Wally didn't Zeta to Central City.

He ran.

The trip from Happy Harbor to CC would have taken him two hours on foot, so he timed himself. After letting Robin know that everyone was still alive, and after stashing the Helmet of Fate in his souvenir shelf, he took off, partially to escape the depressive air of the Cave. He knew he could outrun the bad vibes, as long as he was fast enough.

And that speed proved to be a great distraction. His MPH climbed up rapidly, ticking ever upwards. A hundred, two hundred, five hundred. He didn't slow down even after a thousand.

A thousand one hundred.

Fifteen hundred.

Two thousand.

He was breaking every record as he ran, and he wasn't slowing down. As he ran, he could feel the lightning pumping through his veins, through his blood, a constant companion urging him to continue moving, ever faster,

As he easily outstripped six thousand miles per hour, he was already in view of the city.

He began stopping, realizing in a panic that braking had never been his strong suit.

It still wasn't. He had to run three laps around the city before his speed finally settled. And when he came to a stop—

Pain.

His stomach was a void, a black hole that pulsed with hunger pangs. His body felt hollowed out, weak, and his mind was…

He fell flat on his face in an abandoned parking lot, wondering if this was the place where he would die.

"Whoa, kid, are you alright?"

Wally turned his head to look at Barry, in full costume, standing above him with his arms folded. He crouched to check on him.

"Hungry…"

"You got faster," Barry noted.

Wally cracked a weak grin, "Way… faster."

"I'll get some food in you real quick," Barry said as he picked Wally up and carried him in a fireman carry. "Your clothes didn't burn. Interesting."

In a blink, he was inside a house, sitting on a couch. Suddenly, there was an IV stand next to him, and then a needle in his arm.

And then a spread of food on the living room table.

"You had a day, huh, kid?" Barry asked. He wasn't wearing his costume anymore. As the seconds ticked by, Wally felt his energy returning. Slowly, but surely, he moved further and further away from that near death state. "How're you feeling? You know, feelings-wise."

"Like crap," Wally frowned. "I almost screwed everything up. Almost killed my teammate."

"That was on Doctor Fate, not you," Barry said, "He went rogue and tried to kill a young hero."

Wally felt a surge of relief at his words, "So you guys don't think he was… justified, right?"

Barry raised an eyebrow, "Why would the Justice League listen to the prophesying of an interdimensional entity trying his best to kill a kid on faith alone?"

"It's been a day," Wally said. "I hate reality warping. I think we ended up getting mind controlled somehow. It felt like I was… on a script. Even when I was talking to everyone else, it felt like I was supposed to say what I was saying. Not that I didn't mean to say—or do—those things either. And then, we just… didn't call you guys."

"Don't overthink it," Barry said, "Klarion's a Lord of Chaos, he doesn't abide by normal rules." Then he cracked a grin, "But hey, at least none of you died. That's bound to draw you all much closer."

When Wally closed his eyes, he could see Gojo's heart rolling to a stop before his kneeling self.

Then, he saw himself trying to kill Gojo. The guy who had unflinchingly tried to go twelve rounds with a Lord of Chaos without having any powers at the time. The guy who had put himself between Wally and that same Lord for round two—only to win.

Then again, who was to say that win really mattered? All the Titans felt the same, but didn't want to speak those thoughts out loud—that none of it mattered, that it was all a dance that Klarion had choreographed. Way to suck the fun out of such a huge achievement.

At least, Wally had come out of it stronger. Much stronger. He could take comfort in that.

…And he was finally beginning to understand what Gojo meant, about power being its own reward of a sort.

Maybe it was the IV, but he finally felt enough strength to look up at Barry, "I felt it. I touched it. The thing that gives us speed. The… Nabu called it the Speed Force."

Barry knitted his brows together. "Really now?" Then he grinned, "You're a hell of a lot faster, kid, I can tell you that much at least. Don't worry, we'll measure your baselines at some point."

"I phased," Wally said, "I phased out of the Helmet of Fate."

"I heard. Unprecedented, as far as Zatara knows," Barry said, "The Helmet's supposed to have magic that makes it so only Nabu can release control. It's supposed to be impossible to release the helmet without killing the host, at least from outside forces."

Wally felt a swelling of pride at that. An unprecedented feat. And now he had taken a major step towards being a real hero. Like the Flash.

"But, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Barry frowned, "I'm just eyeballing things for now, but I'm almost certain your power's taking more out of you than you currently have, physically at least. Best case scenario, that might ease up over time. For now, you're going to have to fill up way more than you've ever had to before. And it's not just gonna be binging on every favorite food you have—I'm talking vitamin and mineral supplements. All the micronutrients. Your metabolism is about to become a giant pit of fire. If I were you, I'd ask Batman to sponsor your new food budget. You're liable to eat your family out of house and home, otherwise."

Wally's heart whirled at the news. This could easily become the thing that put him out of the game forever, if using his powers became actively harmful for him.

He shook his head. None of that weak-sauce mentality. He'd gotten this far on what Gojo's arrogant self termed was 'theism'; ironclad faith.

He had seen unlimited power.

He had harnessed it.

He knew it was real.

This was only the beginning. He looked at the spread of food on the table, and dug in.

000

"Anyways, I Moogled it, so you're wrong," I said as I kicked the ball, firing it right between Suguru's guarding arms and scoring a goal. For the ninth time in a row. "Sherlock Holmes wasn't based on a true story. It was written by some British guy who was super into the occult."

Suguru scowled, "I could have sworn I was right about that. Weird."

"If it helps," Megan said shakily from the sidelines, "I was kinda shaky on that, too."

"Anyway," I sighed, "I wanna do some soul searching, I guess. See the backrooms of this creepy, dark mind."

"Oh yeah?" Suguru chuckled. "What brought this on?"

"Iunno," I shrugged, then I looked at him seriously, "I sort of wanted to kick things into high gear is all. Got a little reality check, ya know? Now I'm all business."

He rolled the ball towards me. I struck it at the exact right nanosecond, creating black lightning from my kick. The ball tore through the net behind it before Suguru could even react.

"I see," Suguru muttered. "Are you sure?"

"What, you know how it looks in there?" I chuckled.

"I know it means a lot for you to try and confront your past," Suguru said.

"Yeah," Megan said, a tinge of desperation to her outburst, "Maybe you shouldn't take it all at once?"

"Then show me a little bit," I said with a shrug, "Drip-feed the feelings or insights or whatever it is to me."

Suguru took a step back and Megan floated towards me. "Are you sure, Sa-chan? Are you really sure you want to look at that after what you've been through?"

I shrugged. "Klarion's gone. I have no reason to fear anymore." I stepped closer to her and cupped her cheek, "I'm sure, Megan. Please. Trust me."

A door appeared before us and I stared at it.

This was it, huh?

I stepped through.

000

Megan held the hand of Gojo, now shrunken to the form of a seven-year-old, his small fingers cold and clammy in hers. His wide, innocent eyes scanned the abyss around them, their glow the only light in the oppressive, liquid darkness of his subconscious. Shadows writhed at the edges of her vision like living smoke, curling into shapes that never quite solidified. The air was heavy, oppressive, carrying a faint metallic tang that left an aftertaste of unease.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Nothing to see," Gojo muttered, his cherubic face framed by unruly locks. His cheeks were round with youthful softness, but the gloom clinging to him was far from childlike. His lips curled into a pout, his tone petulant, until he abruptly turned his head, freezing in place.

"Oh," he said softly, his voice tinged with an unsettling mix of curiosity and delight.

Up ahead, a grotesque structure loomed out of the darkness. A giant metallic trash can the size of a skyscraper sat atop a raging bonfire, flames licking up its sides and throwing flickering shadows across the void. The fire hissed and snarled, casting an eerie orange glow that made the darkness beyond it seem even deeper.

Megan glanced down at him, her voice gentle. "Do you know what that is?"

Gojo's eyes brightened with sudden recognition. "I just remembered!" he exclaimed, his cherubic face breaking into a wide grin. "It's where I keep the Strong Juice! That's it, big sis! The Strong Juice!"

"Strong Juice?" Megan echoed, her smile cautious as she studied him.

"Yeah!" He beamed, bouncing on his toes. "It's like the magical elixir that makes me the strongest! The Strong Juice!"

Megan chuckled nervously, though her stomach tightened. "Is that so? What's in the Strong Juice?"

His grin widened unnaturally, and his tone turned sing-song. "Blood," he said gleefully. "The last moments of the people who tried to kill me. My curses."

Her laugh faltered, her smile evaporating. The light from the fire reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes. "Why is it in a trash can?"

"Cuz it's nasty!" he said with a high-pitched giggle, as if the answer was obvious. "Where else would you put it? But I gotta keep it cooking, you know. Cuz then I get to be the strongest." He stuck out his tongue mischievously, a dark glint in his eye.

Megan forced herself to keep her voice steady. "Can you show me what's inside?"

Gojo didn't hesitate. Gripping her hand tightly, he flew them both toward the monstrous trash can, his giggle echoing unnervingly in the void. Once they hovered before it, he raised a small hand, and the trash can lid wrenched itself free with a screech of grinding metal. It floated in a swirling orb of blue light before being tossed aside, clattering loudly in the abyss.

The contents spilled into view.

Megan's breath caught as unspeakable horrors spilled out before her eyes. It was violence—extreme, grotesque, and unrelenting—filtered through the warped innocence of a child's perspective. Faceless figures screamed silently as blood and curses swirled together in crimson rivers, the scenes grotesquely exaggerated and disjointed like a nightmare that didn't follow the rules of reality. The air around the can grew colder, thick with the stench of death and regret.

And beneath it all was a suffocating tide of guilt. Overwhelming, crushing guilt, layered like sediment at the bottom of a dark ocean. Megan's psychic senses reached for its root, the buried truth behind this monstrosity—

"Whoa!" a twelve-year-old Gojo said suddenly, his voice ringing louder and older as he appeared beside her. With a flick of his wrist, he slammed the lid back onto the can, the booming sound echoing through the void. "That's too much!" He laughed nervously, his hand ruffling his now-longer hair. "Don't look at that for too long, or things start to get ugly."

Megan's gaze snapped to him, her heart pounding. "What was that?"

"Not really sure what we'd do without it, though," he said, ignoring her question. His tone was light, even cheerful, though the shadows in his eyes belied the brightness of his smile. "It's a pretty big part of who we are. Well, who I am." He gave her a lopsided grin, but his fingers twitched at his side as though resisting the urge to reach for the can again.

"What if you stopped?" Megan asked softly, her voice pleading as she knelt beside the young Gojo. "What if you stopped cultivating this thing? What if you let it go? You could be free of it."

The twelve-year-old Sa-chan tilted his head, his expression unbothered, his chubby face framed by his unruly hair. "Who gets stronger without feeling a bit of pain first?" His tone was casual, almost dismissive.

"And what if you stopped being strong?" Megan pressed gently, her hands trembling at her sides.

His small shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Don't know what that means, really." He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "So… nah."

A dead end. Megan's heart sank as she realized the futility of her words. This wasn't resistance; it was a fundamental belief, a structure so deeply embedded in his psyche that tampering with it felt like trying to dismantle a foundation stone. The logical wall in front of her was load-bearing—if she broke it down, it could bring the entire structure of his mind crashing down with it.

Her chest tightened with shame, a bitter weight settling over her shoulders. She had thought herself capable of fixing this, of untangling the complex knots of Gojo's inner world. As though a simple conversation could unravel something so deeply rooted. How naive. She needed more time—more understanding.

"So, you give up?"

The voice startled her, deeper and more confident. Megan looked up and saw the sixteen-year-old Gojo standing a few paces away, his signature grin curling his lips. His taller, leaner form exuded a relaxed air, hands stuffed casually in his pockets. Megan felt a wave of relief and regret wash over her as she ran to him, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso.

"Oh, Sa-chan," she whispered, her voice breaking as she buried her face in his chest.

He hesitated for a moment before his arms came around her gingerly, one hand resting on her lower back, the other patting her head with awkward comfort. "Ehh, it's not your fault, Green Bean," he said softly, his usual cocky tone gentling. "I didn't expect you to solve things instantly." His gaze shifted past her to the ominous trash can in the distance, his expression darkening. "Or for there to be anything to really solve. I guess, if I can't see the problem, you can't really solve it."

Megan pulled back slightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she nodded, unable to find words.

"Oh," Gojo said suddenly, a playful grin breaking through his solemnity. "I just realized—" He turned back toward the trash can, his grin widening mischievously. "It's in a trash can because, you know, a pot would just be way too shallow. Ingenious solution, don'tcha think?"

Megan blinked, baffled by his abrupt shift in tone. She didn't understand it—not really. But there was so much she didn't understand about Satoru Gojo. His mind was a labyrinth of contradictions and enigmas, and unraveling that mystery felt impossibly out of reach.

And yet, for now, it didn't matter. Just being next to him, sharing this moment, was enough.

She reached for his hand, her smaller fingers curling around his. He glanced at her, his grin softening into something gentler, almost fond. Together, they turned away from the trash can and began walking back, the dark subconscious fading behind them as they stepped into the brighter, more familiar terrain of his conscious mind.

A tennis court. Gojo dragged a racket to his hand with a blue orb—his Blue, now that Megan thought of it. Was that how he always saw it?

"How was it?" Suguru asked.

"Weird! Didn't make any sense!"

"Maybe you just weren't ready to make sense of it," Suguru suggested. Which gave Megan hope. At least an aspect of his psyche could more accurately reflect the situation. That was a relief.

Gojo shrugged, "Whatever, man. First serve yours?"

000

I woke up wrapped around Megan's arms.

Fully clothed.

I snorted. That was embarrassing. Who didn't have sex with their own girlfriend after lying with her on the same bed? I'd gone soft.

No. I scowled those thoughts away and got out of the bed, standing up straight and doing my stretches.

Then I took stock of yesterday.

Unpleasant stuff. Scary stuff… I guess. Didn't see the big deal—we were all alive. No harm no foul. All I got for my troubles was…

Magic.

I'd have to get to the bottom of that real quick, see if it was more of a gift than it was a curse. It had worked for me yesterday—really well. My techniques had come out much smoother, at the speed of thought, like the energy obeyed my intent fully. Sure, it felt… strange to use it. Strange and unfamiliar. But that only required training to get around.

After that, a team talk.