Here I am, who must die before she can use the half-baked supernatural power she acquired.
The brutal truth knocked me out five minutes after I migrated into the DC Universe.
There's not much I can do even if I complain. At least I have great skin. A magical storage ring. Yes. Be positive. Be positive. I even have an ID. Isn't that wonderful?
Still, it doesn't change the fact that I have to die!!!
Even the part of me that's trying to stay upbeat can't find a way to fix this.
The path to immortality first requires the death of the mortal.
What the hell is even wrong with this sentence that sounds both stupid and somehow logical?!
To become immortal I have to die. But isn't immortality about not dying? If I die, how will I be immortal?
Wait. It sounds ridiculous when I think about it. There must be some way to be revived right after death. Otherwise the path to immortality would be completely impossible, right?
Okay. Calm down. Let's examine this a bit more rationally.
What details does it give me about death?
I need to open my acupuncture points. Okay, that's not terrible—the book lists the acupuncture points. All it requires is applying pressure to those points.
Then I must open and unite my body, heart, and mind paths. Sounds metaphorical, but doable.
My body must be in a peak state. That seems possible—I was given instructions for that.
The life-thread must be crushed to cause death.
...
Yes.
...
...
I'll review that part again.
The life-thread must be crushed to die.
Well. Nothing changed!
...
...
A little more detail would be nice.
Unfortunately, there is no continuation to that piece of information. What follows talks about practice methods but doesn't say how I'll be revived. Then again, if it did explain how to come back to life, that would be weird—after all, a guide after death is pointless. Death is supposed to be the end.
So that's it? Do the preparations and kill myself.
No instructions on revival.
Isn't that a bit merciless? Will I actually be able to come back? What if I die—die for good?
I can't make a reasonable inference. It's way too risky.
If there's anything that eases me a little, it's that a lot of characters in the DC Universe die and get revived. The Lazarus Pit, for instance, sometimes brings people back to life, right? Though with side effects like mental breakdown...
There's no way a normal person like me could keep their sanity after that, right?
The more I think, the more complicated it gets.
Anyway, there's still time before I have to kill myself. Let's shelve that for a while. First I must meet the conditions. I'll decide on crushing the life-thread later.
After all, thanks to the book I have some knowledge to develop my body before any death.
Still, I'm far from being heroic.
Did I get off to a bad start?
No. It could have been worse. I could've fallen into one of the dark universes, right...?
Wait. I didn't fall into one of those dark universes, did I?
I didn't have time to think, but what if I am in one of the dark universes? Injustice, the Nazi world, the Crime Syndicate, Flashpoint?
On second thought, it doesn't even need to be a dark universe. Regular universes are dangerous enough. The DC Universe is brutal—every hero faces tremendous hardship and heroes can die.
In the animated world, Darkseid tore through the Justice League, the Green Lantern Corps, the Guardians, and the entire world—there were truly cruel and bloody scenes. The heroes had to send Flash back in time to create a new universe, and the animated universe was erased! Even in a cute animation realm, the ending was unbearably tragic.
Can I survive in such a dangerous world? Becoming a hero doesn't seem likely. I'm just an ordinary person. Realistically, how could I possibly possess the willpower of a heroic character? Heroes are exaggerated, honed personas mixing authorial drama and suffering. There's no way an ordinary passerby could withstand Darkseid's tortures.
This is a realistic perspective. It's a bit humbling, but I must admit I don't have the personality of an extraordinary hero. No matter what power I gain, without the matching will to use it, I cannot be a true hero. Not everyone can be one.
I should be someone ordinary trying to develop useful abilities—at least enough to protect myself.
And I look twelve, right? I'm actually a 23-year-old engineering student. My scientific knowledge should be way beyond someone that age.
Of course, that assumes this world's science isn't more advanced than mine... otherwise even a ten-year-old Robin might be more knowledgeable.
I guess my engineering knowledge won't be very valuable here. Scientists in this dimension casually make nanotech weapons. Do the usual laws of physics even apply here?
Stop. I'm overcomplicating everything. I should take things slow and simple. I need to set aside the idea that this world has supervillains who want to wipe out humanity. Treat this as a survival challenge: migrate to another world, adapt, and stay alive.
Survival requirements? Food, clothes, shelter.
From a practical standpoint, I'm a lost child of twelve.
First I need a place to stay. The only place that looks suitable is an orphanage. Still, that doesn't feel right—my mind is adult. An orphanage would be too limiting. Even if I say that, I don't exactly have other options. I have no money. There's no way I can go find a job in this body.
Ugh. It's getting cold.
I need to get away from here for now. I can plan later.
There must be stairs around here. Someone must come up here to check the antennae or fuses sometimes. Also, judging by the cigarette butts on the ground, people definitely come up here—the view must be nice.
This place is big, but after wandering around for a bit I found a green door pretty quickly.
Looks like I can finally get out.
When I go down, an entirely ambiguous, different life waits for me. This doorway will truly be my gateway into a new world.
My first plan: avoid contact with any DC canon character for now and stay out of trouble.
That way I can keep my head down for a while and try to find my place.
I take a deep breath and draw in the cold air. Okay—I can do this.
I put my hand on the door and open it—and I've found the path I was looking for. This is my first step into a different, unknown life: long and uncertain.
…The only problem is the path is blocked.
A long, black figure was stretched across the corridor. Dark leather clung tight to the body, emphasizing an agile, lithe shape. With the twin little cat ears on the head, the identity is not hard to guess in this universe. There's only one person who looks like this.
Catwoman...
She's lying in a pool of blood on the floor. A first aid kit sits beside her and she's looking at me with a pair of scissors in her hand.
Damn it—she saw my face.
If I close the door quickly, she'll forget my face, right? She's got bigger problems. I'll just back away and pretend I didn't see anything...
As I slammed the door shut and tried to run, a voice rose up.
"Hey kid, don't run!"
Damn. There's no way I could've gotten away. I was on the rooftop of a tall building and she'd sealed the only exit.
I sighed silently and reluctantly opened the door again.
What happened to my plan to avoid DC characters and stay safe? Why do I get knocked out three seconds after deciding that?! This damn universe is bugged!
I tried to reassess the situation. Her outfit had many tears and some cuts. Looking at the blood on the floor and the scissors in her hand, she'd clearly been shot and was losing blood.
Is she going to die? Should I help?
She looked bad.
Where was she shot... the hip?
I felt a little relieved. Important characters don't usually die from a single gunshot. Besides, she looked young—too young—closer to my pre-transport age. I can't tell exactly because of the goggles, but she seemed to be in her twenties.
It felt strange. Here I am worrying about how I'll pay my school fees, and she's on a rooftop at a similar age, shot and trying to treat her own wound.
"Do you want me to call for help?" I asked, with a twinge of guilt.
"No, don't. Just don't go anywhere. Is there anyone else up here?" she asked. You got shot with a bullet, and your voice is this calm?!
"No. Nobody else."
"Good. Wait here until I'm done. Then you can go. Is anyone coming to check on you?"
"No."
"Good. Just stay there for a while. I don't want anyone coming up here until I'm done."
I nodded.
Looking more closely, performing self-surgery on such a wound would be hard. I can't imagine the pain. Her posture alone would cause more blood loss. What is she doing? She's sticking scissors into the wound?! What?!
"You even know what you're doing?!" I snapped, approaching angrily—she was just opening up the wound!
"Of course—"
I cut her off, reaching for the scissors with an irritated voice. "Give them to me!"
Before she could say anything else, I forced the scissors from her hand.
"Lie on your left side. You're losing more blood this way. And why were you sticking scissors into the wound? You haven't had first aid training, have you? Let me do it."
I began cutting away the clothing around the wound. What was this costume made of? Even with these scissors it was hard to cut. After wiping the blood around the injury with cloths and cotton from the kit, I applied some alcohol.
Is this really a gunshot wound? The bullet seems superficial, not deeply embedded. Maybe the costume absorbed most of the force. There doesn't seem to be any nerve damage. No wonder she stayed so calm. Looking more carefully, it wasn't that serious. The bullet staying there was causing more damage. At first I thought I'd just clean and bandage. Typically gunshot wounds require surgery.
...But this one looked shallow. Maybe I could remove it.
Is there tweezers? Yes—here. Okay, now I must be careful. I don't want to enlarge the wound. As I press the tweezers against the skin, I can see her trying not to cry out. I guess it must hurt a lot.
After what feels like hours but is actually a short time, I get the bullet out along with the piece of costume trapped under it. Because the wound wasn't deep, I was lucky. Bullets usually go much deeper. Compared to others, this is definitely superficial. She should thank her costume.
I cleaned the wound with alcohol again and began closing it. Then I took out the suture kit from the first aid box and started stitching carefully.
While my hand was in her skin, she opened her mouth as if to ask a question. "Was your family doctors or something? You seem like you've done this before."
"You could say that. I have some light training, but I'm basically an amateur. If your costume hadn't been so special and the wound deeper, this would've been beyond me," I admitted.
"So… ah… why are you helping me?" Her voice was odd and hesitant—her cool attitude earlier had softened. I almost laughed.
For a moment I wondered why I was helping. I really didn't know. I planned to stay out of trouble...
What am I doing?
I couldn't find a good answer. Didn't I just decide to avoid forming relationships with canon characters? It's not like she was going to die without me, right? Right?
"You looked so incompetent that when I first saw you I thought you'd die if I didn't help."
Now that I look, the wound wasn't so deep. She could've probably taken the bullet out with the scissors, but she would've caused herself more harm.
"Hahaha." She laughed, then stopped and winced. "You're harsh. Are primary school kids this tough these days?"
"Don't move, you're making my job harder." I'm technically about to graduate university, but I'll keep that quiet.
"Anyway."
"About earlier..." I paused, wondering what to say. "Since you're not in a hospital, I can tell you your head's in trouble. But are you desperate enough to try to take out a bullet with scissors?"
"Believe me, little girl. It's best that people don't find out about the work I do."
I looked at her carefully and thoughtfully. "You're not planning to kill me to keep anyone from finding out, are you?"
"You wound me. Do I look like someone who'd do that?" Her voice carried a humorous pride. What a weird character.
"Do you want the honest answer or the harsh truth?"
"They're the same thing." She snorted. Then her expression slowly turned serious. "I wouldn't kill you."
I finished suturing as she said that. I began bandaging the wound and spoke, "Clearly, those who shot you don't share your ideals."
"You know what they say. The world wouldn't be beautiful without differences."
"I don't think the person who said that meant this kind of difference," I replied with a laugh. After a short silence, I finished the bandage and turned back to her. "Any other wounds?"
She looked herself over from top to bottom. "What do you think?"
Yes. Her body was covered in wounds. Still, I corrected myself. "Any other injuries requiring urgent attention?"
"There's nothing I can't lick and get through."
Ew.
"Are you serious?"
Her face suddenly hardened. Her eyes widened under the goggles and she became alert, focusing somewhere else. She turned and looked down the stairs; her expression grew very serious. "Someone's coming."
"I'll go downstairs and try to drive them away," I said, standing up. Then I turned to her and asked carefully, "Can you move?"
"I think so." she said in a complicated voice, trying to sit up. I can see the pain just by looking.
I quickly wiped the blood from my hands with a cloth, left her behind, and started down the stairs. As I hurried down the steps, I had no idea who or how many people were approaching. Now that I think about it, I didn't even know which building rooftop this was.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed the door open, I entered a lobby. A corridor lit with tasteful lights. A long red carpet on the floor. Doors I had no idea what they led to. I had no clue where I was.
But the armed men coming down the corridor were certainly not a sign of things getting better!
What happened to staying out of trouble?!