The glass of whiskey sat untouched on the counter, amber liquid catching the light as if mocking the silence that had swallowed the room. Marcus hadn't moved since the words slithered into existence, resonating through his apartment, through his bones.
"Congratulations, Marcus. Twenty-one years… in a world of gods, eldritch beings, and monsters… you've made it here as an ant."
He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. The shadows in the corners of his apartment didn't shift, no shapes coalesced, no screens flickered with intrusion. The voice was everywhere and nowhere at once.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, schooling his features into something calm. "That's some greeting card opener," he said dryly. "Mind telling me who the hell you are?"
The voice laughed. It wasn't cruel, exactly — more like a cat watching mice scramble, equal parts detached and entertained.
"Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is that you are the sixty-seventh one I've sent. And unlike the others… you lasted."
Marcus's jaw ticked. "…Sixty-seventh?"
"Mm. Sixty-seventh," the voice confirmed, tone lilting. "None of the others survived the full twenty-one years of the trial phase to earn their prize."
The word prize echoed, heavy and deliberate.
Marcus tapped a finger against his knee, mind racing. He chose his words with care. "So, how'd the others not make it?"
A hum, low and amused, filled the air.
"Oh, the ways are endless. Some were gunned down in alleys before they were old enough to shave. Others thought joining gangs would grant them safety, it didn't. Some… oh, this is rich… tried to force their abilities to manifest. When they didn't, they died in such delightfully creative ways. One set himself on fire mimicking the Flash's accident. Another thought, swimming in toxic wast,e would make him immortal."
The chuckle that followed was sharp, like glass breaking.
"Silly little ants, scrabbling in the dirt. All very amusing. But you, Marcus… you made it. Congratulations."
He felt the weight of the words settle on him like a shroud. His instincts screamed that whoever this being was, it didn't lie. It didn't need to.
Marcus exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the cool metal of the pendant in his pocket, his mother's locket, the last piece of Gotham he kept close. "Alright," he said, voice steady. "What exactly did I win?"
The voice purred with delight.
"Your prize… is a template. You have a metagene, Marcus. I will use it as the focal point to graft certain abilities into you. When I activate it, your biology will adapt, rewriting itself around this design. The template was chosen long ago, foreign to this universe, but your metagene makes it… compatible. Seamless."
That made Marcus pause. His eyes narrowed, brain already dissecting the implications. A foreign template would stand out in this world, and this world had beings who sniffed out anomalies like bloodhounds. Lanterns. Dr Fate. The Spectre. Even the Presence. But if his metagene was the anchor, then…
It clicked. And the realization was almost more terrifying than the voice itself. This thing wasn't worried about discovery. It simply couldn't be bothered with the inconvenience.
Marcus swallowed, his throat dry. "…This is going to hurt, isn't it?"
The laugh returned, softer this time, curling like smoke.
"Oh, yes. But you're used to pain, aren't you? The awakening of your meta-gene will be… unpleasant. Think of Spider-Man when the effects of the spider bite took hold: fever, aches, skin aflame. Only yours will be worse. Far worse. Your very cells will burn as your biology is reforged. The pain is the proof. When it ends, you will be more than you were."
Marcus's grip on the pendant tightened. His mother's voice whispered in the back of his skull, memories of Gotham pressing against the edges of his resolve. He forced a smirk, even as the weight of it all bore down. "And once it's done?"
"Once it's done," the voice said, "your abilities will be like a muscle. Flex them, train them, tear and rebuild them, and you will grow stronger. I am giving you the template, Marcus, but if you want to reach that character's heights, or surpass them, you will have to earn it. Just as you earned this moment."
A chill slithered down Marcus's spine. He asked the question that burned at the edge of his thoughts. "…So. Who'd I get?"
The chuckle that answered him was wicked, feline, Cheshire in its amusement.
"Hancock."
Marcus's eyes went wide. The glass finally slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. "Bloody hell."
The voice grew softer, but no less sharp.
"Before we begin… a caveat. Because this is tied to your metagene, certain bindings will not apply. No soulmates. No pair bonds. Those things make you weak. You will not have them."
Marcus's mouth opened to ask more, but he never got the chance.
"Now… grit your teeth."
The world ignited.
Fire roared through his veins, every nerve screaming as if molten metal had been poured into his bloodstream. Marcus staggered, ripping at his shirt, fumbling toward the bathroom. He barely made it to the shower before his body convulsed.
Cold water burst over him as he collapsed against the tile, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. It didn't help. The fire wasn't on his skin; it was in him, under it, rewriting, reshaping.
He clenched his jaw until it ached, until he tasted blood, as his vision blurred and muscles tore themselves apart just to knit stronger, tighter, harder.
This wasn't pain. This was rebirth.
And Marcus, for all his grit, could only hang on and let it burn.