of his awareness.
Hawkgirl was somewhere in this city. Uncontacted. Unaware that a cosmic entity had just assigned her as his target without her knowledge or consent.
Mike leaned against the alley wall and laughed. It came out slightly hysterical.
He'd thought the hard part was accepting the role of villain.
Turned out the hard part was everything that came after.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. The city moved around him, indifferent to his existence. He had power he barely understood, an ally who didn't know she was his ally, and a mission to architect opposition that would make heroes stronger.
And the entity's final warning echoed in his head: *Heroes do not fall in love on purpose.*
Mike pushed off the wall and started walking. He had work to do. Scenarios to build. A universe to save by becoming its enemy.
He had no idea that the most dangerous thing he'd done wasn't choosing a power.
Wasn't choosing a hero.
Was choosing someone who would eventually see him clearly.
And he had no idea what that would cost him.
But he'd find out.
God help him, he'd find out.