Shaking the disoreinting feeling from the lingering memories I stood and made my way to a mirror. What I saw was not my own face.
My reflection was that of a man I had never seen before. I felt a cold dread wash over me.
How did I get here? A glance around the room provided a clue: an identification document.
The face I now had belonged to someone named Kristoffer. He was an engineer. I looked at the birthdate: 1966.
A calendar on the wall confirmed my suspicions; the year was 1984, and I was in Washington D.C. I was shocked and confused by this impossible revelation.
I needed to find someone I knew, someone who could help me make sense of this. I looked through a phonebook and found a familiar name that made my heart pound: Diana Prince, living here in Washington D.C.
It was too much of a coincidence. I confirmed the address and set out to find her.
I reached her apartment and stood there, my breath catching in my throat. There she was, just as I remembered her.
Time had decided to leave her alone, a perfect, unchanging beauty in a world that had moved on. I just stared at her, stunned, as she walked away.
Then, my training took over. I did what I was trained to do: I stalked her, gathered information, and looked for a chance to talk to her.
Navigating the current roads proved difficult. The city was a maze of cars and unfamiliar buildings, and I lost her. I didn't give up. I found her workplace and learned a gala was taking place there.
A spy's instinct is to adapt. So, I stole someone's clothes and, using my old skills, infiltrated the gala. I had to find her. I had to know what had happened to me.
I wove through the throng of people, my eyes scanning the crowd.
The opulence of the gala was a world away from the gritty reality of the trenches, and I felt like a ghost in a suit that wasn't my own. Finally, I saw her.
She was talking to a group of people, her face a mask of elegant detachment.
I approached, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My first attempt at a greeting went unheard over the din of the crowd. I had to get her attention.
"I'm Steve, Diana!" I said, my voice cutting through the noise.
She turned, her expression one of polite confusion. "What did you say?" she asked.
"I am Steve Trevor," I repeated, my voice filled with an urgency that betrayed my disguise.
Her face hardened, a wall of cold skepticism rising between us. "I don't know how you found that name, mister," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "But if it's your idea of a joke, it is not funny."
She's angry. I knew I had to make her believe me, and I had to do it now. I remembered one of our first conversations, a small, intimate moment of playful banter.
"Don't you have a rope used to bind animals?" I asked, my voice a quiet challenge.
She blinked, the anger in her eyes replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What?"
"All men are animals," I said, repeating her words from that night on the boat.
Her breath hitched. A rush of emotions—confusion, suspicion, and a hint of a memory—crossed her face. I pressed my advantage.
"If you still don't believe me," I said, my voice full of a desperate hope, "you can use that Lasso of Hestia on me."
The words hung in the air, a silent plea. She looked at me, her gaze searching my very soul, and then she did something unexpected.
She kissed me. It was a searing, overwhelming, and utterly convincing kiss. I melted into it, no longer a spy but just a man, finally home.
After we slipped away from the gala, we stood outside in the cool night air. The city lights of Washington D.C. twinkled around us, a world that I barely understood.
I told her all I could remember. I told her about jumping off the plane to fulfill my dream, the white flash of the explosion, the searing pain, and waking up here, in a new body and a new time.
"That flash was probably lightning," Diana said, her voice quiet.
"That could be right," I said, a grim smile on my face. "So I was flying in the sky and was killed by a lightning strike. How unlucky, to be hit directly."
"No," she said, her voice firm. "It was probably because Ares caused a lot of lightning strikes. And one just happened to hit you."
"That's even worse," I groaned.
Dying from a natural disaster is one thing, I can somehow console myself with that. But dying from a natural disaster caused by my enemy? What are the chances? Not that it matters now. The thought, however, was a small, bitter pill to swallow. I had sacrificed my life to save the world from his influence, and in the end, it was a random act of his destruction that took me out.
We spent the night in Kristoffer's house, and once again, the dream came back.
I stood in the middle of a devastated landscape, surrounded by lightning and fire.
The air crackled with a malevolent energy, and I saw a silhouette of Diana in her battle armor, her figure a stark contrast against the chaotic inferno.
I quickly woke up, my heart pounding, and looked around. She was sleeping peacefully beside me.
After everything that happened yesterday, I realized she loved me too. But I also knew my presence here was not natural.
With the whole "Ares bullshit" being a thing, it seemed like a whole new kind of trouble to me. As much as I was happy to meet her again, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
I didn't know how much time I had. I could feel it, a deep sense that I was supposed to be somewhere else. My mind replayed the scene from my dream, and I knew it was a place I had to be.
The following morning, after Diana woke up and we got ready, we started to look for how I got here. Our search led us to a shocking discovery: a wishing stone.