The rope went first.
One moment, the rope was in his hands; the next, only water remained—cold and absolute, everywhere at once. The deck tilted beyond balance. His boots lost contact with the planks, and then there was nothing beneath him.
He fell.
The ocean came up like a wall.
---
Cold was not the right word for it. Cold is what you feel walking to your car in January, or when a window is left open, or when handed a drink from the bottom of a cooler. This was something older—a pressure that forced its way in, pushing through clothing and skin, claiming everything beneath. His lungs seized. His legs kicked—not by choice, but by instinct.
The surface was above him—a bright, churning line where the storm raged, rain hammered, and the ship likely continued to break apart. He swam for it, arms and legs moving, but the distance did not close.
There is a point beyond panic. He had read that, after a certain threshold, drowning becomes quieter than fear. His arms kept moving as he realised they would likely stop soon. He felt resignation rather than horror.
The cold tightened.
The bright line above him went dark, or he went dark, or both — the distinction stopped mattering.
Then there was nothing. Just nothing.
---
He woke up, or experienced something closely resembling waking.
There was no room, no ground, and no sky. He stood on something indistinguishable from the space around him: a grey that was almost, but not quite, grey—a navigable nothingness. He was dry, breathing, and still wore the same clothes from the ship, now inexplicably dry, a detail that should have unsettled him more.
Something was present. He could not identify its shape, face, or sound. Yet the not-quite-grey thickened in one direction, drawing his attention involuntarily. He recognised this presence as he would recognise the correct door at the end of a hallway.
"You were not supposed to die that way."
The voice was not a voice. Meaning arrived fully formed—not constructed from sound, but delivered directly into his understanding, as if the concept had been placed within him.
He considered that for a moment.
"The storm." Not a question.
"The ship. The storm. All of it. The chain of events required your continued presence. Your death there was an error — a misalignment in the pattern. It has been noted."
"Has been noted," he repeated. It was deeply strange to learn his death was essentially a clerical error. He considered this, decided he lacked enough information to react, and moved on. "What does that mean, practically speaking?"
"It means you are owed correction." There was a pause, not of hesitation, but like the interval before a document is stamped. "Two wishes. Within limits."
He stood in the grey nothing for a moment, aware that most people might cry, argue, or demand answers. He noted the absence of these impulses in himself with detachment. Having apparently died and faced something that rendered scale meaningless, his instinct was to process the information and address the problem.
"What are the limits?"
"Nothing that makes you untouchable from the first day. No strength that requires no challenge, no knowledge that removes all consequence. What you ask for must be able to grow. It must require something of you."
Reasonable. He filed that too.
The entity waited, entirely without impatience. Time seemed to be a concept it regarded as quaint, much as an ocean might regard a clock. He sensed that even if he spent thirty years considering his options, the entity would remain equally present and unhurried.
He also sensed that the entity was not there to assist him in his decision. It would not guide him or indicate better choices. It had provided the parameters and space, and now simply waited for his response, as something ancient and vast waits for the weather to change.
"Can I ask a question? Not about the wishes."
Nothing indicated refusal.
"Was there something I was supposed to do? In my world. The chain of events you mentioned — what was I part of?"
"That information would not serve you."
"That's not a no."
"It is the answer you will receive."
He considered pressing further but decided it was not worthwhile. Whatever he had been part of, he was no longer involved—he was elsewhere now, and knowing what he had missed would not change that. He had always been practical. He let the question go.
He focused on what he knew—not on death, this place, or the memory of drowning; those could be addressed later. He considered what he had read over the years, driven by an obsession for stories and systems, treating fiction as a form of study rather than escape. If he were to receive wishes with limits, the solution was likely already in that mental library.
Darwin. The X-Man who couldn't be killed by circumstance — whose body simply became whatever was required to survive. Permanent. Cumulative. Every threat leaves him better equipped for the next one.
Doomsday. The DC villain who died and came back immune to whatever had killed him. An escalating, unstoppable adaptation where death itself was the teacher.
Individually, each ability was significant. Combined, they met the entity's growth requirements. Neither would make him invulnerable immediately, but together, over time and through adversity, they would make him nearly impossible to defeat.
He felt no sense of triumph, only the diligence of someone reviewing a solution for potential flaws.
"Darwin's adaptive physiology," he said. "From Marvel Comics. The body adapts to survive threats, environments, or damage. Each adaptation is permanent and cumulative."
The entity said nothing, which he took as an acknowledgement.
"And Doomsday's adaptive resurrection. From DC Comics. If I'm killed — or brought close enough to it — I come back adapted and immune to what killed me. Each death makes the next one harder."
There was another pause, longer than before. He sensed something ancient and immense, considering the decision—not out of uncertainty, but from a commitment to thoroughness.
"These are acceptable."
There was no flourish or ceremony—only the finality of a signature on a form.
"They're also"—and here the presence shifted, not to warmth, but to a dry, distant interest—"an interesting combination. The direction they lead is notable."
He waited for elaboration. None came.
"Where am I going?"
No answer.
"Can you at least tell me what world I'm—"
The grey nothing folded.
---
He hit water.
It was the same as before: the same cold, the same shock of submersion, the same instinctive panic. His body moved before thought—arms and legs pushing upward. This time, the surface came. He broke through, gasping, rain on his face and the ocean heaving beneath him.
He floated. He breathed.
This storm was not as severe as before—rougher than a fair day, but not destructive. He turned in the water to get his bearings. The sky was dark with clouds, but not completely dark. The ocean appeared as it should. He was alive, which was more than could be said moments earlier.
Something was different. The air was neither polluted nor especially clean, but distinct in a way he could not name. There was an openness that made Earth's atmosphere seem heavy by comparison, as if he had only noticed the weight once it was gone. The horizon appeared subtly altered, though he could not specify how. The light and water were familiar, yet nothing felt exactly the same.
He paused, turning slowly to scan the surface. There was no wreckage nearby, no other people in the water. Whatever ship he had been on—in whatever life that was—was gone.
His first thought, treading water alone, was: I hope this world will not make the first week unbearable.
He immediately recognised this as wishful thinking.
He knew these were not his most urgent concerns. The entity's comment about an "interesting direction" was the sort of phrase that often preceded hardship. He preferred to encounter its meaning gradually, rather than through immediate adversity.
He was, in theory, unkillable. Yet he was still a wet eighteen-year-old in an unfamiliar ocean, with no money, identification, or shoes—one lost, likely when he entered the water—and no plan beyond reaching land.
Fortunately, land existed. An island sat low on the horizon where the light was slightly better—distant but clearly present and solid. He oriented himself toward it and began swimming.
The swim was longer than it appeared. Islands seen from the water are always farther than they seem, demanding more effort than expected. He swam; at first, the island did not approach, then it drew closer slowly, then more quickly, until he was navigating surf that tried to push him sideways.
He managed. He was a decent swimmer, or perhaps his body was adapting—he could not yet distinguish between his own ability and Darwin's influence. He suspected the difference would soon become irrelevant.
---
He had been a decent swimmer before, but his body seemed intent on improvement. By the time he reached shore, his arms felt as if they had always known this task. He attributed this to Darwin—early stages, low threat—and pulled himself onto the beach.
The beach led to a path, which led to a village.
Small, coastal, the kind of settlement that had grown up around the water rather than despite it. Fishing boats pulled up on the shore, rope draped over their sides in the careful arrangement of people who did this every day and knew the cost of doing it wrong. Structures built for weather rather than aesthetics — low rooflines, shuttered windows, nothing that extended above the treeline without a reason. A cluster of buildings up the slope from the docks, with smoke from at least two chimneys visible even in the wet air. People were indoors, mostly, on account of the rain — but not all of them. A man in a wide-brimmed hat was walking between two buildings with the focused efficiency of someone who had already accepted the weather as a personal antagonist and was now simply managing his losses within it.
Liam walked at a respectful distance, not following but heading in the same direction. He was acutely aware of the challenges of first contact: soaked, missing a shoe, without money, and uncertain if he spoke the local language. He needed to explain his situation without appearing threatening or burdensome. His only collateral was the appearance of someone who had endured a difficult day.
"Excuse me."
The man stopped. Turned. His expression cycled through startled to cautious.
The man was older, perhaps fifty, with the weathered appearance of someone shaped by decades near salt water—not aged, but dense, like wood compressed by years of use. His sharp eyes took in Liam's missing shoe, his appearance, and the sea behind him, quickly forming a simple narrative: a young man recently forced into the ocean.
"You come off a ship?"
Liam felt a sense of relief. He understood the words perfectly—not as one understands a second language, but with immediate and complete comprehension, as instinctive as recognising his own name.
This was strange because the man was not speaking English. The sounds, rhythm, and sentence structure were unfamiliar, yet Liam understood every word and had apparently responded in the same language without conscious effort.
He filed this under things to think about when not standing in the rain.
"Caught in the storm," Liam said. "I was in the water a while before I made shore."
The man gave a short nod, weighing inconvenience against decency. Decency prevailed, as it often does in small coastal villages where everyone understands the cost of the sea.
"Anyone else come with you?"
"I was alone when I hit the water. I don't know about the ship."
"Mm." That single syllable carried the weight of a man who had heard this kind of story before and knew that pressing for details was rarely useful. "You have anything on you?"
"Nothing." No point in dressing it up. "I'm looking for work — anything someone needs doing. I'll take a meal and somewhere dry as payment, if that's what's on offer."
The man's eyes lingered on Liam's hands, assessing whether they showed signs of real work. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, as his posture shifted slightly toward helpfulness.
"You speak plainly, at least." He gestured up the slope toward the buildings. "There's a bar up there. The woman who runs it sometimes takes in strays—not you specifically, just in general. She may need extra help with the storm, keeping people off the water. Tell her Gareth sent you. She will not turn you away immediately."
Liam looked up the slope.
"I appreciate it."
Gareth made a sound that was neither dismissive nor welcoming, then resumed his original path, apparently to matters more pressing than this conversation. Liam watched him go, then turned his attention to the buildings above.
---
The slope was short. Up close, the village felt as if it had always existed, shaped by genuine use rather than deliberate construction. Every surface was worn by repetition, not just weather. The structures were older than they first appeared, and the docks were maintained out of necessity, not pride.
Liam walked and observed, sensing something unusual at the edge of his awareness.
The village's layout stirred his memory, though no specifics came to mind. Such settlements were common—small communities by water often shared similar configurations in both reality and fiction: docks, a main path, buildings above flood level, and a central gathering place, usually a bar. He had seen this arrangement in countless stories. The sense of familiarity was inconclusive.
He told himself this.
A child, perhaps four or five, ran past him with the full commitment of youth in a hurry. She did not look at him. He stepped aside. A woman called from a doorway in a language he understood perfectly, and the child turned toward the voice without slowing. The brief domestic scene—the call, the turn, the closing door—felt oddly familiar.
He couldn't place it. He kept walking.
The bar occupied a building that had likely served several purposes before and might again. It was constructed of weathered timber with a practical roof and a sign he read easily. Warm lamplight shone through the windows, contrasting with the grey afternoon rain. The scent of cooked food, old wood, and the accumulated warmth of many people reached him well before the door.
He stopped in front of it.
The feeling intensified, though not dramatically—he was not prone to sudden revelations. What had been tugging at him since leaving the beach now had a source: this building, this door, the sign, the light in the windows. He realised it was not the village as a whole, but this place specifically.
He tried to name the feeling, but it remained just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue. He understood the general source: years of reading and watching fiction had taught him to recognise when familiarity echoed a story rather than a real place. This was almost certainly that—a bar reminiscent of one he had encountered in fiction.
Almost certainly.
He pushed the door open and walked in.