Dust and Destiny

Author's note
So I took a bit of time with this one, always been a big comics fan. I'll try to portray the setting of DC as faithfully as I envision the setting and as such it might be a bit slow on the build-up. No changing the MC's name or the like here, but I made sure the power was versatile enough that all should be able to have fun with it.

You are Obadiah Jackson, but everyone calls you Obi. At 27, you’ve spent your entire life in Harlem. Once, you were just a regular guy—a black mechanic with grease-stained hands, fixing cars and dreaming of owning your own shop. But “regular” doesn’t hold much weight when your world is a smoldering wreck. Earth is a warzone, scarred by Darkseid’s and Steppenwolf's invasion. Years ago, their gray, bug-like Parademons spilled through glowing portals, ripping cities apart. You were a kid when it started, glued to the news as Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman fought and fell trying to save your world. New heroes stepped up—Flash, Green Lantern, Hawkgirl—but it was a mess. Darkseid, that hulking nightmare with eyes like molten lava, became a name whispered in dread, a shadow **** everything. You’re no hero, just a survivor, keeping your head low in a world where the sky could crack open any second.

You grew up in a cramped apartment above a bodega, the air thick with the scent of fried plantains and coffee. Your mom hustled two jobs to keep food on the table, while your dad bailed when you were five. You had dreams, though—big ones. By 16, you were apprenticing at a garage, tearing apart engines and putting them back together better than before. You wanted that garage for yourself one day, maybe even a chain of them. But the war crushed that. Portals tore through Harlem, and Parademons swarmed the streets. You watched neighbors vanish—screaming, dragged into the chaos. Your mom didn’t come home one night, and you never found out why. The world turned into a nightmare of fear and loss, and you learned fast: stay invisible, stay alive.

It’s the summer of ‘22, and Harlem’s hanging by a thread. You’re walking home from a late shift, air heavy like something bad’s coming. Then it hits—a boom like the world snapping in half, a glowing portal ripping through the street. Boom Tube, they called it later, but you didn’t know that then—just saw a hole spitting out hell. Parademons swarm out, grabbing Mrs. Hernandez from the bodega, little Jamal who always wanted candy. You bolt, but they’re too fast. Claws sink into your arms, cold as ****. You swing, scream, but it’s like hitting a wall. One cracks your skull, and it’s lights out.

You come to on a metal slab in a place that reeks of sulfur and rot. Jagged black walls pulse with red light, like you’re trapped in a volcano. You don’t know where you are—just feels like you died and woke up in hell. A giant figure towers over you, face hard as rock, eyes glowing red. You’ve seen him on war vids—Darkseid. His voice shakes the air as he talks to some hooded freak next to him. “This one has potential,” he says. “Psychic potential.” Psychic? You ain’t no caped speedster like Jay Garrick. You’re Obi, the car guy. What do they want with you?

They roll up with a glowing cube that hums like it’s got a heartbeat. They carry the cube with something close to reverence. It whispers in your skull, cold and sharp: "You will serve". They ignore your pleas, the only answer being a cruel slow chuckle from that hooded figure standing next to Darkseid. They slice you open slow—pain like fire—and shove the cube into your chest. It’s like a leech, digging into you. Then they pump you full of something they call the Source, an energy that feels like it’s unmaking you. Your mind shatters, your body quits, and you’re gone. Or so they think.

They call it a bust, toss your corpse in a pit like trash. But that cube—whatever it is—won’t let you go. It keeps your mind kicking, trapped somewhere else. You ain’t in your body anymore—nowhere, floating in a sea of red and purple light, a place called the Bleed. Didn’t know it then, just felt like drowning in infinity, no way out, just chaos and that damn cube talking in your head.

That nowhere place is a mess—energies smashing into each other, wild and loud. No body, no time, just your thoughts and the cube’s voice, cold and pushy. It rambles about a Multiverse, the Source, some big forces holding everything together. Sounds like nonsense to you, but it’s all you got to listen to. Could be years, could be forever—who knows? Then you feel it: energies buzzing around, heat, motion, weird vibes. Your stubborn ass grabs hold, like snagging a rope in a storm.

It’s all gut at first—reaching with your mind, pulling energy in. You shape it, build with it, and bit by bit, you stitch yourself back together. Particle by particle, you make a new body out of the madness, fueled by anger and that Source juice still in your soul. The cube pushes you to take control, to dominate. You don’t argue—out there, power’s the only thing keeping you from fading.

When you finally break free, you crash into a city that ain’t right. Looks like New York, but too clean, too calm. No Parademon scars, no bombed-out streets, no war stink. It’s freaky, like a fake version of home. You don’t know what it’s called—just know it ain’t your Harlem, and that’s enough to make you mad.

You stumble into an alley in this strange New York, naked and dazed, the air buzzing with energies you can’t quite place—cars humming, wind rushing, something bigger, like the city’s got a pulse. Some bum stares, and you siphon heat from the air to warm up, snagging clothes off a laundry line. You try to blend in, but you ain’t the old Obi anymore. That nowhere place and the cube rewired you. You lie for fake IDs, swipe cash when no one’s looking. One night, a mugger comes at you with a bat in a dark alley. You feel the swing’s energy—500 joules, maybe—and siphon it mid-air, turning it back on him. His skull cracks against the pavement, blood pooling, and you feel nothing. The cube whispers efficient, and you nod. Right and wrong? That’s for folks who ain’t seen what you have. The world’s a machine—energy flows, gears turn, and you either control it or get crushed.

The cops start sniffing around after the mugger’s body turns up. You hear sirens too close, see your face sketched on a newsstand flyer once. New York’s too hot now—too many eyes, too many questions. You ain’t about to sit through interrogations or explain what you are. You grab a duffel, stuff it with clothes, some cash, and a jacked library book on physics, and hop a bus to Metropolis, a city you’ve heard about, all bright lights and heroes. It’s far enough to disappear, clean enough to start over. You land there and pick up a janitor gig at a community center—low-key, keeps you off the radar.

But one thing burns in you: hatred for Darkseid. He stole your life, turned you into this freak. If you see him or his Parademons again, you’ll rip the energy from their bones and make them suffer. You spend many a night thinking back to that hooded freak's single chuckle while you were strapped to that table, and you've promised yourself that he'll get his if that's the last thing you do. You’re learning your powers—siphoning energy from cars, storms, even some weird green glow you felt near a guy with a ring. You move faster than bullets, hit harder than tanks, throw up shields that stop blasts. Sometimes, you sense bigger stuff—energies that could break worlds. The cube calls them names later, Connective and Crisis or some junk. You don’t get it yet, but you’re piecing it together—books, street talk, the cube’s whispers. You’re no hero, but you’re done being a pawn. You’re Obi, and you’ll make this world bend.

You’re what you’d call a heavy hitter with energy, a ergokinetic is what some googling tells you, but it’s still new. You can pull massive juice—kinetic from a storm, heat from a block, or wild cosmic stuff like that speed vibe or green ring glow. You’ve stopped a building from caving by flipping its energy into a wall, slowed a car to save a kid. Once, you tapped something huge—felt like the universe howling—and shut down a portal eating a street. But it’s sloppy. You short out grids, clip folks by mistake.

The cube says you can touch big forces—Speed ****, Emotional whatever, Life stuff—and their dark flipsides. You’ve felt the speed, zipped across town in a flash. Pulled black energy from a skull-ring punk once, turned it into a blast that flattened a warehouse. Connective and Crisis Energy, they call ‘em later—threads tying reality up or ripping it loose. You’ve brushed them, but they’re too crazy to grip yet. You’re studying, though. Gotta know what you are, what you can do. When Darkseid shows, you’ll torch his whole game.