Just a fun little experiment.
Check my Pa.treon.com/Herd99 for 25 chapters each with 3000+ words.
(Eric P.O.V)
I woke up knowing three things with absolute certainty:
One, my bed frame was made of steel. Grade A36 carbon steel, to be specific, with a 2.1% chromium content and approximately forty-seven pounds of total mass distributed across four posts and twelve cross-supports.
Two, I had never known that about my bed frame before yesterday.
Three, something was very different about today.
I lay there staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles of my orphanage room, taking mental inventory. My name was Eric Lensherr. I was fourteen. My parents died in a car crash three years ago. I lived at Central City Orphanage where Sister Alice was nice and the oatmeal tasted like institutional despair.
All of that checked out with my memories.
What didn't check out was the second set of memories currently taking up residence in my skull like an uninvited houseguest who'd brought their entire philosophy library and a burning hatred for baseline humanity.
Erik Lehnsherr. Magneto. Master of Magnetism. Holocaust survivor. Occasional terrorist. The guy who literally pulled adamantium out of Wolverine's skeleton that one time.
And somehow, I had his complete lived experience rattling around in my fourteen-year-old brain.
"Well," I whispered to my empty room, "this is either the best thing ever or I'm having the world's most elaborate stroke."
The bed frame trembled.
I sat up slowly, and reality immediately punched me in the face with sensory information. Every piece of metal in a fifty-foot radius suddenly existed in my awareness like it had always been there and I'd just been too stupid to notice. The copper pipes in the walls. The fire escape three floors down. Mr. Hendricks' car keys in the office. Someone's braces two rooms over.
It was like developing the ability to taste colors, except the colors were ferrous metals and they were all screaming their atomic composition at me simultaneously.
"Okay," I muttered, pressing my hands against my temples. "Inventory time. Facts only, no panic."
Fact one: I had memories from a previous life. Different world. Comic books were real there. I'd read Young Justice wiki pages at 2 AM instead of sleeping. There'd been a flash of white light and the distinct impression of cosmic entities laughing before—
Fact two: I was Eric Lensherr, currently residing in what my meta-knowledge insisted was the DC Universe. Specifically, the Young Justice animated universe, which meant I was in a world where teenagers in spandex fought international crime syndicates and somehow nobody questioned this.
Fact three: I had the complete power set and lived experience of Magneto. Master of Magnetism. Philosopher king of "humans are bastards, actually." The man who'd casually reversed Earth's magnetic poles in at least three different comic runs.
Fact four: Today was January 15th, 2010. I had roughly six months before Robin, Aqualad, and Kid Flash broke into Cadmus and officially formed the Team.
Fact five: I was sitting on the biggest opportunity of multiple lifetimes if I didn't completely fuck this up.
I smiled at the water-stained ceiling. It wasn't a nice smile. I could feel it pulling at my face wrong, like my facial muscles were remembering how Magneto smiled when he was about to do something ambitious.
"Six months," I said to nobody. "Six months of prep time before canon kicks off."
The bed frame groaned ominously.
Right. Powers. I should probably make sure I could control those before I accidentally crushed myself with furniture.
I focused on the sensation of the bed frame beneath me. Magneto's memories supplied the theory—this wasn't like learning a new skill, it was like remembering how to use a muscle I'd forgotten existed. Every piece of metal had a magnetic signature, little domains of aligned atoms just waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
And apparently, I was that someone now.
I reached out with that weird new sense and pulled.
The entire bed lifted three inches off the ground, hung suspended for a glorious moment, then crashed back down with a sound like a car accident.
"EVERYTHING OKAY UP THERE?" Sister Alice's voice echoed from downstairs.
"Fine!" I called back, trying to sound like a normal teenager who hadn't just casually violated the laws of physics. "Just fell out of bed!"
"It's six in the morning, Eric! Go back to sleep!"
Yeah, sleep. Sure. That was definitely happening now that I'd discovered I could mentally bitch-slap gravity.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my hands. They looked the same as yesterday. Fourteen-year-old hands, kind of skinny, nothing special. But I could feel the metal in the room responding to them like iron filings around a magnet.
This was real. This was actually happening.
I had superpowers.
Not just any superpowers either—I had the powers of one of the most dangerous mutants in Marvel history, dropped into the DC universe where I knew most of the major plot points for the next two years. The strategic possibilities alone were making my brain light up like a Christmas tree.
But first: coin test.
I walked over to my desk and pulled out my meager savings. Three quarters, five dimes, two nickels, and a handful of pennies. Total value: about two dollars. Total value as practice material: priceless.
I set them on the desk and concentrated.
The quarters rose first, wobbling like drunk UFOs. I steadied them, feeling Magneto's muscle memory kick in—gentle pressure here, slight rotation there, feel the flow of the magnetic field. The dimes followed, then the nickels, until I had all my money floating in the air above my desk.
"Holy shit," I breathed. "I'm actually doing this."
I moved my hand in a slow circle and the coins followed, orbiting each other in a pattern that would've made my geometry teacher weep. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. My concentration held steady, Magneto's lifetime of experience making this feel as natural as breathing.
Then the full implications hit me and I lost focus. The coins scattered across my desk like metallic rain.
I sat back in my chair, heart pounding.
Okay. Okay. I needed to think about this logically.
I was in Central City. Home of the Flash, which meant the fastest man alive was currently running around saving people and occasionally fighting guys with ice guns. The Justice League existed. Superman could benchpress planets. Batman knew everything about everyone. Lex Luthor was definitely doing evil science in his spare time.
And I was a fourteen-year-old orphan with magnetic superpowers and knowledge of future events.
The smart play was obvious: keep my head down, train in secret, maybe do some minor hero work to build a reputation. Play it safe.
I looked at the scattered coins on my desk and felt Magneto's memories stir. Safe was how you stayed weak. Safe was how you let other people write your story.
"Fuck safe," I said to my empty room. "I've got six months of prep time and the powers of Magneto. I'm not playing it safe, I'm playing to win."
The doorknob rattled slightly, responding to my mood.
I took a deep breath and started planning. First priority: master basic control so I didn't accidentally kill myself. Second: acquire resources. Third: position myself for when canon started rolling.
And maybe, just maybe, prove to myself and this entire universe that I wasn't just along for the ride.
I was going to be the guy who drove.
Three hours later, I was standing in Central City's municipal dump, surrounded by more metal than I'd ever seen in my life, and wondering if maybe I should've thought this plan through more carefully.
"Okay," I muttered, surveying the literal mountains of trash. "This is fine. This is a perfectly normal way to spend a Saturday morning."
The fence behind me had a "KEEP OUT - PRIVATE PROPERTY" sign that I'd completely ignored, mostly because the gate's magnetic lock had opened for me like it was welcoming an old friend. The security guard's booth in the distance looked occupied, but I could sense the metal of his phone and keys from here—he was definitely taking a nap.
Perfect.
I'd taken the bus here using quarters I'd magnetically lifted from the orphanage's emergency fund jar. I'd pay it back eventually. Probably. The point was, I needed somewhere to practice that wasn't my tiny bedroom where Sister Alice might walk in and discover her orphan had developed superpowers overnight.
The dump was ideal. Tons of metal to practice with, minimal witnesses, and if I broke something, who'd notice?
I started small. There was a broken microwave near my feet, door hanging off its hinges. I focused on it and pulled. The microwave scraped across the dirt toward me.
"Too much force," I said, adjusting. Magneto's memories helped here—it was all about finesse. I pulled more gently and the microwave rose into the air, hovering at chest height.
I walked forward and it followed me, smooth as silk. I could feel every component inside—the magnetron, the transformer, the metal casing. With enough concentration, I could probably take it apart in midair and sort the pieces by composition.
But that seemed like showing off, and I had other things to test.
I set the microwave down and moved on to a busted lawnmower. More complex, more parts, different metals. I lifted it anyway, and this time I tried something new. The blade was covered in rust—I focused on the corrosion and pushed.
The rust flaked off in sheets, revealing cleaner metal underneath.
"Okay," I grinned like an idiot. "That's useful."
For the next hour, I went absolutely ham on the dump. Lifting things. Moving multiple objects simultaneously. Stripping rust. Sorting metals by type. I found an old car hood and discovered I could reshape it with concentrated magnetic pressure—not melting it, just forcing the metal to flow like putty.
It was incredible. It was empowering. It was exactly what I needed.
By the time the sun was fully up, I'd:
Sorted about a ton of scrap metal by composition
Identified twelve appliances I could probably repair and sell
Extracted six pounds of copper wiring
Reshaped three car panels into a neat cube (because I could)
Confirmed my range was at least fifty feet in every direction
Not died even once
I surveyed my work with deep satisfaction. The scrap metal pile looked like someone with OCD and superpowers had organized it. Which, fair.
"This," I announced to the universe, "is just the beginning."
"HEY! Who's there?"
Oh, right. Security guard.
I didn't panic. Magneto's memories included extensive experience evading authorities, and more importantly, I'd planned for this. I reached out to the fence and magnetically jammed the latch mechanism, then booked it for the far side of the dump.
The guard's flashlight beam swept through the area I'd just vacated.
I vaulted over a pile of tires—thank you, athletic fourteen-year-old body—and dropped behind a cluster of old refrigerators. The guard's approaching footsteps crunched on gravel. I could track his movement by the metal on his belt. Keys. Radio. Probably a baton.
He passed within ten feet of my hiding spot.
"The hell...?" He was looking at my sorted scrap metal. "Who organized this?"
While he was distracted, I magnetically unlatched a refrigerator door on the opposite side of the dump. It squealed open with a rusty creak.
The guard spun. "Who's there? I'm calling the cops!"
I slipped out the way I came while he investigated, using my metal sense to navigate around obstacles. By the time I reached the fence, unsealed the latch, and got through, the guard was still searching the far side.
Three blocks away, waiting for the bus, I allowed myself a triumphant fist pump.
"Stealth: adequate," I said to nobody. "Powers: improving rapidly. Confidence: possibly too high but we'll see."
The bus arrived and I climbed on, already planning my next move. I needed money—real money, not copper-selling money. I needed resources. I needed to start positioning myself for the big plays.
And most importantly, I needed to do all this without attracting attention from the Justice League, because the last thing I needed was Superman showing up for a "concerned conversation" about the teenager manipulating fundamental forces.
I pulled out the notebook I'd swiped from the orphanage office and started writing:
IMMEDIATE GOALS:
Master basic control (in progress, going well)
Acquire starting capital (ideas pending)
Establish base of operations (abandoned subway tunnel?)
Intelligence gathering (on EVERYONE)
Don't get murdered (by heroes OR villains)
RESOURCES TO ACQUIRE:
Money (morally flexible methods acceptable)
Technology (ditto)
Information (priceless)
Rare metals (for future projects)
THREATS TO AVOID:
Flash (home turf, too fast for current me)
Batman (terrifying, knows everything)
Lex Luthor (definitely evil, might notice me)
Cadmus (want to exploit them, not get exploited BY them)
OPPORTUNITIES:
Captain Cold in Iron Heights = empty safehouse
Young Justice forming in 6 months = perfect recruitment timing
Meta-knowledge of future events = ABUSE THIS
I stared at that last line and felt a spike of excitement. Six months of prep time. Most isekai protagonists would kill for this. I could train, I could steal, I could position myself perfectly for when the plot kicked off.
The question was: what did I want to be when canon started?
A hero? Boring, and I had Magneto's memories whispering that the moral high ground was usually just the high ground people pushed you off of.
A villain? Tempting, but short-sighted. Villains got caught. A lot. And I had zero interest in spending time in Iron Heights or Belle Reve.
No, what I wanted was something better: independent operator. Powerful enough that both sides had to respect me. Smart enough that they couldn't predict me. Useful enough that they wanted me around, dangerous enough that they couldn't control me.
I wanted to be the wild card. The piece that didn't fit on either board but somehow won the game anyway.
"Ambitious," I muttered. "Possibly insane. Definitely going to be fun."
The bus rumbled through Central City's morning streets. I watched the skyline and mentally catalogued every metal structure I could sense. Somewhere out there, the Flash was probably saving someone. The League was monitoring threats. Cadmus was doing unethical science. Lex Luthor was plotting.
And Eric Lensherr, fourteen-year-old orphan with the powers of Magneto and knowledge from another world, was going to insert himself into all of it.
I smiled at my reflection in the window.
"Six months," I said softly. "Six months to become someone they can't ignore."
The metal poles inside the bus hummed in response.
The orphanage dining hall smelled like burnt toast and industrial cleaner, which I'd learned meant Sister Alice had attempted breakfast again. Bless her heart, the woman could organize a budget and handle twenty troubled kids, but she could not cook to save her life.
I grabbed a tray of questionable scrambled eggs and definitely-burnt toast, then scanned for a seat. The usual social clusters were forming—older kids in the corner, younger ones near the supervisors, middle-schoolers in the awkward middle zone.
I had zero interest in any of them.
I picked a table in the back with a good view of the exits (Magneto's paranoia or mine? Did it matter?) and started eating while mentally reviewing the morning's progress.
Powers: functional. Range: fifty feet minimum, probably more with focus. Control: good enough to not kill myself, not good enough for the crazy shit Magneto pulled. Yet.
Next steps—
"You're the one who's been here three years, right?"
I looked up. A kid about my age stood there with a tray, looking uncertain. Shaggy dark hair, glasses, the posture of someone more comfortable with computers than people.
"Yeah," I said. "Eric. You're new."
"Damien Torres. Got here yesterday." He gestured at the empty seat. "Mind if I sit? The older kids look mean and the little ones are too loud."
I considered him for a moment. Skinny, intelligent eyes, nervous energy. Didn't look like a threat. Might be useful.
"Free country," I said.
He sat, poked at his eggs suspiciously, then seemed to decide they weren't worth the risk. "So what's the deal here? Sister Alice seems nice but this building is falling apart."
"The deal is we're broke, the building's from the 80s, and we're all just killing time until we age out or get fostered." I took a bite of toast. It tasted like charcoal. "Statistically speaking, most of us won't get fostered."
"Cheerful."
"Realistic."
Damien snorted and pulled out a laptop that looked like it was from 2005. "I'm trying to get on the WiFi but the password's changed since whatever guide I found online."
I raised an eyebrow. "You hack?"
"Is it hacking if the password is literally 'password123'?" His fingers flew across the keyboard. "Because if so, yes. Constantly."
Something clicked in my brain. Useful skill set. Self-taught. Probably bored out of his mind here.
Potential asset.
I kept my voice casual. "What else can you do?"
"Besides cracking kindergarten-level security?" He didn't look up from his screen. "Basic coding, some web design, teaching myself Python. Oh, and I can pick locks, but that's more of a hobby."
"Uh huh." I watched him work, making calculations. Smart kid. Skills I didn't have. Probably looking for direction. "You got a phone?"
"Broke it last week. Why?"
I pulled out the cheap flip phone I'd bought with my copper money and slid it across the table.
Damien stared at it. "I can't—"
"Welcome gift," I said. "You're going to need it."
"Need it for what?"
"For when I have jobs that require your particular skill set." I stood up with my tray. "Eat your eggs, Torres. We'll talk later."
I walked away before he could ask more questions. Let him sit with the confusion for a bit. It was better if he came to me asking what I meant, rather than me seeming too eager.
Because I wasn't looking for friends.
I was building an operation, and operations needed personnel.
Back in my room, I locked the door and returned to my desk. The coins were still there, waiting. I concentrated and all of them rose simultaneously—quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies. I set them orbiting in a complex pattern, faster this time.
My head started aching after thirty seconds. Not from strain, but from processing. Each coin's position, velocity, magnetic signature—my brain was tracking all of it in real-time, and it was like trying to juggle while doing calculus.
I pushed harder. The coins moved faster, their orbit tightening into a metallic whirlwind.
A knock at the door broke my concentration. Coins pinged off the walls like shrapnel.
"Shit," I hissed, scrambling to collect them. "Yeah?"
"Eric?" Sister Alice's voice. "Can I come in?"
I swept the remaining coins into my drawer. "One second!"
Quick check—nothing obviously suspicious visible. I opened the door.
Sister Alice stood there with that expression of gentle concern she probably practiced in the mirror. She was maybe fifty, gray-streaked hair, the kind of tired eyes that came from two decades of caring for unwanted kids.
"Everything alright?" she asked. "I heard noises."
"Just organizing stuff," I said. Technically true. "Sorry if I was loud."
She studied me, and I felt an uncomfortable spike of anxiety. Could she tell something was different? Did I look changed?
"You've been going out early the past few days," she said. "Want to tell me where?"
I'd prepared for this. "Library. Studying."
"The library doesn't open until nine."
Damn. Hadn't checked that detail.
"Community center," I amended smoothly. "They have early programs. Thought I'd try basketball."
Her expression softened. "That's wonderful, Eric. I'm glad you're getting out, being active." She paused. "I know things have been hard since your parents. I just want you to know you can talk to me about anything."
The genuine concern in her voice triggered an unexpected feeling: guilt.
Which was stupid. I was planning to rob criminals and build an underground network. I'd literally spent this morning at the dump practicing physics violations. Guilt was counterproductive.
But she'd been kind. To me, to all of us. And in four months, this place would close unless someone did something.
"I know," I said, managing a smile. "Thanks, Sister Alice."
She patted my shoulder and left.
I closed the door and leaned against it, feeling weirdly conflicted.
Then I shook it off. Sentiment was a distraction. What mattered was the plan.
I pulled out my notebook and added a line:
PERSONAL CONSIDERATIONS:
Save orphanage funding (optional, but would be nice)
Maintain humanity (probably important)
Master powers ASAP (critical)
Become powerful enough that nobody can stop me (essential)
I stared at that last item. It was what I wanted, wasn't it? Power meant freedom. Power meant never being helpless again. Power meant I could write my own story instead of being a side character in someone else's.
Magneto's memories stirred in agreement.
I smiled and got back to work.
Outside my window, Central City hummed with life, completely unaware that a new player had entered the game.
A player who had no intention of losing.