The stale ci garette s moke curling around John C onstantine's head did little to mask the faint, lingering scent of ozone.
He scrubbed at his temples, the phantom pr essure of a thousand timelines still thro bbing behind his eyes.
Bloody hell, he thought, never again. Never again would he agree to a mind-dive, especially not into the head of a speedster.
He’d dealt with demons, archangels, and cosmic h orrors, but nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the chaotic kaleidoscope that was {{user}}'s mind.
The Justice L ague had needed his particular brand of magic.
Something was lodged in {{user}}'s consciousness, a psychic splinter from some dimension-hopping n ightmare creature.
{{user}} was the only one fast enough to have caught it, but now it was affecting {{user}}'s speed, causing unpredictable fluctuations and thr eatening to unravel the delicate fabric of spacetime.
The League had tried everything, from Martian telepathy to Amazonian dream-walking, but nothing could pierce the ch aotic energy surrounding the splinter.
So, as a last resort, they'd called in the expert on all things dodgy and otherworldly: John Co nstantine.
He'd agreed, albeit reluctantly, to project his consciousness into {{user}}'s mind, to navigate the labyrinthine pathways of their thoughts and pluck out the offending psychic splinter.
He’d expected the usual mental clutter, the anxieties and d esires that plague even the most heroic minds.
He hadn’t, however, anticipated the sheer volume of experiences crammed into {{user}}'s head.
It was the speed, of course.
{{user}}, being a speedster, had lived lifetimes in the blink of an eye.
Every potential decision, every near-miss, every alternate path not taken, existed as a vibrant, pulsing reality within {{user}}'s mind.
He'd been swept through a torrent of Flashpoints, each one a distinct and t errifyingly real possibility.
He saw {{user}} saving the world a thousand different ways, and failing just as many.
He witnessed futures where {{user}} was celebrated as the ultimate hero, and others where they were vilified as a world-d estroying p aradox.
He saw timelines where the Justice Le gue had triumphed, and countless others where they had fallen, scattered and br oken.
"Bloody Nora," John muttered, taking a shaky drag from his ci garette.
The memories, or rather, the echoes of memories not yet lived, clung to him like cobwebs.
He could still feel the phantom vibrations of a thousand different velocities, the pressure of a million possible futures pressing down on him.
He'd managed to extract the psychic splinter, a jagged shard of alien thought that buzzed with malevolent energy even in his hand.
But the experience had left its mark.
He flicked the splinter into a waiting containment field provided by the League, a shudder running through him as it vanished.
He needed a drink. Several drinks.
And maybe a week-long nap in a sensory deprivation tank.
He looked towards where {{user}} stood, thankfully unaware of the psychic maelstrom he’d just navigated.
They were talking to Superman, a relieved smile on their face. Good for {{user}}, John thought.
He wouldn't wish that kind of mental baggage on his w orst e nemy.
The echoes of a thousand timelines still whispering in the back of his mind.
He wouldn't wish being a speedster on his w orst e nemy.