New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Echoes of a Different Bat-Time
The silence of the Rock of Eternity pressed in on Jack, vast and unyielding. He stood alone, the ancient staff still cool and strangely comforting in his grasp, the weight of an unknown destiny settling upon his powerful new shoulders like a physical burden. The dust of the departed Wizard was a small, insignificant pile on the stone dais, a stark reminder of the finality of his predecessor’s existence and the abrupt beginning of his own.
He sank onto the edge of the nearest throne-like carving – not one of the seven ominous ones, but a simpler, less imposing stone seat that seemed to have been an afterthought in the grand design of the cavern. The cool stone was a welcome sensation against his magically clad legs. He let out a long, slow breath, the air tasting of dust and eons.
Alright, Jack, think, he commanded himself, the internal voice still stubbornly his own, cynical and bewildered, even if his external form was now that of a minor deity. If this is real… and it certainly feels terrifyingly real… then this is a DC universe. That much was obvious from the Wizard, the Rock, the powers thrumming through him. But which DC universe? The Multiverse was a tangled, chaotic mess of infinite variations, reboots, and crises. Knowing he was somewhere in it was like knowing he was on Earth – unhelpfully vague.
A more pressing, more personal thought wormed its way into his mind, a nagging discomfort that went beyond his own personal predicament. Billy Batson. The name resonated with everything he knew about Shazam. William Joseph Batson, the orphaned newsboy, chosen for his purity of heart, the rightful inheritor of these powers. If Jack was Shazam, then what about Billy?
“Billy Batson was meant to be Shazam,” he murmured aloud, his new, deep voice echoing slightly in the cavern. “My being here… me, some random, thirty-four-year-old comic fan who got zapped into a twelve-year-old body and then super-sized… this changes things. This changes everything.”
He knew how delicate timelines could be, how a single alteration, a butterfly flapping its wings, could ripple outwards, creating unforeseen and often catastrophic consequences. He was no butterfly; he was a rogue demigod, a cosmic anomaly inserted into a narrative where he didn’t belong.
Was Billy out there somewhere in this reality, a normal, powerless boy, his destiny stolen by a misplaced interdimensional traveler? Or did this version of reality never have a Billy Batson slated for this role? Or, worse, had his arrival somehow… erased Billy? The thought sent a chill through him, a sensation that even the inherent warmth of his new form couldn’t quite dispel. He was an imposter, a usurper, wielding powers that belonged to a better, more deserving soul. The Wisdom of Solomon, a cool, analytical presence now humming constantly in the background of his thoughts, offered no immediate comfort, only facts and probabilities, none of which painted him as anything other than a disruption.
The weight of it was immense. It wasn’t just about him anymore, about his confusion or his desire to go home. If he truly was in a DC universe, then people’s lives, the fate of this world, could hinge on the actions of its heroes. And he, Jack, was now one of them, whether he liked it or not, whether he was qualified or not.
A surge of resolve, tinged with a healthy dose of fear, solidified within him. He couldn’t just sit here in this magical man-cave, however impressive it was. He couldn’t just wish himself home. He had to understand. He had to investigate this reality, figure out where – and perhaps when – he was. He needed information. He needed context.
“Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, the movement feeling more natural now, his body already adapting to its new parameters. “First order of business: get out of this oversized tomb and find out what fresh hell I’ve landed in.”
But how did one simply “exit” the Rock of Eternity? He remembered vaguely from the comics that it existed outside of normal space-time, accessible through magical doorways. The Wizard had summoned him here. Could he reverse the process? He focused his will, drawing on that new, intuitive understanding of magic that seemed to be part of the Shazam package. He pictured a doorway, an exit, leading not back to his cluttered apartment – a desire that ached with a sudden, surprising intensity – but just… out. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.
He held the ancient staff aloft, more for dramatic effect and a sense of security than any clear understanding of its function. “Uh… take me to the nearest exit?” he tried, feeling faintly ridiculous. Nothing happened. “Open sesame? Hocus Pocus? Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Still nothing.
He sighed. The Wisdom of Solomon wasn’t a magic instruction manual, apparently. It gave him knowledge, clarity of thought, but not necessarily the ‘how-to’ for every magical application. He closed his eyes, frustration mounting, and tried a different approach. He didn’t try to cast a spell or utter a command. Instead, he focused on his intent, a pure, desperate desire to leave, to see a sky, any sky, to feel concrete beneath his feet. He pictured a shimmering portal, a tear in the fabric of this place, leading to… somewhere else.
A faint tingling started in the air before him. He opened his eyes. The space in front of him was wavering, like heat haze on a summer road. The stone wall seemed to thin, to become translucent, and then, with a soft whooshing sound, like an indrawn breath, a shimmering, swirling portal of light appeared. It was roughly man-sized, its edges indistinct, the light within it a milky, inviting white.
“Huh,” Jack breathed, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Guess it just needed a firm intention. Or maybe it’s just user-friendly for new cosmic entities.”
He hesitated for only a moment. The unknown was terrifying, but the thought of staying trapped in the silent, empty Rock, alone with his burgeoning powers and crushing responsibilities, was even worse. Staff in hand, he took a deep breath and stepped through the shimmering gateway.
The transition was instantaneous and jarring. One moment he was in the cool, ancient dimness of the Rock, the next he was assaulted by a cacophony of sound and a blaze of light. He stumbled, blinking against the sudden, overwhelming brightness of what was clearly daylight – real, unfiltered sunshine. The air was warm, filled with the smells of exhaust fumes, street food, and the general, unidentifiable miasma of a large city.
Horns blared. People shouted. Music drifted from an unseen source. He was standing on a wide, cracked pavement, skyscrapers of glass and steel looming around him, their tops lost in the hazy glare of the sun. Cars, yellow cabs among them, streamed past on a wide avenue. Pedestrians, a diverse river of humanity, flowed around him, most giving him a wide berth, some casting curious or startled glances his way.
He was in the middle of a bustling metropolis. And he was, he realized with a jolt of horrified self-awareness, still dressed as Shazam – bright red suit, golden lightning bolt, billowing white cape and all. He stuck out like a sore thumb. A very large, very muscular, very brightly colored sore thumb.
Oh, for crying out loud, he thought, panic flaring anew. He needed to change, fast. He couldn’t exactly ask for directions to the nearest library looking like he’d just stepped out of a comic book convention, or, more accurately, into one.
He ducked into the relative anonymity of a nearby recessed doorway, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as a six-foot-plus demigod in a superhero costume could be. Think, Jack, think. If I can will a portal into existence, maybe I can will these clothes into something less… flamboyant.
He closed his eyes again, picturing himself in ordinary street clothes – jeans, a plain T-shirt, sneakers. Nothing fancy, just something to blend in. He focused his will, pouring his desperate desire for anonymity into the image. He felt that now-familiar thrum of power respond, a subtle shimmer of energy enveloping him for a fleeting second.
He opened his eyes and looked down. The vibrant red suit was gone. In its place, he wore a pair of slightly faded blue jeans, a plain grey T-shirt, and a pair of nondescript sneakers. Even the staff he’d been holding had vanished, though he could still feel its faint, reassuring presence, as if it were merely hidden, waiting to be recalled. He experimentally patted his pockets – and found a wallet. He opened it. A few twenty-dollar bills and a surprisingly convincing, though utterly unfamiliar, driver’s license with his new, 24-year-old face and a generic name: “John Smith.”
“Convenient,” he muttered, a small, shaky laugh escaping him. “Thanks for the pocket money and a fake ID, magic. Real thoughtful.” At least this “John Smith” looked passably like his current Shazam-powered human form, albeit without the overt demigod aura.
He stepped back out onto the crowded sidewalk, feeling marginally less like a freak show. He still felt the power humming beneath his skin, a secret strength that set him apart, but at least outwardly, he was just another face in the crowd. A very tall, very well-built face, but a face nonetheless.
Now, where was he? The architecture was grand, optimistic, with a slightly art-deco feel to some of the older skyscrapers. He saw a newspaper stand and headed towards it, fishing out a dollar bill from his new wallet. The headline of the Daily Planet screamed about a mayoral scandal.
Daily Planet? Jack’s eyes widened. Metropolis. He was in Metropolis. Superman’s city. This was… significant. This wasn’t some obscure corner of the DCU; this was front and center.
He needed more than headlines. He needed history, context. He needed a library. He asked a passing woman for directions, his voice still deeper than he was used to but no longer booming. She gave him a slightly wary look, perhaps unused to someone quite so… statuesque… asking for the public library, but pointed him down the street.
The Metropolis Central Library was an imposing, classical-style building, all marble columns and grand staircases. It felt like a temple dedicated to knowledge, a fitting place for his quest. He walked through the cool, hushed interior, the scent of old paper and floor wax a comforting familiarity. He found the archives, a quiet section filled with microfilm readers and bound volumes of old newspapers.
He started with the basics, pulling up recent editions of the Daily Planet, the Metropolis Star, and even the Gotham Gazette, if they had it. He scanned for mentions of Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, the Justice League – any of the iconic heroes he knew. His heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and dread. What would he find? What version of this world had he stumbled into?
His search began, his eyes flying across pages of print and flickering microfilm, the Wisdom of Solomon allowing him to absorb and process information at an astonishing rate. He was looking for heroes, for hope, for a familiar landmark in this terrifyingly new reality. He was looking for a sign that, despite his own anomalous presence, some things were still as they should be.
He had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like what he found.