Chapter 1: Crash Landing in Starling
Rain lashed Luke's face like a swarm of icy needles, his body wrenching into existence with a gut-twisting jolt that left his stomach churning. One moment, he was a formless wisp in limbo's gray void, his life snuffed out by a drunk driver's truck on a rain-slicked highway—the memory was a jagged shard: headlights blinding through the downpour, metal screeching as the truck veered, then a bone-crushing impact that dissolved into silence. Now, he sprawled on wet, gritty concrete, the stench of rotting garbage and rusted iron clogging his throat. His heart hammered, a wild rhythm in a chest that felt both alien and achingly real. I'm alive. Flesh and blood. He pressed a trembling hand to his ribs, the pulse beneath his fingers a lifeline. The city's pulse throbbed around him—sirens wailing faintly, traffic growling in the distance, a neon sign flickering red and blue, casting fractured shadows across the alley's damp walls. The Dice System… it's still with me.
He sat up, rain dripping from his hair, and wiped his eyes with a sleeve that smelled faintly of mildew. The System's interface flared in his mind, a holographic dashboard glowing with six faces: Doctor Strange's magic, Hawkeye's archery, Rocket's gadgeteering, Mantis's empathy, Falcon's flight, and a ghost form, locked at 100% mastery, a permanent echo of his limbo years. I was a ghost too long, drifting, untouchable. No wonder it's maxed. The System had replaced the ghost slot with Deadpool's regeneration, starting fresh at 0%. Healing like Wade? I could tank punches, outlast Slade Wilson, maybe even smirk at Ra's al Ghul. He imagined standing in a storm of arrows, wounds knitting shut as he quipped, or phasing through walls to outwit Merlyn. Master this, and I'm a force. His fingers brushed wet hair from his forehead, the cold grounding his racing thoughts. He stood, sneakers squelching, and stretched, joints popping like a cheap firecracker. New body, same sarcasm.
A guttural roar ripped through the rain. Luke's head snapped up, vision still hazy, and he froze, heart lurching. Three hulking figures loomed over a trembling couple—a man in a drenched tailored coat, clutching a briefcase like it was his soul, and a woman gripping her purse, her knuckles white under the neon's flicker. The thugs' veins bulged like twisted ropes, their eyes burning with Mirakuru-fueled rage. Arrowverse roid rage. Perfect start. The largest thug, bald with a sneer that screamed violence, turned and locked onto Luke, his boots grinding gravel.
"Get lost, street trash!" he bellowed, charging like a runaway truck, fist cocked back like a battering ram.
Panic clawed Luke's throat, but his ghostly instincts kicked in, sharp and familiar. No time to dream of beating Slade. The System pulsed, a lifeline in the chaos, its interface humming like a friend whispering encouragement.
[SYSTEM: DAILY ROLL ACTIVATED: DOCTOR STRANGE MAGIC (FACE 1)]
[SYSTEM: POWER ACTIVATED: MYSTIC ARTS. STAMINA DRAIN: MODERATE]
Transmigrated into a brawl. Five-star plot twist. Sarcasm was his shield, steadying his trembling hands. He thrust his arms forward, fingers tracing patterns from some buried instinct. A glowing mandala of orange light erupted, the air crackling with warm, electric energy that buzzed through his veins. The thug's fist slammed into it with a thwum-CRACK, the sound reverberating like a struck gong. The brute stumbled back, clutching his bruised hand, his face a mask of shock and rage.
"What the hell is that?!" he roared, spittle flying in the rain.
Luke sagged against the slick brick wall, breath ragged, his temples throbbing like a drumbeat. Magic's got a cost. His voice wavered, but the quip was sharp. "Rage mode unlocked, therapy's offline. Try yoga, big guy."
The other two thugs hesitated, their Mirakuru-enhanced frames twitching with barely contained violence. Luke didn't wait, the magic flowing like an extension of his will, raw and unpolished. He flicked his wrist, conjuring two small portals—one beneath the second thug's feet, the other three feet above a pile of soggy cardboard boxes. The thug vanished with a startled yelp, reappearing in a flailing heap amidst the trash, the stench of wet rot rising.
[SYSTEM: MASTERY UPDATE: DOCTOR STRANGE MAGIC +10%]
[SYSTEM: EVOLUTION POINTS GAINED: +15 EP]
The couple stared, their faces pale under the flickering neon, eyes wide with terror and awe. Luke expanded the mandala into a shimmering dome, its edges sparking faintly, like fireflies caught in a net. "Stay under this," he said, forcing his voice to steady despite the burn in his chest. "You're safe now." The effort seared his temples, his vision blurring as stamina drained, leaving his legs shaky. This body's not built for sorcery marathons.
[SYSTEM: SHIELDS CIVILIANS. STAMINA DRAIN: HIGH.]
[SYSTEM: STAT UPDATE: INTELLIGENCE +2 (ADAPTIVE TACTICS)]
His knees buckled, rain soaking his clothes, the cold biting his skin. He imagined mastering magic, opening portals across cities, facing down the League of Assassins with a smirk. Not today, Luke. You're one spark from face-planting. A sharp thwip-thwip sliced through the rain—an arrow embedding in the brick above his head. Luke's heart lurched. Oliver Queen. The Green Arrow dropped from a fire escape, a shadow in green leather, his movements silent and predatory. His hood cast his face in darkness, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the scene like a hawk. Without glancing at Luke, he fired two arrows, each tipped with a high-voltage charge, dropping the remaining thugs in a twitching heap.
Luke dissolved the shield, nearly collapsing, his breath hitching. Time to ghost. He slipped into the shadows, the alley's damp chill clinging to him, and focused inward. The world dulled to grayscale, sounds muffling as he shifted into ghost form, weightless and intangible, the familiar ease of limbo flooding back.
[SYSTEM: GHOST FORM ACTIVATED: SPECTRAL INFILTRATION (PERMANENT ABILITY, 100% MASTERY)]
He floated upward, the alley's stench fading to a distant memory. Starling City sprawled below, a labyrinth of wet rooftops and pulsing lights. Oliver knelt by the couple, checking for injuries, his bow still gripped tightly. His gaze flicked to where Luke had stood, sensing a disturbance. He knows I was here. Good luck tracking a ghost, Hood. Luke drifted, the freedom of ghost form intoxicating, a reminder of his years as a specter. Maxed out because I lived it—untouchable, unseen. He imagined phasing through Slade's base, whispering fear into his goons, untouchable by their fists. I could outmaneuver Nyssa, maybe even Malcolm. But Soul Points drained with every spectral trick, a limit tugging at his core.
He spotted a lone figure by a dumpster, hunched and nervous, counting a wad of crumpled bills with jerky movements, his breath fogging in the cold. Small-time crook, not Mirakuru. Luke descended, silent as mist, and focused his energy, the air chilling around him.
[SYSTEM: WHISPER INTIMIDATION ACTIVATED. SOUL POINTS DRAIN: MODERATE]
His voice rasped, a cold echo inside the mugger's skull. "The man with the rage… where'd he get his power?"
The mugger froze, eyes darting wildly, hands slapping his ears. "D-dock workers! The boss said it's Isabel! Corporate source, pays big for the rage!" He bolted, bills scattering like leaves in his panic, his footsteps echoing off the alley walls.
Isabel Rochev. Season 2's corporate villain, but Mirakuru this early? That's off-script. Luke's mind raced, piecing together the Arrowverse timeline. A crumpled shipping manifest caught his eye, pinned high on a wall—too high for wind. He channeled a faint pulse of spectral energy, nudging it free, the effort tugging at his core like a weight. The manifest fluttered down, landing beside an oil drum, its edges damp with rain.
[SYSTEM: POLTERGEIST NUDGE ACTIVATED. SOUL POINTS DRAIN: LOW.]
The alley grew colder, his ghost form flickering like a dying bulb. Running low. He materialized behind a stack of pallets, snatching the manifest, his hands shaking from the effort. It listed chemicals, a warehouse in the Glades—evidence of Isabel's operation. The weight of his new body hit him, vulnerable and alive, his breath visible in the chill air. He tucked the manifest into his jacket, the paper crinkling against his chest.
Oliver's voice cut through the alley, low and dangerous, his silhouette sharp against the neon glow. "The magic. That's new. You shouldn't be here."
Luke stepped out, forcing a grin despite his exhaustion, rain dripping from his nose. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly RSVP."
Oliver's fist was a blur, aimed at Luke's jaw. The System pinged, a harsh reminder of his limits.
[SYSTEM: STATUS WARNING: DAILY ROLL ALREADY USED. NO NEW ABILITY UNTIL MIDNIGHT.]
Luke dodged, barely, stumbling back into a pile of crates, the wood creaking under his weight. "Okay, rude. Could've sent a 'Welcome to Starling' card instead." His sarcasm was fraying, his legs trembling from the day's toll.
Oliver froze, eyes narrowing, his leather creaking as he shifted. "You're not normal."
"Understatement of the century," Luke said, rubbing his jaw where the punch had grazed him, the sting lingering. "I'm the guy who transmigrated into your city with a magic trick and zero prep. Got a lead on Isabel Rochev, though." He tossed the manifest, the paper fluttering like a wounded bird. Oliver caught it without breaking eye contact, his fingers tightening around it.
"You're a liability," Oliver growled, but his gaze softened slightly, studying the manifest's scrawled notes. "Prove you're not."
Luke's legs felt like lead, his body screaming for rest, but the city's dangers weren't waiting. He brushed rain from his eyes, the cold sharpening his resolve. Isabel's moving fast, and I'm on Oliver's radar. Midnight can't come soon enough. The alley's shadows seemed to close in, the manifest a fragile clue in a game he was only beginning to understand.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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