Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 26
Bruce walked along the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly against the endless expanse.
“BC, is the passage from Universe-47 established?” he asked, pausing to examine a door with intricate bronze engravings.
“Yes, I have it set up so he’ll be able to go back and forth between universes. Also, I’m using my synthetic heroes to help him with anything he needs.”
“Thank you, BC.” Bruce continued walking, his eyes scanning the endless doorways. Then he stopped abruptly.
“BC, are you seeing what I’m seeing right now?”
“Besides you standing in the middle of nothing, Mr. Wayne?”
“No.” Bruce’s voice carried a note of recognition. “Do you remember that door I told you about? The animated one?”
“Yes, I have that logged in my memory banks.”
“I’m seeing it right now. It’s right in front of me.”
There it was—the same cartoonish doorway he’d encountered before, its lines too bold, colors too saturated against the muted reality of the corridor. It stood out like a beacon of impossibility, defying the logic of this place between worlds.
“Am I backtracking, BC?”
“No, Mr. Wayne. From the information I’ve compiled, you’ve only backtracked once, when you came to my universe. You pretty much never revisit old doors.”
Bruce tilted his head, studying the familiar entrance. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
He approached the door with deliberate steps, his hand hovering over the handle for a moment before grasping it. The same electric tingle of crossing between realities washed over him as he opened it and stepped through.
“Yes, BC. Same place.”
The comic book store greeted him exactly as before—the familiar scent of paper and ink, the fluorescent lighting casting everything in stark clarity. But this time, something felt different. More ... welcoming. The air itself seemed to hum with possibility.
Robert emerged from behind a tall shelf, a comic book in his hands as he reached up to place it in its designated spot. He turned at the sound of Bruce’s entry, and his face broke into that same warm, genuine smile.
“Ah, Mr. Wayne. You made it back. I’m glad.”
The greeting felt both genuine and inevitable, as if Robert had been expecting him all along.
“Come on in,” Robert continued, gesturing broadly at the infinite shelves that seemed to stretch beyond the boundaries of normal space. “Browse around, sit back, relax. Maybe read something.”
Bruce found himself nodding. “Why not?”
But as he stood there, suspicion and curiosity warred within him. Robert was an interesting character—too knowing, too prepared. There was something beneath the surface that Bruce couldn’t quite grasp, like trying to hold water in his hands.
“Do you have anything to recommend?” Bruce asked, approaching the counter. “Like you did before. Something more about that Spider-Man character?”
Robert chuckled softly, adjusting his thick glasses. “Oh, we do have a lot of stories about Spider-Man. But maybe me recommending something might not be what you need right now. Why don’t you browse our shelves and find something you want yourself?”
“Yeah, why not.”
Bruce turned to browse, then paused. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”
“You’re an imaginative sort of guy, aren’t you?”
Robert’s smile deepened. “Oh, I like to think so.”
Bruce studied his face carefully, looking for tells, for micro-expressions. “Say you hypothetically went to a place where you heard a voice. Just a voice—no person, just a voice. And the voice recommended to your friend to keep watching a certain show, and also drop by here again.”
Robert’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes—a spark of recognition, perhaps amusement. “Oh, well ... I probably would listen to that voice. I mean, in a lot of stories, voices like that are either very significant in a good way or a bad way. And since the voice recommended my little shop...” He gestured around at the space that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions. “I probably would do it.”
“Okay. That’s what I thought.”
Bruce started walking deeper into the store, his eyes scanning the towering shelves that disappeared into shadow above. Marvel comics caught his attention first—familiar red and blue spines, the bold lettering he’d seen before. But then he noticed other publishers: DC. Image. And some he didn’t recognize, their logos strange and unfamiliar.
His gaze landed on a section marked “White Equine Comics,” and something about the name struck him as familiar yet different. Like Dark Horse, but not quite. He moved closer, examining the spines until one particular cover drew his attention.
The image showed two rings—one white, one black—set against a cosmic background that seemed to shift and pulse with its own light. Above them, bold lettering proclaimed: “The Adventures of Plot Armor and Cool Effect.”
Bruce smiled despite himself. The title was absurd, almost satirical. He pulled it from the shelf, examined the cover more closely—noting the fine detail work, the way the rings seemed to contain entire universes within them—then placed it back. His eyes had already moved on to something else.
A Marvel comic with a stark, minimalist cover that somehow commanded attention through its very simplicity. “The Negotiator,” it read in clean block letters.
“This should be interesting.”
He pulled the comic from the shelf and made his way to one of the comfortable reading chairs tucked between the towering stacks. The leather creaked softly as he settled in, the comic balanced on his lap, its weight somehow more substantial than its thin pages should allow.
Just as he was about to open the cover, soft footsteps approached. Robert appeared beside him, moving with quiet grace, and gently placed a steaming cup of tea on the small side table next to the chair.
Their eyes met briefly—Robert’s warm and knowing, Bruce’s grateful—before the store owner simply nodded and walked away, leaving Bruce alone with his comic and the lingering scent of Earl Grey.
He opened to the first page and began to read.
The Negotiator
They had tried everything. Every ambassador, every diplomat, every silver-tongued negotiator on Earth had taken their turn. All of them had failed. Some were thrown out. Some were vaporized. One was turned into a houseplant—a particularly vindictive touch that still had the UN representatives nervous about watering schedules.
Sel’Zara, the Empress of Mars, hovered in her silver saucer above Earth like a goddess ready to collect tribute. She was tall, green-skinned, radiant, and terrifyingly beautiful, her voice dripping with elegance and barely contained violence.
She’d landed outside Las Vegas, in the open desert, flanked by Martian guards in chrome-plated armor that reflected the harsh Nevada sun. She made her demand with the casual authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience: Surrender, or perish.
Inside a military bunker half a mile away, the world’s leaders gathered—sweaty, panicked, running out of ideas and time. President Lee stared at the screen as another negotiator was hip-tossed onto the desert sand with contemptuous ease.
“Do we have anyone left?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
Everett, Earth Security Chief, didn’t answer at first. He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over a contact he’d hoped to never use again. Then, finally, he spoke. “There’s one.”
“No,” Lee said instantly. “No. Not him.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
Lee groaned. “You think we really need him?”
Everett turned, his expression grim. “He’s our last hope. If this doesn’t work ... we go to war with Mars. And we lose.”
Silence filled the room with desperation. Everett sent the text.
*Somewhere in West Texas*, in a run-down bar lit with one flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect, a man sat alone at the end of the counter. He was tall and powerfully built, with shoulder-length black hair that caught the dim light like silk. His angular face was pale and aristocratic, marked by strong cheekbones and piercing dark eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing.
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