The transition wasn't gentle.
It felt like being fired from a railgun. Air slammed into me. My stomach dropped. Cold wind tore at my skin as I spun head-over-heels through open sky.
Then I saw it.
Blue.Not the sick, washed-out sky of my world. Not a ceiling of ash and fallout.A deep, endless blue so bright it hurt to look at.
I was falling—fast.
Panic surged. I flailed, arms grabbing at nothing.
Stop.Stop.Stop!
And then… I wasn't falling.
The wind softened to a whisper. My spinning slowed. My body stabilized on its own, as if it remembered something I didn't. I hovered there, suspended miles above the earth like a leaf caught on an invisible breeze.
"I… I'm flying," I whispered.
Not because I learned how.Because I was built to.
I willed myself upright, and the world below came into view.
And what I saw broke me.
Not ruins.Not scorched earth.Not black bones of dead cities.
A living world.
Skyscrapers of gleaming glass caught the sunlight like mirrors. Trees—real trees—lined the streets, full canopies rustling with wind. Cars flowed in neat lines. People moved like nothing had ever tried to kill them.
I choked on a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"It's real… it's actually real."
I took a deeper inhale.
No ash.No decay.The air smelled like rainstorms, exhaust, and life.
My eyes drifted upward—giant billboards flashing with bright, smiling figures in colorful suits. A man draped in a flag cape. A woman in shining armor. A blur of blue lightning. Hero after hero after hero.
A comic-book world… alive.
The hum under my skin reminded me I wasn't the same boy who died in the ruins. I clenched my fist—the energy vibrated through my bones, deep and immense.
I tested my senses.
The wind noise drowned out—replaced by a thousand sounds from the city below.A horn.A baby crying.An engine revving.A distant helicopter.
I zoomed my eyes. The world sharpened like a sniper's scope.
A single taxi license plate—NY-5921—clear as print on a page.
I had power.Real power.
But then reality crashed into me.
What now?
Power didn't guarantee survival—not where I came from. On the ground, tribes killed outsiders on sight. In the sky? Who knew the rules?
One thing I did know:
Heroes here were… marketed.
Their faces were plastered across skyscrapers. Smiles too perfect. Poses too practiced. They weren't just protectors.
They were products.
And if you walked into another tribe's territory with teeth showing, you didn't get welcomed.
You got hunted.
If I dropped into that city and started flying around, I wouldn't be a hero.
I'd be a problem.
I needed an anchor. A shield. Something bigger than them, something they couldn't swat away because it was the biggest tribe of all:
Government.
The scavengers back home told stories of old-world power structures—Presidents, senators, armies—but it had always felt like mythology. I couldn't remember the details. Why would I? You don't study civics when you're fighting sewer mutants for lunch.
But I did remember one symbol.
A giant, five-sided building from the old books.
Except…
From what we were taught, it had six sides.
The Hexagon.
It rose in the distance now, unmistakable—massive, fortified, humming with authority even from miles up.
That was where I needed to go.
But not from the sky. If I dropped onto their lawn glowing with alien power, they'd panic. Or shoot. Or both.
I scanned the streets for a landing point, searching for somewhere unseen.
There—an alleyway behind a row of storefronts. Narrow. Dim. Empty.
Perfect.
I angled downward and drifted silently into the gap. My feet touched pavement with a gentle tap.
The smell hit me—old trash, city grime, damp concrete. To anyone else it was disgusting.
To me?
It smelled like freedom.
I stepped out of the shadows, blending into the flow of strangers who didn't know a god among them had just arrived.
My heart pounded as I turned toward the distant Hexagon.
Time to introduce myself to the new tribe.