The plush leather of Mr. Watanabe's chair creaked a protest as he leaned back, his multiple chins quivering with self-importance. His fingers, fat and pudgy, steepled before him like some grotesque parody of a wise sage. He didn't look cool; he looked like a beached whale attempting philosophical contemplation. A bead of sweat, probably from the sheer effort of existing, trickled down his temple, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office. He was a monument to corporate comfort and unearned superiority, a fact that grated on my raw nerves more than his condescending words.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hartstead. Truly, I am. You are undeniably talented. But unfortunately… that's not enough. The truth of the matter is, everyone who applies here is talented. But those who have degrees are seen as talented and educated, warranting investment and training. You have no degree."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. They weren't just words; they were gravestones marking the death of a dream. My dream. A dream I'd nurtured since the days of crayon-scrawled comic books and Saturday morning cartoons. A dream that had fueled countless sleepless nights hunched over a drawing tablet, filling sketchbooks with heroes and villains that sprang from my imagination.
I swallowed, the taste of ash in my mouth. "Mr. Watanabe, please. Is there, like, an internship of any kind? I've wanted to do this since I was a toddler. It's my dream and it means everything to me."
He sighed, a sound that seemed to rumble from the depths of his multi-layered neck. The triple chin, a horror film-worthy sight, flapped like a loose sail in a sudden gust of wind. It was repulsive, and for a fleeting moment, I considered offering him a napkin to catch the inevitable dribble.
"Mr. Hartstead," he mused, his voice dripping with an almost theatrical pity, "Seeing as your barely 18, I'll explain. The day you turned 18 and entered the world as a legal adult in society, is the day those 'dreams' you have officially started to die. In the workforce, only talent, hard work, and the favor of Lady Luck can be seen as the factors of success. I'm sorry to be the one to crush your dream, but while sorry I may be, I still have to. Mr. Hartstead, we will not be hiring you as of this moment. Thank you for applying. Have a good a good day. Please ask the receptionist or any other personnel if you require assistance in exiting the building."
He punctuated his dismissal with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if shooing away a bothersome fly. The sudden finality of it hit me like a physical blow. The air in the room grew thin, the walls seemed to press in, and the carefully constructed facade of professional composure I'd maintained for the last hour shattered into a million pieces.
The walk back to my barely functional 2002 Civic was a blur. Literally. My eyes were blurry with tears, hot and stinging, as I fumbled through the revolving door and beelined for my car. The world outside the office building seemed to mock my shattered hopes, the bright midday sun an unwelcome glare on my misery.
I know those tough guy archetypes out there say stuff like, 'Men don't cry. Just sweat it out!' But the truth? All humans cry. Men and women. If men weren't meant to cry, we wouldn't have tear ducts. And so I did. Inside my car, shielded from the judgment of passersby, I bawled my eyes out. The steering wheel, cold beneath my hands, became a silent confidante to my despair. Then I got depressed. A heavy, suffocating blanket of hopelessness settled over me. Then I started to rage, a furious inferno igniting in my gut, all in a matter of five minutes.
Why? Why must the dreams I've had since childhood die simply due to a lack of the necessary resources to attend a college? Why was a piece of paper, a degree, deemed more valuable than years of self-taught skill, relentless practice, and an unwavering passion? The injustice of it all burned hotter than any fire.
"AAAAARGGGGHHH!!!!" I screamed, the sound raw and torn from the depths of my being, pounding on my steering wheel. The cheap plastic groaned in protest, but I didn't care. I needed to release the torrent of emotions raging inside me.
Have you ever felt so many emotions at once that you don't even know how to feel, but you know it sucks? That's me right now. Anger, a bitter, acrid taste in my mouth. Sadness, a crushing weight on my chest. Heartbreak, a sharp, agonizing pain in my soul. Annoyance, a petty irritation at the world's indifference. All of it leading to a profound numbness that made the world around me seem lifeless, devoid of color or meaning.
Not only was my dream crushed, but now I had no job. The paltry savings I'd painstakingly accumulated from odd jobs and selling a few commissions online wouldn't last forever. As if that wasn't bad enough, when I tried to start my car, it coughed its last breaths and died. The old engine rattled, sputtered, and then fell silent, a final, mocking gesture from the universe.
I am not proud to say that I snapped. But oh boy did I snap. The dam holding back my self-control burst, unleashing a torrent of destructive fury. I started throwing everything in my car: empty soda cans, crumpled fast-food wrappers, even my worn-out sneakers. I banged on the dashboard, ripped at the tattered fabric of the seats, and in a moment of pure, unadulterated madness, I even tore pages from my meticulously crafted art portfolio, the very embodiment of my dreams, into jagged, worthless scraps.
"FUUUUUUUUCKKKK!!!" I screamed, my voice hoarse from crying and yelling. A mother walking beside my car, her hand already gripping her child's, hastily grabbed the kid and broke into a run, as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. Good. Let them be afraid. My despair was a contagious disease, and I was its patient zero.
A thought, a flicker of something desperate and wild, ran through my head. What if I could go back? Back to the time when my passion for art and superheroes and anime still burned bright, untarnished by the harsh realities of the world. Back to my carefree life as a first grader, when the biggest worry was whether I'd get the last Fruit Roll-Up. Would it be quite nice, wouldn't it? To escape this crushing reality, to undo the choices that led me to this moment, to somehow reclaim that innocence and unbridled joy.
FWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOMMM!!!
In a split second, a supercharged bolt of energy, shimmering with an impossible, blinding light, descended upon my car. It wasn't a lightning strike; it was something far more profound, more… cosmic. The air crackled, the asphalt beneath me vibrated, and then, with a sound that was both a deafening roar and an absolute silence, my Civic and everything inside it—including me—vaporized. Not even a wisp of smoke remained. Just a perfectly circular scorch mark on the pavement, a testament to an impossible event.
Simple divine incineration. Clean, eco-friendly, utterly deadly.
I woke up to see a blinding, ethereal expanse of space. It wasn't the black void of true space; it was more like being inside a colossal, endlessly swirling nebula of pure light, vibrant hues of impossible colors shifting and merging. I tried to sit up, but nearly passed out as an unfathomable plethora of knowledge slammed into my brain like a sledgehammer. It wasn't just information; it was understanding, an intuitive grasp of concepts that should be beyond human comprehension. The very fabric of reality, the dance of atoms, the birth and death of galaxies, the myriad possibilities of existence—it all flooded into my mind, overwhelming and exhilarating in equal measure.
Damn. That was weird. Veeeeeery weird.
I attempted to sit up again, only to find my body unresponsive to my mental commands. My physical form, or what I assumed was my physical form, felt… non-existent. I was a consciousness adrift, a mind without a vessel.
What the actual f***? WHAT IS GOING ONNNNN!?!?!?!! The silent scream echoed in the vastness of this luminous void, though no sound escaped my non-existent lips.
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I heard a voice. But… not just any voice. My voice. My voice at seven years old, to be exact. High-pitched, brimming with unadulterated wonder, and utterly devoid of the cynicism that had become my constant companion.
"Wow!!" He/me said in his extremely childish voice. "So I'm, like, this embodiment of the concept of existence thingy? Cool!"
What the f***, I thought. This is total bullsht*. My internal monologue, a sanctuary of adult thoughts and profanity, was suddenly… not so private.
"Who's saying bad words in my head? Stop saying them!" My seven-year-old self retorted, a hint of childish indignation in his tone.
Wait… can… can you hear me? I asked, my internal voice tinged with a fresh wave of disbelief.
"Of course I can hear you. I'm not deaf, you know!" He said, suddenly appearing beside me in what I realized now was his mindscape. This wasn't some cosmic void; it was the landscape of his, of our, collective consciousness.
I took a good look at him, and my eyes widened. He was an exact replica of me at age seven, only… perfect. His hair was an ethereal and blinding white, shimmering with an inner light that seemed to pulse with cosmic energy. His eyes were a glowing silver, like molten moonlight, and his skin was perfectly clear, unblemished by the imperfections of a normal human existence. He was also much cuter than I was, and he naturally gave off an 'adorable' vibe, like a living, breathing anime character. It was unsettlingly charming.
"So… uh… mind explaining what you meant by the stuff you said earlier? Also about what the f-… what is going on?" I asked, mentally correcting myself to avoid another childish rebuke.
He smiled, a wide, innocent grin that somehow managed to be both disarming and unnerving, and said excitedly, "Sure!"
He waved his arms excitedly, a gesture that somehow felt both childlike and profoundly powerful. Suddenly, the knowledge from earlier, the unfathomable plethora of information that had slammed into my brain, was now accessible to me, organized and coherent. And with that coherence came a terrifying understanding, which made my eyes widen in horror.
Basically, we're… the embodiment of the concept of existence. When I got incinerated, it wasn't some random act of divine intervention. It was actually the physical manifestation of the newly formed consciousness of the Omniverse, merging with Earth. And through some incredibly improbable, utterly baffling cosmic accident, this merging resulted in the fusion of my past self and the Omniverse itself.
Unfortunately for my older self, since matter can neither be created nor destroyed, my present self was imprisoned in the mindscape of my younger self. A prison of pure thought, a silent observer in my own body's grand adventure. I was a passenger, a back-seat driver in the most literal sense.
"So… just for clarification, what exactly do you want me to call you?" I asked my younger self. "Cuz we both have the same name."
"Hmmmm," he mused, tilting his head, a gesture so perfectly innocent it made my non-existent heart ache. "You're right. You can keep Oliver Hartstead. From now on, I'm… oooh! How about Oliver Omni! Like Omni-Man from that cool comic, Invincible! He's super strong and flies and everything!"
Hmmm… not bad. Even as a kid, I had decent taste, I conceded internally. "Alright, Oliver Omni, what's the plan now?"
Oliver Omni blinked in confusion, his silver eyes wide and innocent. "Plan?"
"Well… yeah. You are the strongest being in all of existence, so you don't have to go to school or anything. You're literally the Omniverse. So… is there, like, a bucket list you have or something? Something you've always wanted to do now that you have practically infinite power?"
Oliver paused. After a moment of genuine, childlike thought, he grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his silver eyes. "Hart, you're right. There is a bucket list."
Why do I feel like this is going to be a disaster? I thought, a shiver of apprehension running through my non-existent form. "What exactly does this 'bucket list' entail?" I asked, my voice skeptical, already bracing myself for the worst.
Oliver jumped up and down in excitement, his white hair seeming to shimmer with his glee. "Adventure!"
I sighed in relief. Kids will be kids, even if they are the 'Living Embodiment of the Concept of Existence'. This was manageable. Adventure. That was a vague enough term.
"Adventure sounds great. What kind?" I probed, trying to steer him towards something sensible, perhaps a trip to Disneyland… or perhaps even exploring distant, uninhabited galaxies. Something that didn't involve… things that could go horribly, terribly wrong.
"Superman! Flash! Green Lantern! BATMAN! Hehe he!" he chanted, each name a burst of pure, unadulterated joy.
Wha- what do you mean? I asked, the worry, a cold, creeping dread, back in my voice. My relief evaporated, replaced by a surge of panic. He couldn't possibly mean…
"Think about it. We're the Omniverse + L.E.C.E! That means, we can go anywhere. Including… the DC Comics multiverse." He said with a grin, a devilish twinkle in his silver eyes that was entirely too knowing for a seven-year-old.
"Wait! Let's not rush. We don't want to mess up DC! There are so many delicate timelines, multiversal contingencies, paradoxes, and… and… and we don't even know how we'd interact with their fundamental forces of existence! The Speed Force, the Green Light, the very source of their powers! What if we accidentally unravel reality, or cause a super-crisis even bigger than the ones they already have? We're an anomaly, an unknown variable! We can't just go barging in!"
"We won't," Oliver said decisively, his childish conviction unwavering. "We'll get some Big Belly Burger, a selfie with Batman, and a race with The Flash. What could go wrong?"
"Oliver, wait!"
But it's no use. The mindscape shifted from an empty white expanse to a living room with a giant TV showing everything from Oliver's point of view. Only thing on it was the Justice League's Watchtower orbiting Earth in the cold expanse of space.
Godd*mmit…