The first thing that happened to Thomas was an explosion. It wasn't a sound or a light, but a sensation that tore through the centre of his existence: immense, unadulterated pain.
It radiated from the hand that had just been holding the glass sphere, a white-hot agony that felt as if a jagged needle had been driven straight through his palm and twisted into the bone.
"Pain… I feel… Pain!"
The realisation was heaven-defying. For a man who had lived his entire life in an emotional and sensory vacuum, the sheer violence of the sensation was almost holy. But the physical sting was only the vanguard.
An instant later, a chaotic storm of emotions assaulted his soul. Doubt, serrated and cold; confusion, thick as a fog; a strange, bubbling happiness; and a sharp, paralysing hesitation all wrestled within his mind.
The weight of it made him stagger backwards, his legs moving on instinct as he struggled to process the sudden noise of his own heart.
"Watch out!"
As he retreated, he collided with something solid—a person. An angry shout erupted from behind him, vibrating through the air and hitting his eardrums with a clarity that made him wince.
"Don't stop the line! Just finish with your test and get going!"
Before Thomas could find his voice, he felt a firm shove against his shoulder. He stumbled a step forward, fighting to stabilise his swaying body. He blinked, the spots in his vision clearing, and finally took a look at his surroundings.
The New York pavement was gone. His hand was no longer resting on a glass ball. Instead, it was pressed against a bizarre, weathered statue.
Even through the haze of shock, Thomas's detective instincts noted the details: the statue was ancient, cast from a strange blue material. It was marred by patches of rust and protruding edges that had been worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Near its base, a small moth fluttered, undisturbed by the gravity of the moment.
The statue was carved in the likeness of a head—perhaps a person, perhaps a beast, it was hard to tell through the corrosion. It sat atop a pedestal made of the same vibrant blue substance.
For a fleeting second, Thomas's mind flashed back to the old lady on Wall Street; the colour was a perfect match for her piercing blue eyes.
A fresh jolt of agony snapped him back to the present. He looked down at his hand and saw a long, wicked needle protruding from the centre of his palm. Bright, crimson blood—his blood—oozed around the metal, staining the blue stone.
"What are you waiting for? Just take your hand back!" the voice barked again. The youth standing behind him sounded exasperated, his face flushed with the impatience of the crowd. "We don't have the entire day! Just do it!"
"Do what? Ouch! It hurts!"
Thomas turned to face the shouter, but before he could speak, the needle retracted. It slid out of his flesh with a sickening, wet friction, vanishing back into the depths of the pedestal. He reflexively yanked his hand away, cradling it against his chest.
"I was trying to warn you," the young man behind him sighed, his anger softening into a sort of grim sympathy. "You had it the worst of anyone today. Just wrap the wound for now and wait for the results."
Thomas stared at him, bewildered. He wasn't just looking at one person; he was looking at hundreds.
A line of people stretched out behind him, snaking along the side of a sun-drenched hill that sloped down toward a vast, verdant forest. The line was so long it seemed to bleed into the horizon itself.
"What the hell is going on here?" Thomas whispered.
Before he could demand an answer, a series of heavy, metallic rattling noises erupted from the statue. He spun around, catching the sudden, electrified silence that fell over the crowd. The expressions of those nearby shifted from impatience to profound shock.
"He made the statue react!" someone gasped.
"This… is he going to be one of the blessed?"
"Don't tell me we're seeing the first superhero in our history!"
The whispers rose like a tide, but Thomas had no room in his mind for their awe. He watched as the top of the blue statue groaned and shifted.
A hidden seam opened, the lid sliding back to reveal a small, hollow compartment. Tucked inside was a tiny cylinder.
"It's… a scroll?" Thomas murmured. The object was no longer than his finger, perhaps ten centimetres in length, and bound with a delicate red thread.
"It's true!" the youth behind him screamed. The boy's voice was so loud and laden with excitement that Thomas nearly jumped. "We got one! We got our first superhero!"
"Yes!"
The cry was taken up by the crowd. As if a signal had been given, the entire line broke into a roar of cheers and rhythmic shouting. It felt like a festival, a sudden eruption of pure, hopeful joy that shook the very air.
Thomas looked at the sea of cheering faces, his expression a mask of pure confusion.
Only minutes ago, he had been a dying man in a grey suit on a New York sidewalk, bartering his life savings to a beggar. Now, he was standing on a hillside in a world that felt fundamentally different.
"Come on, bro, make us happy!" The youth nudged Thomas with an elbow, his face split by a wide, genuine grin. "Make our Dante settlement proud! Claim that certificate!"
"This is a certificate?" Thomas asked, his fingers finally closing around the small scroll. It felt heavy for its size. "For what?"
"It's the certificate that proves you've got the 'thing' in you!" the youth laughed, his eyes bright with wonder. "You've got a superpower, man! I can't even imagine how incredible this must feel for you—for all of us! Congratulations, brother. You just put our settlement on the map."
"Ok," Thomas muttered, the word feeling foreign in his own mouth. He was utterly adrift, caught in a tide of confusion.