New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Taking Flight (and Trying Not to Puke)

The decision to go to Gotham was made, a tiny, flickering candle of a plan in the overwhelming darkness of the Zod situation. But Metropolis to Gotham wasn’t a stroll down the block. In his old life, it would have meant navigating flight schedules, train timetables, or a long, tedious bus journey. Now? Now he was Shazam. And Shazam, he recalled with a jolt that was part excitement, part sheer terror, possessed the Speed of Mercury. He could fly.

Theoretically.

The thought of launching himself into the sky, a living projectile propelled by magic he barely understood, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. It was one thing to instinctively change his clothes or wish a portal into existence in the relative safety of the Rock of Eternity. It was quite another to willfully defy gravity hundreds, potentially thousands, of feet above a very hard, very unforgiving cityscape. Images of himself as a red-and-gold comet, trailing smoke and regret as he plummeted into a Metropolis skyscraper, flashed vividly in his mind.

“Okay, easy does it, Jack-O,” he muttered to himself, his voice a low rumble that still felt foreign. “You’re a demigod now. Supposedly. This should be like… like breathing.” He snorted. Breathing didn’t usually come with the risk of becoming a human pancake.

He needed a launching point, somewhere relatively secluded where his inevitable initial flailing wouldn’t draw too much attention or cause a multi-car pile-up. The narrow alleyway was too confined. He scanned the rooftops, his magically enhanced vision picking out details with startling clarity. Several blocks away, in a more industrial, less populated district bordering the Metropolis River, he spotted a cluster of older, lower buildings, one of which was a largely abandoned-looking warehouse with a wide, flat roof. Perfect. Or, at least, as perfect as he was going to get in a city still reeling from an alien invasion announcement.

Getting there on foot was an exercise in navigating chaos. The initial panic from Zod’s broadcast had subsided into a tense, fearful hum. People were clustered around screens, talking animatedly on phones, some were even starting to pack cars. The police presence was heavy, sirens a constant, mournful chorus. Jack, in his “John Smith” guise, moved through it all with a forced outward calm, his internal monologue a frantic cacophony of “don’t trip, don’t accidentally punch through a wall, act normal, you’re just a very tall guy going for a stroll amidst impending doom.”

Reaching the warehouse district was a relief. The crowds thinned, the noise lessened. He found a rusted fire escape on the side of the target building and, with a moment’s hesitation followed by a surge of newfound strength that made the climb ridiculously easy, he ascended to the rooftop. It was deserted, littered with old ventilation shafts, pigeon droppings, and patches of hardy weeds. The view, however, was spectacular, a sprawling panorama of the Metropolis skyline on one side, the wide, glinting expanse of the river on the other. And below, the hard, unforgiving concrete.

He took a deep breath, the air tinged with the faint, metallic scent of the river. “Right,” he said to a particularly bold pigeon that was eyeing him suspiciously. “Showtime.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Superman taking off – the effortless lift, the graceful arc into the sky. He tried to channel that. He focused his will, thought “Up!” and… nothing. He opened his eyes. Still firmly planted on the gritty rooftop. The pigeon cooed, as if in mockery.

“Okay, not like that, then.” Maybe it needed more oomph? More conviction? He tried again, this time with a small, tentative jump, like a child hoping to get a kite airborne. He rose about six inches, hovered there for a surprising, wobbly second, then thumped back down with all the grace of a sack of divinely powered potatoes.

“Progress?” he grunted, dusting off his jeans. The power was there, he could feel it, a coiled spring of energy in his legs, a lightness in his core. But he had no idea how to direct it.

He tried again, this time focusing on pushing down with his legs while simultaneously willing himself upwards. This time, he shot up a good ten feet, a startled yelp escaping him. He hung there, suspended, legs dangling, windmilling his arms for balance like a cartoon character who’d run off a cliff. He felt a distinct lack of control, a terrifying sensation of being a puppet with tangled strings.

“Okay, okay, floating is… a thing I can do,” he panted, his heart hammering. “Now, uh, forward?”

He leaned forward tentatively. Instead of a graceful glide, he lurched, a sudden, uncontrolled burst of momentum sending him careening sideways. He yelped again, pinwheeling wildly, the city tilting at a crazy angle. He was a runaway blimp, a drunken kite. He overcorrected, lurching in another direction, narrowly missing a bulky air conditioning unit.

The pigeon, he noted with a detached part of his brain, had wisely flown away.

He was starting to sweat, despite the cool breeze off the river. This was harder, and far more embarrassing, than he’d imagined. He took a few deep, calming breaths – or tried to, it was hard to be calm when you were wobbling precariously fifty feet above certain injury – and focused again. Think of it like swimming, he told himself, recalling some vague comic book analogy. The air is like water. Push against it.

He pushed. Too hard.

He rocketed forward with a sudden, neck-snapping acceleration, a strangled cry torn from his throat. The buildings of Metropolis rushed towards him at an alarming rate. He was aiming vaguely upwards, but his trajectory was far too shallow. He was a missile, a very badly aimed, very panicked missile. And directly in his path, looming like a rusty, cylindrical harbinger of doom, was a massive water tower on top of a neighboring building.

“Oh, crap, crap, crap!” he yelled, a string of decidedly un-heroic curses following as he flailed, trying to alter his course. He yanked his mental steering wheel hard to the left, overcompensated, and began to spin. The world became a dizzying blur of red brick, blue sky, and the rapidly approaching, very solid-looking metal of the water tower.

Impact was imminent. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, a silent apology to the city of Metropolis for whatever damage he was about to cause.

Then, something clicked. Or rather, the Wisdom of Solomon, which had been quietly cataloging his failures with academic detachment, seemed to assert itself more forcefully. It wasn’t a voice, not exactly, but a sudden, overwhelming flood of understanding. Vectors, thrust, aerodynamics, the precise interplay of will and magical energy – it all coalesced in his mind, not as abstract equations, but as intuitive, actionable knowledge. He understood his errors, felt the precise adjustments needed.

His eyes snapped open. The water tower was feet away. Instinct, guided by this sudden influx of divine understanding, took over. He twisted his body, a micro-adjustment of his shoulders, a subtle shift in the flow of power through his core. He wasn’t just flailing anymore; he was maneuvering. He scraped past the water tower with inches to spare, the rush of displaced air making the metal groan. He felt a single rivet head snag the fabric of his T-shirt, tearing a small hole, a minor price for avoiding a major catastrophe.

He shot past the tower, heart pounding like a drum solo, and found himself over the river, still moving too fast, still a bit wobbly, but no longer spinning. He managed to slow himself, then hover, panting, adrenaline singing in his veins. He looked back at the water tower, a new, profound respect for stationary objects blooming in his chest.

“Okay,” he gasped, addressing the empty air. “Note to self: water towers are deceptively agile.”

He hovered there for a long moment, taking stock. The Wisdom of Solomon wasn’t just a library in his head; it was an active learning system, a divine tutor. It had analyzed his clumsy attempts, cross-referenced them with the fundamental principles of flight (magical and otherwise), and provided him with an instant, intuitive grasp of the mechanics. He could feel it now, the way the Speed of Mercury responded to his intent, the subtle shifts in balance and power needed for controlled movement.

He decided to try again, more cautiously this time. He focused, pictured the desired movement, and gently willed himself forward. He moved. Smoothly. He tilted his body, leaned into an imaginary curve, and executed a slow, graceful turn. He ascended, not in a panicked rocket-like burst, but with a controlled, steady lift. He descended, leveling off a few feet above the glinting surface of the river, the spray cool on his face.

A laugh, shaky at first, then stronger, bubbled up from his chest. He was doing it. He was actually flying.

He pushed a little harder, gaining speed, the city skyline now a receding panorama. The initial fear was being rapidly replaced by something else, something wild and exhilarating. He climbed higher, the wind picking up, tugging at his clothes, whipping his hair around his face (he’d have to remember to get a magical haircut, or maybe the suit came with a built-in aerodynamic cowl). The sounds of the city faded below, replaced by the rush of the wind in his ears.

He was above the skyscrapers now, looking down on Metropolis as if it were a miniature model. The cars were tiny beetles, the people ants. The sense of scale, of perspective, was breathtaking. He felt a lightness not just in his body, but in his spirit, a momentary reprieve from the crushing weight of his new reality. This power, this terrifying, unwanted gift, also offered moments of pure, unadulterated wonder.

He spread his arms wide, like a bird embracing the sky, and let out a joyous whoop that was lost in the vastness of the upper atmosphere. He looped, he swooped, he carved patterns against the blue canvas, each movement becoming more confident, more fluid. The initial clumsiness was forgotten, replaced by an instinctive grace he never knew he possessed. The Speed of Mercury sang in his blood, a thrilling symphony of motion and freedom.

The wind roared past him, a wild, liberating song. The sun felt warm on his skin, even at this altitude. He felt an incredible sense of power, of liberation, of sheer, unadulterated joy. For a few precious moments, he wasn’t Jack, the displaced fanboy in a doomed world; he was a creature of the sky, untethered, unbound.

He leveled off, drinking in the view, a wide, irrepressible grin splitting his face. The grim realities of Zod, of Flashpoint, of his stolen life, still lurked at the edges of his awareness, but for now, they were held at bay by the sheer, primal thrill of flight.

“Okay,” he shouted into the wind, his voice filled with a mixture of exhilaration and nervous laughter, “this part? This part definitely doesn’t suck!”

He hung there for another moment, savoring the sensation, then, with a newfound determination, he turned his sights eastward. Gotham City lay in that direction. The grim task ahead hadn’t vanished, but now, at least, he had a way to get there, a way that was, much to his surprise, utterly, breathtakingly, awesome. With a final, joyful burst of speed, he shot across the sky, a tiny, grey-clad figure against the vastness of the heavens, leaving Metropolis and its growing panic behind him.