## S.T.A.R. Labs - Medical Wing - 11:52 PM
Caitlin finished her examination and began inputting data with the kind of aggressive efficiency that suggested she'd moved past "medical professional" and into "I'm going to make you regret every life choice that led to this injury" territory.
"Okay, here's the deal," she said, turning to Kendra with the expression of someone who'd practiced this lecture in the mirror. "No flying for seventy-two hours. No combat training. No testing your limits. No 'I feel fine so the rules don't apply to me' bullshit. Your wing needs to regenerate, and if you stress it prematurely, you'll be looking at three weeks of recovery instead of three days. Questions?"
"Just one," Kendra said, examining her damaged wing with the kind of detached fascination that suggested the painkillers were kicking in. "Does 'no flying' include 'falling with style'? Because technically that's not flying, that's just gravity with extra steps."
"That's a Toy Story reference," Cisco's voice crackled through the intercom from wherever he was monitoring their vitals. "I appreciate that you're making Toy Story references while injured. That shows character. But also, no, you can't fall with style. That's still putting strain on the wing structure."
"What about gliding? Is gliding allowed?"
"Kendra," Caitlin said with the patience of someone explaining fire safety to a particularly enthusiastic pyromaniac, "I need you to understand something very important. Your wing is made of mystical golden feathers that were literally frozen by an experimental cryogenic weapon. The structural integrity is compromised at the molecular level. If you try to use it before it's healed, those feathers are going to shatter like very expensive, very mythological glass. And then you'll be explaining to ancient Egyptian gods why you broke their sacred gift because you couldn't follow simple medical instructions."
"That's... actually a compelling argument," Kendra admitted. "I don't want to disappoint ancient Egyptian gods. They seem like they'd be really passive-aggressive about it. Like they'd curse me to always have one sandal that's slightly uncomfortable."
Before anyone could respond to that disturbingly specific concern, the intercom crackled again—this time with Wells' voice, which carried that particular tone that meant he was about to make everyone's evening significantly longer and more complicated.
"Karan, Barry, and Kendra—please join me in my office when you're able. We need to discuss tonight's operation. Bring coffee. This is going to be one of those conversations."
The three of them exchanged looks that conveyed the kind of non-verbal communication that develops when you've been fighting crime together and are united in the certainty that your boss is about to lecture you.
"'One of those conversations,'" Barry repeated, his voice carrying the flat resignation of someone who'd been on the receiving end of many such conversations. "That's code for 'I'm disappointed and we're going to spend an hour discussing why your tactical decisions gave me stress ulcers.'"
"I should probably change," Kendra said, gesturing at her torn and bloodstained gear. "Unless Wells wants me to attend meetings looking like I just survived the world's most violent interpretive dance performance."
"There are spare clothes in the residential wing," Caitlin offered, already pulling out her phone to text someone. "I'll have someone bring you something that fits and doesn't have bloodstains. It's a low bar, but we're going to clear it."
"Can the spare clothes include a shirt that says 'I got shot with a freeze ray and all I got was this lousy t-shirt'?" Kendra asked hopefully. "Because I feel like I've earned it."
"We'll work on that for next time," Caitlin said dryly. "Barry, Karan—you two also look like you've been through a trash compactor. Go make yourselves presentable. Wells gets more passive-aggressive when we show up to debriefings looking like disaster victims."
Twenty minutes later, all three of them were clean, changed, and making their way through S.T.A.R. Labs' corridors with the enthusiasm of students heading to the principal's office. Karan's enhanced hearing picked up Wells' heartbeat three floors away—steady, controlled, but with subtle variations that suggested he was either deeply concerned or practicing his disappointed-mentor speech.
"What are the odds this is just a quick 'good job team, proud of you' meeting?" Barry asked without much hope.
"I'd say zero," Karan replied. "Wells doesn't do 'good job team' meetings. He does 'let's discuss your tactical failures and how they could have gotten everyone killed' meetings. With PowerPoint presentations. Color-coded by severity of mistake."
"The color-coding is what really hurts," Kendra added. "Like, if your mistake is red, you know you *really* screwed up."
"Last time I got red, it was because I accidentally ran into a wall at super speed," Barry said with the distant look of someone reliving trauma. "Wells made me watch slow-motion replay for forty-five minutes while explaining the physics of why I'm an idiot."
"That seems harsh."
"It was very thorough."
They reached Wells' office, where warm light spilled into the corridor in a way that would have been inviting if they didn't know they were walking into an interrogation disguised as a mentorship moment. Wells sat behind his desk in his wheelchair, positioned at the perfect angle to suggest both authority and paternal concern. Cisco and Caitlin were already there, flanking him like disappointed siblings at a family intervention.
"Come in," Wells said, his voice carrying that particular warmth that somehow made Karan more nervous than if he'd just been angry. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
Karan took the chair closest to the door—always maintaining exit awareness, even in supposedly safe environments. Barry settled next to him, vibrating slightly with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Kendra claimed the third chair, her posture suggesting she was in pain but committed to not showing it.
"First," Wells began, and Karan could see him mentally organizing his thoughts like he was preparing to deliver a TED talk about their failures, "I want to say I'm glad you're all safe. When I was monitoring the operation and saw that weapons platform deploy, when I heard about Hawkgirl being struck by the cold gun... I had concerns."
"Concerns," Barry repeated carefully. "That's a very diplomatic way to say 'I thought you were all going to die horribly.'"
"I try to maintain professional distance during crisis situations," Wells replied with the hint of a smile. "It's less effective if I'm screaming into the communication channel about how you're all going to get yourselves killed."
"Appreciate the restraint," Karan said.
"Though I did scream a little," Cisco interjected cheerfully. "Just so we're clear. When that weapons platform started shooting at Karna, I definitely made some sounds that could be classified as screaming. High-pitched, embarrassing sounds."
"We heard," Kendra confirmed. "It was actually kind of motivating. Like, if Cisco's that worried, maybe I should try harder not to die."
"See? My panic serves a purpose," Cisco said, gesturing at her like she'd just proven his point. "I'm providing motivational fear."
"That's not a thing," Caitlin said.
"It's absolutely a thing. Fear is very motivating. It's basically what gets me out of bed every morning."
"Can we focus?" Wells said, though his tone suggested he was actually enjoying this—which was somehow more unsettling than if he'd just been angry. "Because while I'm grateful you all survived, we need to discuss why tonight's operation was simultaneously successful and catastrophically problematic."
"Simultaneously successful and catastrophically problematic," Barry repeated. "That's going on my performance review, isn't it?"
"All of your performance reviews," Wells confirmed. "Now, let's start with the successes, because I don't want you to think I'm being entirely negative."
Cisco pulled up holographic displays showing various metrics from the operation—hostage evacuation times, convoy protection effectiveness, weapons platform neutralization. All color-coded, because of course Wells had color-coded everything.
"You saved fifty civilians at the mall without a single casualty," Wells said, gesturing at the display showing Barry's evacuation. "That's genuinely impressive, Flash. Your speed and precision have improved dramatically since you started training."
"Thank you," Barry said, looking genuinely pleased despite his nervousness.
"You disabled a military-grade weapons platform designed specifically to counter superhuman capabilities," Wells continued, now gesturing at Karan's footage. "The tactical use of your constructs to disrupt its internal systems was creative and effective."
"I just made golden light into tiny wrenches and hoped it worked," Karan admitted.
"Yes, well, sometimes the best tactics are the ones that sound stupid until they succeed," Wells replied. "And Kendra—you engaged professional criminals with military training and held your own long enough to prevent immediate convoy theft. Your combat instincts are remarkable."
"Until I got shot with a freeze ray," Kendra added.
"Until you got shot with a freeze ray," Wells agreed. "Which brings us to the 'catastrophically problematic' part of tonight's operation."
The displays shifted to show different footage—this time with red annotations that made everyone in the room tense slightly. Karan recognized the color-coding system. Red was bad. Red meant Wells was about to explain exactly how they'd screwed up.
"Karan," Wells said, zooming in on footage of his aerial approach, "you used the same flight vector three times during your engagement with the weapons platform. Same altitude, same speed, same banking angle. What does that tell us?"
"That I'm predictable?" Karan offered.
"That you're *very* predictable," Wells corrected. "If Snart had better tracking systems, he could have calculated your pattern and positioned weapons to hit you on your third approach. You got lucky that his platform wasn't sophisticated enough to exploit that pattern. Next time, you might not be lucky."
He shifted to Barry's footage. "Flash, your hostage evacuation was efficient, but you moved people in groups of five, always starting from the perimeter and working inward. Anyone analyzing that footage—which Snart definitely is—can predict your next move based on hostage positioning."
"So I should randomize my evacuation patterns," Barry said, already working through the logistics in his head.
"You should randomize everything," Wells said firmly. "Approach vectors, evacuation sequences, coordination timing. Snart spent tonight gathering intelligence about your tactical preferences. Every predictable pattern you showed him is a vulnerability he can exploit."
Kendra raised her hand like she was in class. "Question. If we're supposed to be unpredictable, how do we coordinate effectively? Coordination kind of requires knowing what your teammates are going to do."
"Excellent question," Wells said, and Karan could see him warming to his topic—this was Wells in full professor mode, genuinely excited about tactical theory. "The answer is that you develop multiple coordination protocols and randomize which one you use in any given situation. Barry knows Karan can approach from six different vectors with three different speed profiles. Karan knows Barry can evacuate using four different patterns with varying timing. You coordinate by communicating your chosen approach rather than always defaulting to the same pattern."
"That sounds complicated," Kendra said.
"That sounds like a lot of training," Barry added.
"It is both of those things," Wells agreed. "Which is why we're going to spend the next several weeks developing those protocols until they're automatic. By the time Snart attempts his next operation—and he absolutely will—you'll be unpredictable enough that his intelligence from tonight becomes obsolete."
Cisco pulled up additional displays, these showing Snart's known capabilities and psychological profile. "Speaking of Snart, we need to talk about what tonight actually was. Because I don't think it was a failed heist."
"It was successful intelligence gathering," Karan said quietly, the pieces clicking into place. "Snart never intended to keep that convoy cargo. He wanted to see how we'd respond."
"Exactly," Wells confirmed, and his expression was grim. "Tonight was an expensive training exercise for Snart. He spent hundreds of thousands of dollars hiring professional crew, developing experimental weapons, creating sophisticated distractions—all to study you. To document your capabilities, your patterns, your coordination. The convoy theft was never the primary objective. You were."
The office fell into uncomfortable silence as everyone processed that implication. They hadn't stopped a heist. They'd performed exactly as Snart had wanted them to perform, giving him comprehensive data about their abilities and tactics.
"So we got played," Barry said flatly.
"You got studied," Wells corrected. "Which is actually worse, because being played implies you could have prevented it. Being studied means Snart was always going to get what he wanted as long as you responded to his operation. The moment you engaged, you gave him information."
"What were we supposed to do?" Kendra asked, frustration evident. "Let civilians get hurt? Let him steal the convoy?"
"No," Wells said gently. "You did exactly what heroes should do—you protected people. But you need to understand that sometimes doing the right thing still gives your opponents advantages. Snart is counting on your heroic instincts. He's building his entire operational strategy around the fact that you'll always prioritize civilian safety over tactical considerations."
"So he's a dick," Cisco summarized. "A smart dick, but still a dick."
"A smart dick who now has comprehensive intelligence about Central City's hero community," Wells agreed. "Which brings us to our next complication."
He pulled up new footage, this time showing Supergirl's intervention at the mall. Karan felt his stomach drop as he recognized the moment when everything had gotten significantly more complicated.
"Supergirl," Wells said, letting the name hang in the air for a moment. "She intervened while Flash was evacuating hostages, which means she's aware that Central City has multiple enhanced individuals operating in coordination. She also saw evidence of sophisticated communication systems and tactical planning."
"Is that a problem?" Barry asked carefully.
"It's a complication," Wells replied, and Karan caught the slight edge in his voice that suggested this particular complication was bothering him more than he wanted to admit. "Superman and the Justice League have been monitoring new hero emergence across the country. They generally respect local operations, but Supergirl's direct involvement suggests she's taking personal interest in Central City specifically."
"Maybe she just wanted to help?" Kendra offered.
"Maybe," Wells agreed. "Or maybe she's been sent to assess whether Central City's heroes require oversight or guidance. Either way, we can expect continued observation from the broader hero community."
"Is that bad?" Barry asked. "I mean, having experienced heroes available for advice or backup seems like it could be helpful."
"It could be," Wells said carefully. "Or it could mean external oversight that limits your operational independence. The Justice League has... opinions... about how new heroes should develop their capabilities. Some of those opinions involve formal training programs, tactical assessments, and coordination requirements that might not align with your preferred approach to protecting Central City."
Karan found himself thinking about Kara Danvers—the journalism student who'd had dinner with them two nights ago, who'd been asking questions about enhanced individuals with the kind of focused interest that now made perfect sense if she was secretly Supergirl monitoring their activities.
"What do you recommend?" Karan asked, because despite his suspicions about Wells' ultimate motivations, the man was genuinely good at tactical advice.
"Communication," Wells said simply. "Reach out to Supergirl through official channels. Captain Singh has her contact information after the aircraft rescue. Establish relationship based on mutual respect and appreciation for her assistance, while making it clear that Central City's heroes are committed to responsible operations without requiring external oversight."
"So basically, 'thanks for the help, we've got this under control, please don't send Superman to supervise us,'" Cisco summarized.
"That's the diplomatic version, yes," Wells agreed with a slight smile. "Though I'd phrase it more politely."
"I can do polite," Karan said, though he was already dreading the conversation with Kara that would require him to pretend he didn't know her civilian identity. "When should I reach out?"
"Soon," Wells said. "Before she reaches out to you, ideally. Taking initiative suggests confidence and competence rather than defensiveness or concern about oversight."
"I'll handle it tomorrow," Karan agreed. "After I've gotten some sleep and can form coherent sentences that don't sound like I'm panicking about Justice League supervision."
"Excellent," Wells said, and Karan caught that flash of satisfaction in his expression—like a chess player who'd just gotten his opponent to make exactly the move he wanted. "Now, let's discuss training protocols for the next several weeks."
What followed was an hour-long presentation that made their previous training regimens look like casual weekend exercise. Wells had developed comprehensive protocols for tactical unpredictability, coordination variation, and capability development that would have impressed military strategists. Cisco had created simulation systems that could replicate multiple threat scenarios simultaneously. Caitlin had designed medical monitoring that would track stress responses and fatigue levels to prevent training injuries.
It was thorough, professional, and exactly the kind of increased oversight that made Karan's instincts scream warnings about Wells' ultimate motivations.
But it was also genuinely valuable training that would make them more effective heroes.
Which was the entire problem with Eobard Thawne—he was a manipulative time-traveling supervillain who genuinely wanted them to become better at their jobs, because their improvement served his larger goals.
"Questions?" Wells asked after finishing his presentation, which had included color-coded flowcharts and probability matrices that suggested he'd been planning this for weeks.
"Just one," Barry said, raising his hand. "When you say 'comprehensive training starting tomorrow,' do you mean tomorrow as in 'take Sunday off to recover' or tomorrow as in 'report to the training facility at dawn'?"
"Tomorrow as in 'report to the training facility at nine AM because dawn is unnecessarily dramatic and you all need sleep,'" Wells replied. "I'm not a monster."
"Debatable," Cisco muttered, though his grin suggested he was joking.
"I heard that."
"I know. I wasn't being subtle."
"Anything else?" Wells asked, looking at each of them in turn.
Kendra raised her hand again. "Yeah. About the freeze ray. Can we develop countermeasures for cryogenic weapons? Because I'd really prefer not to get flash-frozen again. It was extremely unpleasant and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have nightmares about ice cubes."
"Already working on it," Caitlin said, pulling up new displays showing thermal regulation systems she'd been designing. "I'm developing emergency heating protocols for your suit that can counter flash-freezing. Won't make you immune, but should buy you time to get clear of the affected area."
"I love it when you talk thermal regulation," Kendra said. "That's my new favorite dirty talk."
"That's concerning," Caitlin replied, though she was smiling. "But I'll take it as enthusiasm for proper equipment development."
"Can my suit get the thermal regulation too?" Barry asked. "Because if Snart has one freeze ray, he probably has more. And I'd really prefer not to become the world's fastest popsicle."
"Everyone gets thermal regulation," Caitlin confirmed. "Because I'm not explaining to your families why you all died from preventable hypothermia."
"See, this is why Caitlin's my favorite," Cisco said. "She cares about preventing our deaths from preventable causes. That's real friendship."
"What about deaths from unpreventable causes?" Kendra asked.
"Those you're on your own for."
"Fair."
Wells cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself with the practiced ease of someone used to managing conversations. "If there are no more questions, I want you all to get rest. Tonight was intense, and you're running on adrenaline that's going to crash hard. Kendra, follow Caitlin's medical protocols exactly. Barry, Karan—I want detailed written reports on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. Include everything that worked, everything that didn't, and everything that made you question your life choices."
"That last category is going to be very long," Barry said.
"I'm aware. That's why I'm giving you until afternoon."
As they filed out of Wells' office, Karan found himself processing the complicated reality of their situation. Wells was right about the training. Wells was right about Snart. Wells was right about Supergirl and the broader hero community.
But Wells was also Eobard Thawne, and every piece of sound advice served larger purposes that Karan could only partially understand.
"Hey," Barry said quietly as they walked through S.T.A.R. Labs' corridors, "you okay? You've got that look you get when you're thinking too hard about Wells' ulterior motives."
"Just processing," Karan replied. "Tonight was a lot."
"Tonight was us getting comprehensively outsmarted by a criminal genius, then lectured about it by a time-traveling supervillain pretending to be a concerned mentor," Kendra added. "That's a lot even by our recent standards."
"When you put it like that, it sounds really bad," Barry said.
"It is really bad," Kendra confirmed. "But it's also our life now. Might as well get used to it."
They reached the residential wing, where Kendra immediately headed for her temporary room with the careful movements of someone in pain but too stubborn to admit it. Barry and Karan stood in the corridor, both processing the evening's events.
"You know what's weird?" Barry said finally. "Wells is right about everything. The training, the unpredictability, the need to coordinate with established heroes. It's all sound tactical advice."
"Which is what makes it so frustrating," Karan agreed. "I can't argue with the logic even though I know he's manipulating us."
"So what do we do?"
"We take the training, improve our capabilities, and try to maintain enough independence that Wells can't completely control our activities," Karan said. "Walk the line between accepting help and maintaining autonomy."
"That's going to be exhausting."
"Everything about this life is exhausting. But it's also important."
Barry nodded slowly, then managed a tired grin. "You know what? Fuck it. Let's just be really good at the exhausting stuff. That'll show everyone."
"That's the spirit," Karan said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Spite-driven excellence. It's basically our team motto."
"Better than some of the alternative mottos Cisco suggested."
"What were the alternatives?"
"'We're Trying Our Best' and 'Please Don't Die' were the front-runners."
"Those are both terrible."
"That's what I said. But Cisco was very attached to them."
After Barry left, Karan stood alone in the corridor, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that was coming. They'd saved lives tonight. Protected civilians. Done their jobs as heroes.
But they'd also given Snart exactly what he wanted—comprehensive intelligence that he could use to counter them in future operations.
And through it all, Eobard Thawne had been watching, analyzing, using their development for purposes that extended far beyond making them better heroes.
*One day at a time,* Karan reminded himself as he headed to his room. *Stop threats. Protect people. Navigate complicated relationships with time-traveling supervillains.*
*Just another day in Central City.*
*If they survived long enough to see tomorrow.*
Which, given recent events, was honestly never guaranteed.
But they'd try anyway.
Because that's what heroes did.
Even when they were exhausted, uncertain, and being manipulated by people who were supposed to be helping them.
Especially then.
---
# Unknown Location - Himalayan Foothills, India - 6:47 AM IST
The cave had been home for the past seventeen years, though "home" was a generous term for what amounted to a hole in the mountain where Ashwatthama could hide from the sun and the endless, crushing weight of immortality. It was dark, damp, and smelled like the particular combination of decay and desperation that came from living in a place where even rats had better sense than to nest.
But it had internet access, because even cursed immortals needed to stay connected to the world they'd been condemned to wander forever.
Ashwatthama sat cross-legged on the cave floor, his laptop balanced on a flat rock that had probably been shaped by glaciers back when the world was young and he'd still been mortal. The blue light from the screen illuminated features that would have been handsome if not for the massive, pus-filled gash on his forehead—the visible mark of Krishna's curse, the wound that would never heal, that wept constantly, that served as eternal reminder of the moment he'd tried to kill an unborn child and been punished by God himself.
He'd wrapped cloth around his head to catch the discharge, but it soaked through within hours. Always had. Always would. For the rest of eternity, or until Krishna decided to show mercy, whichever came first.
Given that Krishna had been pretty explicit about "never," Ashwatthama wasn't holding his breath.
He'd been scrolling through international news feeds—a habit developed over decades of exile, watching human civilization evolve while he remained the same, forever bearing the weight of the worst decision he'd ever made—when a headline caught his attention:
**"MYSTERIOUS GOLDEN HERO SAVES CENTRAL CITY CONVOY - WHO IS KARNA?"**
The name alone would have been enough to make him pause. But it was the video that made his immortal heart—which hadn't beaten properly in five thousand years—stutter with recognition.
Golden armor. Sanskrit inscriptions. The distinctive radiance of divine protection that he'd last seen on the battlefield at Kurukshetra, covering the body of his closest friend as they fought on opposite sides of a war that had destroyed everything they'd ever cared about.
"Karna," Ashwatthama whispered, his voice rough from disuse. He didn't speak often anymore—there was no one to talk to except himself, and he'd long ago exhausted any interesting conversation topics with his own neuroses.
But this... this deserved commentary.
He replayed the video, watching as the golden figure descended from the sky, energy constructs flowing from his hands with the kind of precision that spoke of either divine intervention or very expensive special effects. The armor caught light in ways that defied normal physics, the inscriptions pulsing with power that Ashwatthama recognized immediately because he'd spent decades studying those same patterns when they'd adorned his friend's body.
The Kavach and Kundal. The divine armor that Surya had given to his son at birth, fused to Karna's skin, making him invincible until Indra's manipulation had convinced him to give it away.
But Karna had died over five thousand years ago. Ashwatthama had watched it happen—had been fighting on the same side when Arjuna's arrow struck his friend down, when the warrior who'd been born wearing divine protection died vulnerable and betrayed by the very gods who'd claimed to love him.
So this wasn't Karna.
This was someone wearing Karna's armor.
Which raised approximately a thousand questions, none of which had comfortable answers.
Ashwatthama pulled up additional footage, his fingers moving across the keyboard with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd had centuries to master technology. Multiple videos showed the golden hero operating across Central City—stopping robberies, preventing accidents, coordinating with other enhanced individuals who could apparently run at impossible speeds or manifest wings made of ancient Egyptian power.
"The armor chose you," Ashwatthama said to the screen, studying the hero's movements with analytical focus that came from over five thousand years of combat experience. "Or perhaps it was forced upon you. Either way, you carry my friend's legacy without understanding the weight of what you wear."
He zoomed in on specific frames, noting the way the armor moved with its wearer, the slight variations in how the energy constructs manifested compared to when Karna had wielded them. This person was new to the power—weeks, maybe months of experience at most. The precision was there, but the confidence was still developing. They were learning as they went, making mistakes that Karna would never have made because Karna had been born wearing that armor, had understood it as intimately as his own heartbeat.
But there was something else. Something in the way this new Karna moved that suggested genuine heroism rather than just power used for personal gain. The way he positioned himself between civilians and danger. The care taken to minimize collateral damage. The obvious concern for protecting others even at cost to himself.
Karna had been like that too, before the world broke him. Before Krishna's manipulation and Arjuna's arrows and the crushing weight of fighting for the wrong side because loyalty demanded it.
"You have his heroism," Ashwatthama murmured, watching footage of the convoy rescue. "But do you have his tragedy? Will you also be destroyed by your own noble instincts?"
The wound on his forehead wept fresh discharge, soaking through the cloth wrapping. He adjusted it automatically—a gesture so practiced after five thousand years that he barely registered the action anymore. The pain was constant, had been constant since the moment Krishna had cursed him, would be constant for all eternity unless the god decided to show mercy.
Which he wouldn't.
Because Ashwatthama had tried to kill Parikshit in the womb, had attempted to murder an unborn child to win a war that was already lost, and Krishna had looked at him with eyes that held all the compassion of the universe and said: "You will live forever, bearing this wound, wandering the earth without rest, until you learn the value of the lives you sought to extinguish."
Over five thousand years later, Ashwatthama was still learning that lesson. Still bearing the wound. Still wandering.
But now, for the first time in centuries, something had captured his interest beyond mere survival and the endless, crushing boredom of immortality.
His friend's armor had returned. Had chosen someone new. Had manifested in a city on the other side of the world, wielded by someone who apparently had no idea what they were carrying or what it meant.
Ashwatthama pulled up more information about Central City, cross-referencing news reports with social media posts, building a comprehensive picture of the emerging hero community and the situation this new Karna had found himself in. There was a speedster—the Flash, according to reports—who seemed to be this Karna's primary partner. And a woman with wings and Egyptian aesthetics who suggested the armor wasn't the only mythological power manifesting in the modern world.
"Interesting," he said, making notes with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that came from having literally infinite time to research topics of interest. "The age of myth is returning. Or perhaps it never left, just went dormant while humanity pretended to outgrow its gods."
He found social media accounts discussing the heroes, forum posts analyzing their tactics, conspiracy theories about their identities. The internet, he'd discovered, was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to someone cursed with immortality. Best because it provided infinite information and entertainment. Worst because it made his isolation even more apparent—billions of humans connecting with each other while he sat alone in a cave, watching the world through a screen.
One video in particular caught his attention—amateur footage from a cell phone, low quality but clear enough. It showed Karna's armor creating a bow, drawing back an arrow made of pure golden energy, releasing it with the kind of precision that Ashwatthama recognized because he'd been Karna's friend, had trained alongside him, had watched him shoot arrows that could pierce anything because they were guided by divine intention rather than just physical force.
"You use the bow," Ashwatthama said softly. "Just as he did. The armor remembers. It teaches you what it taught him. But do you understand what you're learning? Do you know the price that weapon demanded from its previous wielder?"
Karna had been the greatest archer of his generation—greater than even Arjuna, though politics and divine manipulation had ensured history remembered Arjuna as the superior warrior. Karna could have killed Arjuna a dozen times during the war, but each time he'd chosen mercy, chosen honor, chosen to fight fairly even when his opponents used every advantage they could gather.
And in the end, that nobility had destroyed him.
Ashwatthama stood, his joints protesting the movement after hours of sitting motionless. The cave was small enough that standing brought his head uncomfortably close to the ceiling, but he needed to move, needed to process what he'd discovered.
Over five thousand years. Over five thousand years of wandering, of hiding, of watching civilizations rise and fall, of bearing Krishna's curse without hope of redemption.
And now his friend's armor had returned.
The question was what he should do about it.
Option one: nothing. Continue living as he had been, isolated and immortal, watching the world through screens while avoiding the sun and the people who would inevitably recognize his cursed wound and either try to kill him or worship him depending on their particular brand of religious fervor.
Option two: reach out. Attempt contact with this new Karna, offer guidance about the armor and its capabilities, warn him about the dangers of wearing divine power without understanding its cost.
Option three: go to Central City himself. Confront this new wielder directly, demand to know how they'd acquired armor that should have been buried with his friend's ashes, possibly reclaim it if it had been stolen from Karna's remains.
All three options had significant complications.
Option one meant accepting that his friend's legacy was being carried by someone who had no connection to the original Karna, no understanding of what that armor meant or what it had cost. It meant watching from a distance as this new hero either succeeded where Karna had failed or repeated his mistakes without anyone to warn them away from the same tragic path.
Option two required revealing himself to someone who would have no context for who Ashwatthama was or why he cared. "Hello, I'm your armor's previous owner's best friend, I'm five thousand years old, I bear a curse from God himself, and I'd like to offer unsolicited advice about superhero work" was not exactly a compelling introduction. Plus, any communication would create a trail that could lead people to his location, and he'd spent decades carefully maintaining anonymity specifically to avoid the kind of attention that came from being a cursed immortal.
Option three was the most dangerous. Going to Central City meant traveling—which he could do, technically, though it required careful planning to avoid sunlight and the constant risk of his wound attracting attention. It meant potential confrontation with heroes who might not appreciate an ancient warrior showing up to interrogate their teammate. It meant exposing himself to exactly the kind of scrutiny he'd spent centuries avoiding.
But it also meant the possibility of answers. Of understanding how his friend's armor had returned. Of ensuring that this new Karna wasn't being manipulated the way the original had been manipulated by Krishna and Indra and all the gods who'd found it convenient to use a hero's loyalty against him.
Ashwatthama moved to the cave's entrance, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to paint the sky in shades of gold and pink that reminded him painfully of better days. He couldn't step into the sunlight—the curse made it unbearable, burning his skin in ways that even his immortal body struggled to heal. But he could watch the sunrise from the shadows, could remember what it had been like to stand in daylight without agony.
"Karna would want me to help," he said quietly, addressing his friend's memory the way he'd been doing for three thousand years. "You'd want me to make sure your armor is being wielded by someone worthy. Someone who won't be destroyed by their own nobility the way you were."
The sunrise didn't answer, because sunrises never did and Karna had been dead for three millennia. But Ashwatthama had learned to read meaning into silence—it was a skill you developed when you'd been alone for three thousand years.
He made his decision.
Not immediately. Not rashly. But with the kind of careful consideration that came from having infinite time to plan and absolutely nothing to lose except an existence he'd long ago stopped valuing.
He would gather more information first. Watch this new Karna's activities, study his patterns, understand his character. Determine whether he was worthy of carrying his friend's legacy or whether he was just another person using divine power for personal gain.
And then, when he had enough information to make an informed decision, he would reveal himself.
One way or another.
Because some things were more important than maintaining comfortable isolation. Some legacies deserved to be honored properly. And some friendships transcended death, time, and even the curse of an angry god.
Ashwatthama returned to his laptop, pulling up booking sites for international travel. It would take planning—finding routes that minimized daylight exposure, securing private accommodations where his wound wouldn't attract attention, preparing explanations for the inevitable questions about why he was traveling with his head wrapped in cloth that constantly needed changing.
But he'd done more difficult things in five thousand years of cursed existence.
And his friend's armor had returned.
That was worth any amount of difficulty.
"I'm coming, Karna," he said to the screen showing the golden hero saving civilians with the same selfless determination that had defined the original warrior. "Not to take the armor from whoever carries it now. But to make sure they understand the weight of what they wear. To ensure your legacy isn't repeated tragedy but becomes something better."
He paused, adjusting the cloth around his wound, feeling fresh discharge soak through already-wet fabric.
"And maybe," he added quietly, "to finally find some purpose beyond wandering and suffering. Because three thousand years is a long time to learn a lesson, and I'm very, very tired of being alone."
The sunrise continued painting the sky in gold and pink, and Ashwatthama began planning his journey to Central City.
Some reunions transcended death.
Some legacies demanded to be honored.
And some immortals were ready to stop hiding and start living, even if "living" meant confronting the complicated reality of a friend's divine armor being wielded by a hero who had no idea what they'd inherited.
Central City was about to get very interesting.
And Ashwatthama hadn't felt interested in anything in centuries.
That alone made the journey worth attempting.
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