New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 5
Chapter 5: The Zod Revelation
The Metropolis Central Library’s archive section was a hushed sanctuary, the only sounds the gentle hum of ventilation, the occasional rustle of turning pages, and the rhythmic click-clack of Jack’s fingers on the keyboard of a public access terminal. He’d started with digital archives, vast databases of newspaper articles, official records, and photojournalism. The Wisdom of Solomon was a truly terrifying asset in this endeavor; information that would have taken him days to sift through now processed through his mind with blinding speed, connections forming, patterns emerging, relevance assessed in microseconds. Yet, for all its power, it couldn’t conjure information that simply wasn’t there.
His first, most obvious search was for Superman. Here, in Metropolis, the city synonymous with the Man of Steel, he expected to find endless accounts of daring rescues, battles with supervillains, the iconic red and blue blur in the sky. He found… nothing. Not a single credible report of a flying man, no mention of a Kryptonian savior, no interviews with Lois Lane about her encounters with a godlike alien. The Daily Planet archives were filled with city council meetings, mayoral scandals (as per the current headline), urban development projects, and human-interest stories. It was the news of a perfectly ordinary, if large and bustling, city. There were no gaps, no censored articles, just a complete and utter absence of Superman.
A knot of unease began to tighten in Jack’s stomach, a sensation his new, powerful physique did nothing to alleviate. This wasn’t right. Even in the most obscure Elseworlds tales, Metropolis usually had some version of its champion.
He broadened his search. Wonder Woman. Had an Amazonian princess named Diana ever left Themyscira to become an ambassador to Man’s World? Again, nothing. No diplomatic missions from a hidden island of warrior women, no lasso of truth compelling confessions from corrupt politicians. The world’s conflicts and peace treaties were entirely man-made, messy, and devoid of Amazonian intervention.
Aquaman. Arthur Curry. King of Atlantis. Were there reports of a sub-aquatic monarch interacting with the surface world, protecting the oceans, or perhaps even leading Atlantean forces in some forgotten conflict? Zero. The mysteries of the deep remained just that – mysterious, with no half-human, trident-wielding king making waves in global affairs.
The Flash. Surely, there was a speedster. Central City, Keystone City – were they protected by a crimson comet, a man who could break the sound barrier with ease? He scanned police reports, news from those cities, looking for unexplained blurs, impossible rescues, villains with bizarre, technologically advanced weaponry being apprehended in the blink of an eye. Silence. The speed of life in those cities was strictly limited by traffic laws and human endurance.
Martian Manhunter. J’onn J’onzz. The last son of Mars, a powerful telepath, shapeshifter, a hidden protector. Any whispers of a green-skinned alien, any unexplained phenomena that might hint at his presence? Not a trace. Mankind was seemingly alone in its corner of the solar system, at least as far as public record was concerned.
Jack leaned back from the microfilm reader he’d switched to, its pale light illuminating his increasingly grim expression. The knot in his stomach had grown into a cold, hard stone. This wasn’t just a DC universe without his familiar heroes; it was a DC universe that seemed almost entirely devoid of any major superhuman presence. The very fabric of this reality felt wrong, stripped bare of its most vibrant threads. He felt a profound sense of dislocation, of a world missing its champions, its icons, its hope. What kind of place was this?
His thoughts turned to Gotham. If any hero could exist in the shadows, unrecorded by mainstream media, it would be Batman. He switched his search parameters, delving into the archives of the Gotham Gazette and national news reports pertaining to the infamous city.
Here, finally, he found something. Whispers. Rumors. Fragmented accounts from the 1980s. A “Dark Knight,” a “Bat-Man,” a terrifying vigilante who stalked the rooftops and preyed on criminals. The stories were sensationalized, often contradictory, painting a picture of a demonic figure, a myth made real. There were a few grainy photographs, indistinct blurs in the darkness, nothing conclusive. This figure, this urban legend, had apparently waged a brutal, one-man war on crime for several years. Then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, the stories just… stopped. By the early 1990s, the sightings dwindled, then vanished altogether. The Dark Knight became a ghost story, a piece of Gotham folklore.
The 1980s? Jack frowned. That timeline was skewed. The Batman he knew was a contemporary figure, constantly evolving, always present. This version was a relic, a phantom from a bygone era.
He dug into current information about Gotham City. He braced himself for tales of rampant crime, of a city teetering on the brink of collapse, ruled by flamboyant mobsters and costumed psychopaths. Instead, the reports painted a surprisingly different picture. Gotham was still gritty, still possessed a dark undercurrent, but it wasn’t the irredeemable hellhole he’d anticipated. Crime rates, while still higher than the national average, had been steadily declining for the past two decades. There were urban renewal projects, community initiatives. It was a city struggling, certainly, but also a city… healing? It was described in several articles as “surprisingly normal,” a phrase that felt utterly alien when applied to Gotham.
And Bruce Wayne? Jack pulled up everything he could find on him. The records showed a man now 53 years old. He was still the nominal head of Wayne Enterprises, which was a global leader in technology, medicine, and surprisingly, sustainable energy. The company was thriving, its public image impeccable. But Bruce Wayne himself was a recluse. His last public appearance had been over six years ago, a brief, uncomfortable-looking photo opportunity at a charity gala. Before that, his appearances had been sporadic, increasingly rare. The tabloids occasionally speculated about his health, his mental state, painting him as an eccentric, Howard Hughes-like figure, rattling around in the vast emptiness of Wayne Manor. There were no whispers of late-night activities, no hints of a double life. This Bruce Wayne seemed… broken. Retired. Or simply old and tired, the fire that fueled the Batman long since extinguished.
Jack pushed himself away from the research terminal, a profound sense of unease washing over him. This world was a tapestry woven with threads of familiarity, but the overall pattern was disturbingly wrong. No Superman, no Wonder Woman, no Flash. A Batman who was a faded memory from a previous generation. A Gotham City that was unnervingly… manageable. It was like reading a poorly edited Elseworlds story, one where all the most compelling characters had been inexplicably written out.
He needed air. He walked out of the quiet archives and through the main reading room of the library, the hushed atmosphere suddenly feeling oppressive. He stepped outside onto the grand marble steps, the afternoon sun warm on his face, the sounds of Metropolis a dull roar around him. He found an empty stone bench overlooking a small, manicured park adjacent to the library and sank onto it, trying to process the deluge of wrongness.
What does this mean? he wondered, his gaze distant. A world without its primary protectors. A world where the only major hero who might have existed hung up his cape decades ago. The weight of his own unwanted Shazam powers felt heavier than ever. If there was no one else, then… what did that mean for him? Was he supposed to be the only one? The thought was terrifying. He wasn’t equipped for this. He was a fan, a critic, an observer, not a participant, certainly not a solo act.
He was so lost in his bleak internal landscape that he didn’t immediately register the change. It started subtly – a flicker in the large display screen across the park, the one usually showing advertisements. Then, a nearby pedestrian’s phone, held to their ear, emitted a harsh, static-filled screech instead of conversation. People stopped, looking around in confusion. Car radios cut out, replaced by the same grating static.
Within seconds, every screen in sight – public displays, handheld phones, tablet devices – flickered erratically, then resolved into a single, ominous image: a stark, black background with a strange, three-pronged symbol in blood red. A voice, cold, imperious, and filled with an iron will, boomed from every speaker, every device, cutting through the normal sounds of the city like a death knell.
“People of Earth,” the voice declared, the English heavily accented, guttural. “I am General Zod. For years, I have traveled across an ocean of stars to find you.”
Jack’s blood turned to ice. Zod? He knew that name. He knew that voice, or one very much like it from countless comics and adaptations. But Zod was Superman’s enemy. Without a Superman…
Around him, the citizens of Metropolis were frozen, their faces upturned to the screens, expressions of confusion rapidly morphing into fear. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, drivers peering out of their windows, radios crackling with the alien general’s ultimatum.
“I have come for one of my own,” Zod’s voice continued, each word dripping with menace. “A fugitive, hidden amongst you. Deceiving you. You have sheltered this individual, but no longer. They must be surrendered.”
Jack’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was wrong. This was a global threat, and there was no Superman to stand against him.
“You may seek to protect them,” Zod sneered. “You may seek to hide them. It will not avail you. I will find them. And if you resist, your world will suffer the consequences. You have twenty-four Earth hours to deliver them to me.”
A collective gasp went through the small crowd gathered in the park, their eyes wide with terror. Jack felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. He knew what came next in the usual script – Zod would demand Kal-El.
But Zod wasn’t finished. The image on the screens changed, showing a grainy, unclear photograph of what looked like a section of a crashed, alien-looking ship, half-buried in snow.
“The individual I seek,” Zod’s voice bit out, “is named Kara Zor-El. Surrender Kara Zor-El, or your world will pay the price for harboring a traitor to Krypton.”
Kara Zor-El.
Not Kal-El. Kara.
The name slammed into Jack’s consciousness with the force of a physical blow. Kara Zor-El. The specific demand. The absence of Superman and other major heroes. The older, broken Batman from the 1980s. The movie he had been watching, the one that depicted a fractured, desperate timeline created by Barry Allen’s temporal meddling…
It all clicked into place with horrifying, stomach-churning clarity.
His blood ran cold. His breath hitched. His newly acquired godly powers felt like a lead weight, a cruel joke in the face of this sudden, terrible understanding.
“This is it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the frightened murmurs of the crowd, his eyes wide with a dawning, sickening horror. “This is The Flash movie. The Flashpoint world.”
He stared at the image of General Zod, now a static symbol on the screens, the ultimatum hanging heavy in the suddenly silent air.
“No wonder,” he breathed, a chilling realization washing over him, “no wonder that Wizard was in such a hurry.”