Pain. That was the first sensation.
Then came the cold. Damp. Hard.
He blinked. Once. Twice. The world was spinning, the ringing in his ears slowly fading into the distant sounds of... chaos?
A deep breath filled his lungs with the scent of iron, gasoline, and smoke. His eyes opened fully now, squinting against the harsh sunlight that filtered between the buildings. He was lying on concrete, in a narrow alley littered with trash bags and a shattered fire escape above. Everything felt real, too real.
"Where... am I?"
The voice that escaped his lips was his own, but it also wasn't. There was a deeper timbre to it, an echo that shouldn't be there. He sat up with effort, his head pounding, memories fractured like broken glass.
He remembered... dying?
A car accident? No, more like an explosion. He remembered flashes: honking horns, bright light, his body flying. Then... silence. Darkness. And now... this.
Sirens wailed in the distance. A deep rumble shook the ground beneath him, followed by something crashing, no, smashing into a building.
With effort, he staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the brick wall. The alley opened into a street, and what he saw took the air from his lungs.
Aliens.
The sky above was torn open, a portal crackling with unstable blue energy, through which snake-like mechanical leviathans descended, spewing fire and destruction. Chitauri soldiers leapt from gliders, their weapons raining plasma into the streets. People screamed. Cars exploded. The city, New York, was at war.
"This is... The Battle of New York."
He recognized it. It wasn't just fiction anymore. This was Marvel. The Avengers. And somehow, impossibly, he had been dropped right into it.
That's when it hit him, not just a realization, but a presence.
It crawled into his mind, like a warm voice whispering secrets in a language older than time. His vision blurred, symbols flickered before his eyes, golden and ancient. He fell to one knee, gripping his chest as his heart raced.
Something inside him was awakening.
A golden light pulsed from within, spreading through his veins, searing through the fabric of his borrowed hoodie. His eyes widened as glowing glyphs emerged along his arms, arcane markings alive with purpose. And then he heard it:
"You have been chosen. The Balance must be preserved."
The voice was not his own, it echoed in his mind with the authority of a god.
"You are Fate's new vessel."
He gasped. His surroundings blurred as visions overtook him, flashes of another being: a man in golden armor, a helm with no eyes, only judgment. Doctor Fate. Kent Nelson. Nabu.
He saw ruins. Celestial realms. Battles across time and space. He saw power, ancient and divine. And now... it lived in him.
His hands lifted on instinct, and gold light coalesced between his palms. Pure magic, alive, vibrant, raw. His fear was drowned beneath awe. He understood nothing... and everything.
A Chitauri glider shrieked overhead, its rider aiming at a group of terrified civilians huddled behind a taxi.
No time to think.
He raised a hand. A golden sigil burst to life in front of him, and with a thought, a blast of pure energy erupted, slamming the glider mid-air. It exploded in a flash of fire and metal.
The people stared. So did he.
"I just did that..."
The ground trembled again. In the sky, Iron Man zipped past, pursued by more enemies. Captain America led civilians to safety. Thor summoned lightning atop Stark Tower.
He took a breath.
It wasn't a dream. He wasn't a bystander anymore.
He stepped into the street, golden light still humming in his skin. His clothes burned away in particles of magic, replaced by something else — not Kent Nelson's robes, but something new, forged by instinct and will. A long, indigo cloak fluttered behind his shoulders. Intricate golden armor curled along his chest and arms, the same ancient script alive on every piece.
A half-formed helm hovered in his hand, not yet complete, awaiting acceptance.
He looked up at the war-torn sky and slipped it on.
The moment it clicked into place, power surged — vast and terrifying. Magic responded to his thoughts before he even gave them shape. The city opened before him like a living map — energy threads, life signatures, death approaching.
"You are no longer a visitor."
"You are the hand of Balance."
A vortex of golden runes flared around him as he levitated, rising into the heart of the battle.
And that was the moment the world saw him — onlookers below, cameras in the windows, even the Avengers — a figure in radiant gold and violet, summoning storms of light.
His debut was not subtle. It was divine.
And in the middle of New York's darkest hour, the world met a new player...
Doctor Fate.
Or rather
The One Who Would Become Him.