#infiniteworlds

it's been awhile since I've posted anything - the hiatus won't last forever but i've been in a bit of a writing slump lol. thing is, I've been doing the same thing with minimal changes for like...over 10 years, and I've been thinking on how I can differentiate myself, change things up, make things better overall. i haven't really come up with anything tho soo...the gears are still turnin'. stuff in the TGTF scene that has been fun to play around with tho, is the infinite worlds site. it's an interesting choose-your-own-adventure Ai-powered game that you have tons of control over. i've written down a lot of ideas I got to play with for potential future stories! if you wanna try some out, the site is free to use with limited plays. :) The FOSE Event (become anyone you jack off to, or vice versa!): https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/kxmhXg I Wish that I WAS Jessie's Girl (a cursed record turns you into your best friend's girlfriend): https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/qPzpXU

This is a preview from Infinite Worlds: LuxeCompanion: The Perfect Date Charade — Shapeshifter Protocol A story about identity, power, and the cost of becoming someone else. How a shapehifter boy running dating apps with various faces. What you're about to read is one moment — not the beginning. If you want the full experience, the link is here.

New users receive 1,200 free credits to begin their first path.

"I said we're closed." Her tone carries up through the floorboards with unnatural clarity, the kind of projection that happens when someone's trying to sound calm but isn't. "You need to leave."

A man's voice responds, lower, harder to parse. Then your father's voice joins—quieter than your mother's, but you recognize the particular tension in it. The café is supposed to be in closing procedures right now. There shouldn't be anyone down there except your parents.

You're moving before you've consciously decided to, phone still in your hand as you descend the stairs. The unknown booking inquiry sits unfinished on your screen. By the time you reach the café floor, you can see them through the kitchen doorway: your mother behind the counter, your father beside her, and three men in the dining area who absolutely do not belong there.

The one in front is maybe thirty-five, white, with the particular build that comes from gym work rather than labor—shoulders broad under a leather jacket, neck thick enough to suggest he lifts heavy. His two companions flank the door, blocking the exit. One of them has a visible tattoo crawling up his neck. The café's closed sign is flipped, but the door isn't locked.

"We're just here to talk about your lease," the front man says, and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Your landlord sent us. There's been some... confusion about payments."

Your mother's knuckles are white where she grips the counter edge. "We paid. Two weeks ago. Check your records."

"That's what we're here to clarify," he says, taking a step closer to the counter. "See, there's additional fees now. Processing costs. Administrative overhead. Your landlord's being generous letting you stay, but he needs assurance you can handle the new terms."

Your father shifts slightly, positioning himself between your mother and the man. "How much?"

"Five thousand. This week." The man's tone is conversational, almost friendly. "Or we start talking about eviction timelines. Commercial lease violations. Health code complaints. You know how it goes."

That's when he notices you standing in the doorway. His eyes track you with the assessment of someone who's used to evaluating threats. You're nineteen, slim, wearing joggers and a t-shirt. You register as irrelevant to him within two seconds.

"Your kid?" he asks your mother without looking away from you. "He should go upstairs. Adult conversation."

Your mother's voice cracks slightly. "Aditya, go back—"

"I'm good here," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. The man in the leather jacket smiles again, and this time there's genuine amusement in it.

"Brave kid," he says. "But this doesn't concern you. We're just having a business discussion with your parents."

One of the men by the door shifts his weight, and you catch the outline of something heavy in his jacket pocket. Not a gun—probably not a gun in a restaurant shake-down—but something. The café suddenly feels very small, and your parents are standing too close to men who've clearly done this before.

You have maybe fifteen seconds before this escalates further.

You take the stairs back up two at a time, closing your bedroom door behind you with enough force that it registers downstairs. Your heart is pounding, but your hands are steady as you strip off your shirt and joggers in four efficient movements.

The transformation starts before you've consciously triggered it. Your body knows what you need right now.

Bone extends first—femurs lengthening with a sensation like deep pressure, vertebrae spacing out along your spine until the ceiling drops closer. Your shoulders broaden, clavicles widening as muscle mass floods across your chest and back in dense, heavy layers. Arms thicken until the definition becomes architectural—deltoids like carved stone, forearms corded with visible strength. Your face restructures: jaw squaring, cheekbones rising, eyes shifting to sharp grey-blue. Hair lightens from dark brown to ash-blonde, texturing with natural volume.

Clothing forms as the final layer: black tactical cargo pants, a dark grey long-sleeve shirt that fits tight across your now-massive chest and shoulders, boots that add another inch you don't need. The fabric feels real because it is real—biological matter reconfigured into textile.

Maarten van Dijk stands where Aditya stood thirty seconds ago. Seven foot two. Two hundred ninety pounds. Dutch. Calm. Immovable.

You descend the stairs again, and this time the sound of your footsteps changes everything.

Derek Costello is mid-sentence when you enter the café floor. "—not asking for much, just a little good faith—"

He stops. All three of them stop.

You have to duck slightly under the doorframe. The café ceiling, which felt normal five minutes ago, now feels oppressively low. You straighten to your full height in the dining area, and the spatial dynamic shifts so abruptly it's almost audible.

Your mother makes a small sound—shock, recognition that you've done something, though she can't possibly understand what. Your father's eyes go wide.

Derek takes an involuntary step backward. His two companions by the door shift their weight, but neither moves forward. The one with the neck tattoo—Marcus—looks at you and then at Derek, waiting for a cue that doesn't come.

"Who the fuck are you?" Derek's voice has lost its conversational ease. He's trying to sound aggressive, but he's already recalculating.

"Family," you say, and your voice comes out lower, accented—Dutch inflection coloring the vowels. "You need to leave."

"This is a private business matter—"

"No." You take two steps forward, closing the distance until you're standing directly between Derek and your parents. You don't have to do anything theatrical. Your presence does the work. "You leave now. Don't come back."

Derek's jaw tightens. He's trying to hold his ground, but his body language is betraying him—shoulders tensing, weight shifting backward. He glances at Tony, the one with the baton, but Tony isn't moving either. Tony is staring at you like he's doing trigonometry in his head and realizing the math doesn't work in his favor.

"You're making a mistake," Derek says, but it's hollow.

"Leave," you repeat.

There's a beat where it could go either way. Then Derek exhales through his nose, turns, and walks toward the door. Marcus and Tony follow immediately, not looking back. The door closes behind them with a soft chime.

Your mother is staring at you. Your father's hand is still on her shoulder, but his expression has gone somewhere between confusion and awe.

"Aditya?" your mother says, and her voice cracks on your name.

so i'm not a huge fan of AI images or videos, but this is genuinely such a good use of AI: https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/AxpeUY

It's a choose-your-own-adventure game with an LLM where the sky is really the limit, and there are so many worlds to choose from. Naturally I am focusing on the M2F TF'ing side of things ;) I highly encourage yall to give it a shot using this link and let your imaginations run wild!

What if your perfect date was never one person? One face. Many lives. And every time you fall… it gets harder to tell what’s real.

LuxeCompanion is an interactive story world on InfiniteWorlds.app — you choose how the story develops like a game.

You can play as the client hiring the perfect companion… or play as the Shapeshifter running the operation.

Every strength hides a fatal flaw. Choose wisely.

Play Now

🕴️ Play as the Client

🎭 Play as the Shapeshifter

Choose Your Shapeshifter

Elliot Rachman — The Architect

Can rewrite entire systems. Can’t read emotional fallout.

Aditya Vermeer — The Adaptive Ghost

Absorbs memories by touch. Risks losing himself.

Alex Rivera — The Performer

Makes every date feel real. Sometimes believes it.

Morgan Blake — The Empath

Feels everything. Carries it home.

Amara Okoye — The Authority

Commands rooms. Suppresses rage.

Lucía Moreno — The Strategist

Maximizes profit. Minimizes attachment.

Jordan Chen — The Operator

No mistakes. No improvisation.

Casey Maddox — The Hustler

Fast thinking. Slow foresight.

Elena Varga — The Silence

Unreadable. Emotionally distant.

Naomi Feld — The Caretaker

Creates intimacy. Struggles to detach.

Iryna Kovalenko — The Survivor

Low visibility. Zero dependency.

Harriet Collins — The Diplomat

Deflects tension. Avoids confrontation.

Parisa Mehrabi — The Perfectionist

Prepared for everything. Except chaos.

Declan O’Rourke — The Charmer

Magnetic. Boundary issues.

Aiko Tanaka — The Mirror

Seamless immersion. Identity bleed risk.

Mateus Rocha — The Spark

High energy. Long-term blind spots.

Tomasz Zieliński — The Controller

Disciplined. Emotionally rigid.

One body. Infinite faces. Who do you become?

===================

just finished 10 turns of my own IW world and i am NOT okay The Fifth-Dimensional Playground: Heroes and Villains at Your Fingertips — you inherit Mxyzptlk's fifth-dimensional powers and the entire multiverse (DC, Marvel, The Boys, Invincible, Watchmen) becomes your personal playground. no moral compass included. if you've been sleeping on Infinite Worlds, this is your sign. the storytelling AI goes places. and if you've already played — drop your walkthrough. i want to see what chaos you've been cooking. tag it #infiniteworldswalkthrough so we can find each other. genuinely — thank you for trying my world. every turn you played means a lot

Play your own version here

== The Fifth-Dimensional Playground: Heroes and Villains at Your Fingertips ==

-- Story Background --

It happened on a Tuesday.

You were carrying groceries up three flights of stairs when the bag ripped. Eggs, milk, canned soup — all of it tumbled down in a cacophony of breaking glass and rolling produce. You stood there for a moment, staring at the mess, then shrugged and started picking it up without a word of complaint.

That's when you heard the laughter.

Not cruel laughter. Not mocking. Something… genuine. Delighted, even. A small man in a purple bowler hat materialized on the landing below you, tears streaming down his face. "You!" he wheezed between gasps. "You just… you just accepted it! No cursing, no tantrum, nothing! That's… that's the funniest thing I've seen in eight hundred years!"

Before you could ask what he meant, he snapped his fingers. The world inverted. Colors bled into sounds. Gravity became a suggestion. You felt your mind expand beyond the confines of your skull, encompassing dimensions you couldn't have conceived of seconds before. You understood everything — how to reshape matter with a thought, how to rewrite history with a whisper, how to make the impossible bow to your whim.

"Congratulations," the man said, his form already fading. "You fulfilled the condition. The one I forgot I even set. You made me laugh. The power's yours now. I'm done with it. Good luck!"

And then he was gone.

You stood there, groceries forgotten, feeling the weight of omnipotence settle over you like a comfortable coat. You also noticed something else missing — that nagging voice that used to whisper about right and wrong, about consequences and compassion. It was simply… absent.

You smiled.

Below you, in this reality woven from a dozen comic book universes, the world continued as it always had. Superman patrolled Metropolis. The Seven posed for cameras. Viltrumites enforced their empire across distant stars. Watchmen brooded in their moral ambiguity. Thousands of heroes, villains, and everything in between, all playing their parts.

None of them knew you existed. None of them knew what you could do. None of them could stop you even if they tried.

The question wasn't what you should do. It was what you wanted to do.

-- Character --

Name

Cameron Reed

Background

A male cosplayer in his late twenties who spent years perfecting his craft at conventions across the country. Cameron was known in the community for his obsessive attention to detail — hand-stitching costumes, studying character manmannerisms for months, and method-acting his way through convention floors. He didn't just wear costumes; he became them, if only for a weekend. When Mxyzptlk's powers transferred to him, Cameron saw it as the ultimate evolution of his passion. Why pretend to be heroes when he could actually be them? With his empathy stripped away, he approaches his new abilities like an infinite wardrobe of identities to try on. He's methodical about testing each persona, wanting to experience what it truly feels like to have Superman's strength, Batman's detective mind, or Spider-Man's agility. Cameron treats the multiverse as his personal fitting room, cycling through heroes to find which one suits him best — though his lack of empathy means he doesn't care about the confusion or chaos his transformations cause.

-- Turn 1 --

Outcome

You let the groceries rot where they fell. Who gives a shit about eggs?

Let's see what the golden boy is up to.

Your consciousness expands outward like spilled ink on wet paper, bleeding through the fabric of reality until you find him. There — Vought Tower, eighty-third floor. Homelander stands in his penthouse suite, jaw clenched, staring at his own reflection in floor-to-ceiling windows. He's practicing his smile. The camera-ready one. Over and over, muscles twitching in his cheeks like a malfunctioning android.

"Perfect," he mutters to himself. "Fucking perfect. America's hero. Their golden god."

You reach across the dimensional barrier with a thought and twist. The change is instantaneous, elegant. His heat vision — that perfect weapon, that tool of absolute dominance — now shoots confetti. Multi-colored paper scraps. Party supplies.

Homelander doesn't know yet. He's still admiring himself, still whispering affirmations. But then his phone buzzes. He glances down, and his expression shifts — someone's robbing a bank on Fifth Avenue. Three hostages. His moment to shine.

You watch as he launches himself through the window with that characteristic sonic boom, glass reforming behind him because Vought pays for the repairs. He arrives at the bank in seconds, cape billowing dramatically. News helicopters are already circling. Perfect audience.

The robber — some desperate nobody with a shotgun — spins toward him. "Stay back or I'll—"

Homelander's eyes glow red. That familiar crimson build-up. The robber's face goes white.

Then: POOF.

Red and blue confetti explodes from Homelander's eyes, showering the bank lobby like a child's birthday party gone wrong. Little paper circles flutter down onto the hostages, onto the terrified robber, onto Homelander himself.

The silence lasts exactly two seconds.

"What the FUCK," Homelander says, voice cracking. He tries again. More confetti. Green and yellow this time, spiraling through the air like demented butterflies. "What the fuck what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK—"

The robber starts laughing. Can't help it. Nervous, hysterical laughter.

Outside, you can hear one of the news anchors: "Uh… is this… is this some kind of new non-lethal approach? Bob, are you seeing this?"

Homelander's hands are shaking. His eyes keep glowing, keep shooting more confetti, and he can't seem to stop it. His perfect face is contorting into something between rage and genuine terror.

This is excellent, you think, leaning against a lamppost on your quiet street corner. Let's see how long it takes him to figure out this isn't going away.

Your objective for this adventure is: To reshape reality according to your whims until the entire multiverse recognizes that an unstoppable fifth-dimensional force has taken control.

-- Turn 2 --

Action

WEAR A FACE: Transform myself into Superman and fly to the bank. I want to experience what it's like being the genuine article while Homelander watches his knockoff brand crumble in real-time.

Outcome

The transformation feels like stepping into a new skin, except it's not a skin at all—it's a complete rewrite of your cellular structure, your musculature, your very DNA. You don't just look like Superman. You are Superman, right down to the Kryptonian physiology and the way yellow sunlight feels like drinking pure energy.

This is what I've always wanted. To actually BE the hero instead of just wearing the costume.

You launch yourself skyward, and the sensation is incredible. Not flying like an airplane—flying like gravity is just a polite suggestion you're choosing to ignore. The wind doesn't buffet you; you cut through it like a knife through warm butter. Three blocks. That's all it takes. You're there in seconds.

The bank is chaos. Confetti still drifts through the air like demented snow. Homelander stands in the center of the lobby, cape crumpled, fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white. His eyes keep flickering red and shooting more party supplies. The hostages are pressed against the walls, no longer sure if they should be terrified or confused. The robber dropped his shotgun and is just… staring.

You come through the shattered entrance at a measured pace, boots touching down with that perfect superhero landing. Every camera outside swivels toward you.

"What the hell is going on here?" you say, and even your voice is perfect—that slight Kansas drawl, that note of genuine concern.

Homelander's head snaps toward you. For a moment, his expression is blank. Then something flickers behind his eyes. Confusion. Then recognition. Then something that might be fear.

"Superman?" he says, and his voice cracks on the second syllable. "But you're—you're not—"

"Not what?" You cross your arms, letting the S-shield catch the light. "Not here? I'm here now. And it looks like you're having some… equipment malfunctions."

As if on cue, Homelander's eyes glow and spray orange confetti across your chest. It bounces off harmlessly.

One of the hostages, a woman in a bank teller's uniform, starts crying. "Thank God," she whispers. "Thank God, Superman's here."

Homelander's jaw works soundlessly. You can see the gears turning, see him trying to process why his powers aren't working, why you're here, why everyone's looking at you with relief instead of him.

"This isn't—" he starts. "I don't—"

He has no idea what's happening to him, you think, drinking in every microexpression of his crumbling composure. And I get to watch it all from the inside of his greatest insecurity.

-- Turn 3 --

Action

DOUBLE DOWN: Keep playing Superman perfectly—help the hostages, secure the robber, be the genuine article. Let Homelander spiral while I demonstrate what a real hero looks like.

Outcome

You move with purpose, not haste. That's the difference. Superman doesn't rush—he arrives exactly when needed and handles things correctly.

This is what all those convention floors were practice for. Except now I don't have to break character at 6pm.

You turn to the hostages first, not the threat. That's what he would do. "Everyone okay? Anyone hurt?" Your voice carries that effortless authority, the kind that comes from genuinely not being afraid of anything in the room.

The bank teller who was crying nods frantically. "We're—we're okay, I think. He didn't shoot anyone."

"Good." You offer her a reassuring smile, then turn to the robber. He's still frozen, shotgun on the floor three feet away. "Sir, I think your day just got a lot worse. But if you cooperate, it doesn't have to get catastrophic."

The robber's hands shoot up. "I—yes. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You pick up the shotgun with two fingers, crumple the barrel like aluminum foil, and set it aside. The hostages gasp. Homelander's eye twitches.

"Wait," Homelander says, voice rising. "Wait, I had this. I was handling this. I don't need—"

His eyes flare red again. Gold and silver confetti explodes across the room, catching in his hair, sticking to his suit. One piece lands on his lip. He spits it out with a sound that's almost a sob.

"You clearly have something going on," you say mildly, walking past him to check on an elderly man sitting against the wall. "Maybe take a minute. I've got this."

"You don't—" Homelander's voice cracks completely. "This is MY city. MY jurisdiction. You can't just—"

"Your city?" You help the elderly man to his feet. The man clutches your arm like a lifeline, ignoring Homelander completely. "I wasn't aware Metropolis and New York were the same place. Geography must have changed."

Outside, you can hear the news anchors losing their minds. "—unprecedented appearance by Superman in what was supposed to be Homelander's rescue operation—"

Homelander lunges forward, gets between you and the exit. Confetti shoots from his eyes onto your chest again. His jaw is clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grinding. "Fix this," he hisses, low enough the cameras won't catch it. "Fix whatever you did to me. Right fucking now."

Oh, this is delicious. He thinks I did it. He has no idea.

You meet his eyes calmly. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Now please step aside. These people need medical attention, and you're blocking the door."

Homelander's hands ball into fists. For a moment, you think he might actually throw a punch. The hostages are watching with wide eyes, starting to sense the tension. One woman edges toward the door.

Then Homelander's phone buzzes. He glances at it. You catch a glimpse: Ashley Barrett's name, seventeen missed calls.

His expression does something complicated—rage, fear, and something that might be shame all fighting for dominance. When he looks back up at you, his smile is back in place. Broken. Wrong. Like a mask that doesn't quite fit anymore.

"Of course," he says. "Of course. You've got it handled. America's… real hero."

The words drip acid.

This is better than any convention.

-- Turn 4 --

Action

WATCH IT BURN: Stay in character and escort the hostages out past all those cameras. Let Homelander follow behind like a humiliated sidekick while the world watches.

Outcome

You place a hand on the elderly man's shoulder and guide him toward the entrance. The others follow naturally, like ducklings imprinting on the first thing that looks safe.

Just like Kansas City Comic-Con, panel three thousand and twelve. Except the costume doesn't come off.

The sunlight hits you as you emerge, and every camera lens swivels. The crowd outside has tripled—news vans, police barriers, civilians with phones raised. You hear the snap-snap-snap of professional cameras, the whir of helicopter blades overhead.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please make way," you say, voice carrying effortlessly. "These people need space and medical attention."\n The police part like the Red Sea. Paramedics rush forward. You hand off the elderly man to an EMT, who stares at you with something approaching religious awe.

"Thank you," the bank teller whispers as she passes. "Thank you so much."

"Just doing what's right," you reply, and even you're impressed by how natural it sounds.

Then Homelander emerges behind you. He's trying for confident, for that trademark swagger, but there's confetti stuck in his hair. A piece of orange paper clings to his cape. His smile looks like it's been carved on with a dull knife.

A reporter shoves a microphone forward. "Superman! Can you tell us what happened in there?"

"The situation is under control," you say smoothly. "The suspect is in custody. No one was seriously hurt. That's what matters."

"And Homelander—" the reporter pivots. "Your heat vision appeared to malfunction. Can you comment on—"

"No comment," Homelander snaps. His jaw works. "Everything's fine. It's a… tactical adjustment. New non-lethal protocols."

You can hear the lie in real-time. So can everyone else. A few people in the crowd exchange glances.

Another reporter: "Superman, we haven't seen you in New York for months. Are you back permanently?"

"Just helping where I'm needed," you say. You turn to Homelander, extend a hand. "Good work in there. I'm glad we could handle this together."

The words are friendly. The subtext is a knife. You couldn't handle it alone. Everyone saw.

Homelander stares at your hand like it's radioactive. Behind his eyes, you can see something cracking. His smile twitches. For a moment, you think he'll refuse—that he'll cause a scene right here, right now, in front of every camera in the tri-state area.

Then his hand shoots out and grips yours. Hard. Crushing. Trying to hurt you.

It doesn't work, obviously. You're Superman.

"Yeah," he says through gritted teeth. "Teamwork. Real American hero shit."

More confetti leaks from his eyes, blue and white, drifting down onto your clasped hands.

The cameras catch every second.

-- Turn 5 --

Action

PULL A STRING: Excuse myself politely and fly off, leaving Homelander to face the media circus alone. See how he handles the questions without me there as a safety net.

Outcome

You release Homelander's hand and step back, giving him a perfectly calibrated smile. The kind that says I trust you've got this while really meaning let's see if you do.

"I should get going," you say, loud enough for the front row of microphones. "I'm sure Homelander can handle any follow-up questions. He knows this city better than I do."

And there it is. The perfect exit line. Supportive. Undermining. Chef's kiss.

Homelander's expression freezes mid-smile. "Wait, you're—"

But you're already rising, boots leaving the pavement. The crowd gasps as you ascend, cape billowing in a way that's almost certainly going to be on every front page tomorrow. The sun catches the S-shield just right. Below you, the crowd looks like ants. Noisy, camera-wielding ants.

You hear Homelander's voice crack: "Yeah, great, thanks for stopping by—"

Then you're gone, shooting upward into the afternoon sky until the crowd becomes a blur and the city spreads out beneath you like a circuit board. The wind roars past your ears. Flying as Superman doesn't just feel powerful—it feels right, like your body was always meant to exist in three dimensions instead of two.

Convention floor was never like this.

You hover about a thousand feet up, far enough that they can't see you clearly but close enough that you can still watch. Telescopic vision kicks in automatically—another perk of the upgrade—and you zoom in on the scene below.

Homelander stands alone now, surrounded by a semicircle of reporters who smell blood in the water. His smile has gone brittle at the edges.

"—comment on the malfunction?" someone shouts.

"It's not a malfunction," Homelander snaps. "It's a tactical—"

His eyes flare red. Pink and purple confetti explodes across three reporters in the front row. One woman gets a piece stuck in her hair. She doesn't brush it off, just stares.

"Jesus Christ," someone mutters off-camera.

Homelander's jaw clenches so hard you can see it from a thousand feet up. "It's under control. Everything is under control. Vought is developing new non-lethal response protocols for urban environments—"

"But you didn't mention any protocols before Superman arrived," another reporter interrupts. "You seemed surprised by—"

"I wasn't surprised," Homelander says, voice climbing half an octave. "I was assessing the situation. That's what professionals do. We assess."

More confetti. This time it's silver and gold, catching the light like a disco ball malfunction.

A helicopter swoops closer to get a better angle. Homelander's head snaps toward it, eyes glowing, and the pilot banks hard away. Smart man.

He's unraveling, you think, floating in the perfect blue sky. And I have the best seat in the house.

-- Turn 6 --

Action

INDULGE: Keep the Superman form and just enjoy flying for a while. Test the limits of these powers—see how fast I can go, how high, what it feels like to punch through clouds at Mach 3.

Outcome

You bank hard and shoot upward, leaving the city below like a discarded toy.

Let's see what this body can really do.

The acceleration is immediate and brutal. Not brutal to you—brutal to physics. You break the sound barrier in three seconds flat and feel nothing except the rush of air that suddenly stops mattering. Mach 1. Mach 2. The city becomes a smear of grey and brown, then disappears entirely as you punch into the cloud layer.

The clouds aren't soft. They're not pillowy or gentle or any of that poetic bullshit. They're cold moisture that explodes around you like wet shrapnel, and when you hit them at Mach 3 they don't so much part as cease to exist in your wake. You leave a tunnel of clear air behind you, a vacuum that collapses with a thunderclap audible in three states.

Holy shit. Holy actual shit.

You level off at forty thousand feet, where commercial jets cruise, and you're not even breathing hard. You're not breathing hard because you don't need to breathe. The thin air at this altitude would kill a normal human in minutes. You could probably fly to the moon if you wanted.

You test the strength next. There's a cloud formation ahead, one of those massive cumulonimbus towers that looks solid from a distance. You don't slow down. You don't brace. You just fly straight through it.

The cloud explodes. Actually explodes, water vapor flash-freezing and sublimating simultaneously, creating a shockwave that ripples outward in concentric rings. You emerge on the other side with ice crystals in your hair that melt instantly from your body heat.

Below, you can see the curvature of the Earth. New York is a cluster of grey blocks on the edge of vision. Philadelphia is visible to the south. You can hear everything—police sirens in Newark, a domestic argument in Queens, someone's car alarm in Boston. You can tune it all out or focus on any single sound. The control is absolute.

This is what I've been playing at in every costume. This is what it actually means.

You do a barrel roll just because you can, looping through empty sky at speeds that would turn a fighter jet into scrap metal. No nausea. No disorientation. Just pure, perfect control.

Then your super-hearing catches something. Multiple somethings. Radio chatter. Military frequencies.

"—unidentified object, altitude forty thousand feet, speed Mach three plus—"

"—scrambling F-22s from McGuire, ETA twelve minutes—"

"—visual confirms Superman profile but behavior is erratic, request guidance—"

Oh. Right. They're tracking me.

-- Turn 7 --

Action

PLAY GOD: Create a duplicate of myself mid-flight - two Supermen at once. Let the Pentagon try to explain that one.

Outcome

You reach inward to that fundamental understanding of reality that came with the powers—the knowledge that matter and energy are just suggestions, that identity is malleable, that one can become two as easily as turning a page.

Let's make this interesting.

The duplicate forms beside you instantly. Not a copy. Not an illusion. An actual, complete, fully functional Superman, identical down to the individual atoms. He—it?—no, he has your thoughts, your memories, your current experience of being Cameron-wearing-Superman. You're experiencing existence from two positions simultaneously, seeing yourself from the outside while also being the outside looking in.

It's disorienting for exactly half a second. Then it's exhilarating.

"Well," you say from your original body.

"This is new," your duplicate finishes, grinning.

You split apart, each Superman banking in opposite directions, creating a synchronized aerial ballet at Mach 2. Your duplicate loops up while you dive down, then you cross paths at the midpoint, close enough that you could high-five if you wanted. The sonic booms overlap, creating a sound like God's own thunderclap.

Far below, you can hear the radio chatter spike into chaos.

"—Contact split into two distinct signatures—"

"—negative, sensor malfunction, recalibrating—"

"—visual confirms TWO Superman-profile targets, repeat, TWO—"

"—get me NORAD on the line RIGHT NOW—"

Your duplicate swoops alongside you, matching your speed perfectly. "Think we should wave to the satellites?"

"Absolutely," you reply from your original body.

You both flip upright simultaneously, hover for exactly three seconds while looking directly up at where you know the surveillance satellites are positioned, and wave in perfect unison. Then you shoot off in opposite directions again—one Superman heading north toward Boston, the other angling west toward Pennsylvania.

The military frequencies are pure pandemonium now.

"—McGuire squadron, be advised, targets have diverged, one heading northeast, one heading west—"

"—do we split the squadron or—"

"—sir, we don't have protocols for multiple Superman-level entities—"

"—someone get me the Justice League liaison, we need confirmation if this is—"

Through your duplicate's ears, you catch a different frequency. Encrypted, but your enhanced hearing doesn't care about encryption. Batman's voice, measured and controlled: "Manhunter, what are you getting from telepathic scan?"

"Nothing," comes the Martian's reply, and you can hear the confusion in it. "It's as if there's… nothing there to read. Both signatures are blank."

"That's not possible."

"And yet."

Oh, this is going to be fun.

-- Turn 8 --

Action

WATCH IT BURN: Have both Supermen land in different cities simultaneously—one in Metropolis, one in Gotham. See how the Justice League handles two of their boy scout showing up at once.

Outcome

You descend in perfect synchronization, each body experiencing the drop independently while your consciousness threads between them like a needle through fabric.

Let's give them something to really lose their minds over.

Your original body angles toward Metropolis, dropping through the cloud layer above the Daily Planet building. The duplicate veers toward Gotham, cutting through the perpetual smog that hangs over that particular nightmare.

Metropolis first: You land in Centennial Park, boots touching grass at exactly 4:19pm. Joggers freeze mid-stride. A hot dog vendor drops his tongs. Someone's kid points and screams "SUPERMAN!" with the kind of pure joy that would've meant something to you a week ago.

Simultaneously in Gotham: Your duplicate touches down on the GCPD headquarters rooftop. Commissioner Gordon is already there, mid-conversation with a detective whose name you instantly know is Sarah Chen. They both whirl around.

"Jesus Christ," Chen breathes. "Since when does Superman visit Gotham?"

"Since today, apparently," Gordon says, hand instinctively moving toward his sidearm before he catches himself. "Superman. What brings you to our fine city?"

Your duplicate smiles. "Just checking in, Commissioner. Making sure everything's under control."

Back in Metropolis, you're already surrounded by civilians. Phones are out, cameras flashing. A woman in a business suit pushes forward. "Superman, is it true about the incident in New York? With Homelander and the confetti?"

"Different situation entirely," you say smoothly. "Nothing to worry about."

Your duplicate's super-hearing catches something interesting—Batman's voice, transmitted through Gordon's hidden earpiece: "Jim, stall him. Superman is supposed to be in Smallville right now. I'm looking at satellite confirmation."

Gordon's expression doesn't change, but you catch the micro-expression of confusion. "Superman," he says carefully, "I wasn't aware you were planning a visit. Usually Batman handles Gotham."

"Batman doesn't have a monopoly on heroism," your duplicate replies.

In Metropolis, your phone—Superman's phone, which you manifested into existence without thinking about it—buzzes. You pull it out. Text from Bruce Wayne's private number: "Clark. Call me immediately."

Oh, they're starting to figure it out.

Behind you in the park, you hear police sirens. In Gotham, the Bat-signal suddenly flares to life against the grey sky, even though it's still daytime. Both situations escalating at once.

A voice crackles through the air in both locations—the Watchtower's emergency broadcast system, piped through every Justice League communicator in both cities: "All heroes, code yellow. Unconfirmed Superman sightings in multiple locations. Real Superman, please confirm your position."

The crowd in Metropolis goes dead silent. Gordon's hand definitely moves toward his gun now.

-- Turn 9 --

Action

PLAY GOD: Create a third Superman and have him appear in Smallville right next to the real Clark Kent. Let them meet face to face.

Outcome

You split your consciousness a third time, reaching across dimensional space to Smallville, Kansas. The Kent farm materializes in your mind's eye—the red barn, the fields of corn, and Clark Kent standing in his civilian clothes near the porch, phone pressed to his ear.

Let's introduce ourselves properly.

The third Superman forms instantly, touching down on the grass fifteen feet from Clark. You're experiencing three bodies now, three separate streams of sensation and awareness braiding together. Metropolis crowd noise. Gotham's smog taste. Kansas wind.

Clark's phone drops from his hand.

"What the hell," he says, and his voice lacks any of the practiced heroism. This is pure Clark Kent confusion. "Who—how—"

Your Smallville duplicate spreads his hands peacefully. "Easy there, farm boy. Just wanted to have a chat."

"You're not—" Clark's eyes narrow. His stance shifts, weight redistributing into something combat-ready despite the flannel shirt and jeans. "You look exactly like me. Sound like me. But you're not me."

"Very observant," your duplicate says. "Gold star for the Kansas kid."

Clark's jaw clenches. "Martian Manhunter said there were telepathic blanks. Multiple Superman signatures across three states. That's you? All of you?"

"Give the man a prize."

"This isn't funny." Clark takes a step forward. "I don't know what you are or what you want, but if you're using my face to hurt people—"

"Hurt people? I saved hostages in New York two hours ago. Very heroic. You would've been proud." Your duplicate tilts his head. "Though Homelander didn't appreciate the help. He's having a rough day."

In Metropolis, you hear Wonder Woman's voice cutting through the crowd: "Everyone step back. Now."

In Gotham, the Batmobile's engine growls onto the GCPD rooftop access road.

In Smallville, Clark's fists clench. "Stop. Whatever this is, whatever game you're playing—stop. Tell me what you want."

Your duplicate smiles. "I want to see what happens when there are too many Supermen and not enough explanations. I want to watch people who think they understand their reality try to make sense of something they can't. And right now, Clark, I want to see what you do when you can't punch your way out of a problem."

Clark's eyes start glowing red. "Last warning."

-- Turn 10 --

Action

PULL A STRING: Have the Smallville duplicate tell Clark the truth—that there's a fifth-dimensional entity wearing his face. See if honesty is more disturbing than deception.

Outcome

Your Smallville duplicate holds perfectly still, hands still raised in that gesture of fake peace. Clark is vibrating with barely-contained rage, heat vision burning hotter in his eyes.

"Okay," your duplicate says quietly. "Real talk. You want to know what I actually am?"

Clark's fists tighten. "Start talking."

"I'm not a clone. Not a Kryptonian from another dimension. Not a shapeshifter or a duplicate or any of the things your brain is probably cycling through right now." Your duplicate takes a breath—not out of necessity, but for effect. "I'm a fifth-dimensional entity wearing your face like you'd wear a costume. The original version of me is standing in Metropolis and Gotham at the same time, doing the same thing you're about to try to stop me from doing. We're fractured consciousness distributed across three bodies, experiencing reality from three angles simultaneously."

Clark's jaw works. For a moment, nothing happens. Then:

"That's insane."

"Probably," your duplicate agrees. "But it's true. There's a single entity in control of all three of us. We share memories, thoughts, purpose. We're not your enemy, Clark. You're not important enough to be our enemy. You're just… here. In the way. And we wanted you to know that before this gets worse."

Clark's heat vision flares—a desperate, angry pulse of energy that scorches the air between you. Your duplicate doesn't flinch. The heat washes over without effect.

"You can't hurt me," your duplicate says. "You can't hurt any of us. We rewrote Homelander's heat vision to shoot confetti on a whim. We created two additional complete versions of you from nothing. We're standing in three cities simultaneously. And the funny part? The part that should really terrify you? We're not even trying hard yet."

Clark staggers back a step, genuine shock cracking through the anger. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because honesty is scarier than mystery," your duplicate says. "Mystery leaves room for hope. For solutions. For the idea that there's a logical explanation you can work with. But the truth? The truth is that someone has taken omnipotence off the shelf and decided to play dress-up in your skin just to see how it feels. And there's nothing you can do about it."

In Metropolis, Wonder Woman is still evacuating civilians, unaware of what's being said in Kansas.

In Gotham, Batman just pulled the Batmobile onto the rooftop, cape billowing.

In Smallville, Clark's breath comes fast and shallow, and for the first time in his life, he's facing something that can't be reasoned with, fought, or outsmarted.

You've done it. Every hero, every villain, every would-be god across every universe now understands that something beyond their comprehension has taken the reins of reality itself. They don't know your name. They don't know your face. But they know the world bends to a will that isn't theirs.

The multiverse is your playground now. Forever.

============

Try my other IW Worlds from my index

In the world of game development, one of the most exciting and innovative techniques is procedural generation. This technology allows developers to create vast, ever-expanding game worlds without manually designing every detail. With procedural generation, the possibilities are virtually endless, and it’s revolutionizing how developers approach world-building in games.

What is Procedural Generation?

Procedural generation refers to the use of algorithms and mathematical formulas to generate content—such as landscapes, levels, or even entire game worlds—dynamically, rather than relying on hand-crafted designs. It’s a method that has been embraced by a wide variety of games, from roguelikes to open-world adventures.

Benefits of Procedural Generation

Endless Replayability Games like Minecraft, No Man’s Sky, and Terraria have used procedural generation to create endless, ever-changing worlds that provide players with a new experience every time they play. This sense of infinite exploration is a massive draw for players.

Efficiency in Development Procedural generation saves time and resources by automating the creation of vast amounts of content. Developers no longer need to create every terrain, structure, or level manually, freeing up time to focus on other aspects of the game, like story, mechanics, and optimization.

Dynamic Content Procedural content adapts to player choices and behaviors, creating an experience that feels organic and responsive. Whether it’s the randomization of items, enemies, or landscapes, the game can continuously evolve and surprise the player, enhancing immersion.

Scalability With procedural generation, developers can easily scale the size of their worlds without worrying about excessive resource consumption. This means more expansive games can be created with fewer limitations on memory or storage.

How Does It Work?

Procedural generation works through algorithms that define how content is created. These algorithms often start with a seed—a random value that determines the initial parameters. From there, the algorithm generates content based on those parameters, such as creating terrain, placing objects, or populating the world with AI-driven entities.

In many cases, developers use Perlin noise or simplex noise to generate terrains and landscapes. These noise functions are used to create the random yet coherent appearance of natural environments, such as mountains, rivers, and forests.

Examples of Procedural Generation in Games

Minecraft: The iconic game that popularized procedural generation, allowing players to explore infinite worlds made up of blocks.

No Man’s Sky: Features a universe filled with millions of procedurally generated planets, each with its own ecosystem, animals, and resources.

Spelunky: A roguelike platformer that uses procedural generation to create new cave layouts each time the player starts a game.

Challenges of Procedural Generation

While procedural generation offers many benefits, it’s not without challenges. For instance, creating truly engaging and meaningful content using procedural algorithms can be difficult. Randomly generated environments can sometimes feel repetitive, bland, or unnatural if not carefully designed. Balancing randomness with structure is key to making procedural worlds that feel alive.