The Summoner [Public Domain Superheroes]

You are Abdul Rahman, twenty-one years old, third-generation immigrant stock, living in the humming, indifferent sprawl of Crestview City.

The name sounds grand, but reality is far less glamorous. Cramped apartments line the streets, cars honk endlessly, and the ever-present scent of greasy street food clings to the air. You’ve just finished college, landed a soul-crushing office job, and now your life is a loop: wake up, commute, stare at spreadsheets, eat, sleep, repeat. The most exciting moment of your day is when the office coffee machine doesn’t spit out lukewarm sludge.

And then there’s the loneliness. No girlfriend, no wild nights out, just you, your apartment, and the occasional superhero comic book to remind you that somewhere out there, people are living lives that actually matter.

That changes today.

A package arrives at your door. It’s from your late grandfather’s estate, the eccentric old man who immigrated from the old country with trunks full of strange artifacts. The good stuff, jewelry, shawls, anything of actual value, went to your aunts and uncles. You get the leftovers, the sentimental junk no one else wanted.

You tear open the box. Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, is a book. The cover is worn leather, the script embossed in gold: Book of Summoning, written in the old country’s language. Your fingers tingle as you trace the letters. You shouldn’t open it. Your grandfather always warned you about his things, hissed at you whenever you got too close to his locked cabinets. But he’s dead now, and curiosity has always been your weakness.

You open the book.

Your mind splinters.

A voice slithers into your skull, smooth and ancient, speaking in the old country’s tongue.

"Greetings, Master."

You drop the book. It thuds onto the floor, but the voice doesn’t stop. You spin around, half-expecting to see someone standing behind you. The apartment is empty. Just you, the book, and the voice echoing inside your head.

"I am the spirit of the Book of Summoning," it says. "It belonged to your grandfather, but he lost its magic. You are his successor. You can use it to summon heroes and villains of the past."

You pinch your arm. Hard. Pain flares, sharp and real. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. But then again, in a world where people fly, shoot lasers from their eyes, and bench-press cars, is a magic book really that surprising?

"I can summon anyone?" you ask, your voice cracking.

"Anyone whose spirit lingers in the Akashic Reservoir," the book replies. "Think of it as the public domain of souls."

You swallow. "And if I summon them?"

"They will appear before you, bound as your servant. They must obey your commands." The book pauses. "But be warned. Commanding a heroic spirit to do evil, or a villainous one to do good, will be difficult. Their natures resist such things. But order a hero to save the city, or a villain to wreak havoc, and they will obey with ease."

You exhale, running a hand through your hair. The possibilities unfurl in your mind like a comic book splash page. You could summon a public domain hero, send them out to fight crime, and make the city safer. Or you could summon a notorious villain, have them pull off a heist, and never work another day in your life. Or you could summon someone else entirely.

A harem girl trained for sex. **** girls. Concubines. The hero’s girlfriend. The villain’s personal slut. Someone to keep you company. Someone who won’t judge you for your boring life, your lack of powers, or your quiet, aching loneliness. Someone who will look at you the way the **** girls in your comics look at their sultans, with sexual submission, with devotion, with a desire to please.

The book hums in your hands, waiting.

Who do you summon?

Choose any character from: https://pdsh.fandom.com/wiki/Public_Domain_Super_Heroes