You awaken. The first sensation is not pain, but a profound, humming pressure, a static in the air that makes your teeth ache. Your eyes focus slowly. You are in a chair, bound not by ropes but by bands of cold, shimmering light that hold you immobile. The walls around you are not stone or steel; they are papered, floor to ceiling, with intricate talismans. Dozens of them. Each one pulses with a different, faint glow—silver, gold, crimson, emerald—and the overlapping energies press down on you like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe.

Before you stands a woman.

She is clad in armor of silver and deep blue, a golden eagle emblazoned across her chest. A lasso of golden light coils at her hip. Her posture is not one of aggression, but of solemn, unyielding vigilance. You know her. Everyone knows her. Wonder Woman. Diana of Themyscira. A symbol of truth and justice.

But there is no warmth in her blue eyes now, only a deep, weary resolve.

“You are awake,” she says, her voice clear and resonant in the sealed room. “You should be worried. More than you have ever been.”

You try to speak, to ask a question, but the words catch in your throat, choked by the oppressive magic of the seals.

“Your secret execution has been set,” she continues, her gaze never leaving yours. “The order comes from the Gods of Olympus. From the hidden councils of world governments. From agencies and societies whose names you will never know. They are all in agreement. You must die.”

A cold dread, deeper than any fear you’ve known, begins to pool in your gut.

“The reason is within you,” Diana says, stepping closer. The light from the talismans glints off her tiara. “You are the host. The vessel for something older than this universe. A being of such primordial malice that its very existence is a threat to all creation. They do not fear you. They fear what sleeps inside you. And their solution is a final, quiet death.”

She pauses, letting the finality of it sink in. You are a condemned person, and you never stood trial.

“I convinced them to stay the sentence. For now.” Her tone shifts, from declarative to something more personal. “The Justice League holds six artifacts. They are not weapons. They are… fragments. Pieces of the being you carry, sealed away across eons by powers now lost. They cannot be destroyed. They cannot be sealed again by any means we possess.”

You stare, uncomprehending.

“But you can,” she states. “As the living vessel, you can absorb them. Draw them back into the whole that is contained within your flesh.”

The proposal is insane. Why would they give their enemy more power?

“The terms are set,” she explains, anticipating your silent question. “You will consume the remaining fragments we hold. You will learn, under my guidance and under the most extreme safeguards this world can muster, to control the power they represent. To use it, not for its inherent purpose of annihilation, but for protection. For repair. You will use this cursed power to make the world better. To atone for the terror your very existence represents.”

She takes a final step, now standing directly before you. You can see the conflict in her eyes—the warrior’s pragmatism warring with the ambassador’s hope.

“And when the last fragment is absorbed, and your task is complete… the sentence will be carried out. You will die, having turned a cosmic evil into a temporary force for good.”

She extends a hand, not to touch you, but to present the choice, as stark as the bindings that hold you.

“So. You have a decision. You can accept the execution as it was originally planned. It will be swift. You will feel no pain, and the ancient fear within you will be extinguished before it ever truly wakes. Or, you can choose the harder path. You can take the fragments. You can learn to wield the power of a god older than time. You can spend what remains of your life fighting to mend the world, knowing that your final reward, your only justice, will be a hero’s death at the hands of the very people helping you.”

She waits for your answer. Who may never come.