"A man who has no imagination has no wings" – Muhammad Ali
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The cosmos trembled as Alastor Faramir tore through the stars, a living storm of force and fury. Across the void of space, he moved with a predator's grace, his eyes burning with an inner fire that could ignite worlds. His fists smashed into the very fabric of existence, each strike unleashing waves of radiant energy that twisted and consumed the galaxies around him. The forces of nature bent to his will, planets crumbling beneath his power, the stars themselves seeming to flicker in awe as his form cut through the dark expanse.
He was more than a man, more than a god—a warrior of immeasurable power, shaping the universe as if it were clay. His superhuman condition had elevated him far beyond the limits of mortals. He had become the storm that raged through the cosmos, an unstoppable force of destruction. Alien creatures, their forms strange and unearthly, faced him in battle, but they were little more than dust in his wake.
One moment, his hand grasped a comet, hurling it like a spear into a fleet of warships made of crystallized metal and sentient energy. They dissolved in the wake of his power, their fragments scattering across the void. Another instant, he stood atop a dying star, his voice echoing across the heavens as he ripped through the very fabric of its core, imploding it in a blaze of energy that shattered the surrounding space.
Alastor's might was a symphony of destruction, a rhythm that pulsed through the universe, leaving chaos in his wake. Every encounter, every battle, only seemed to feed his power, sharpening his focus. And yet, despite the vastness of his strength, the cosmic battlefield stretched on, endless. For thousands of years, he fought. There were no true victories or defeats, only an unrelenting march through the stars as Alastor sought the one thing that had eluded him for so long—peace.
Thousands of years later, the bell above the café door jingled as Alastor stepped inside, the familiar warmth of coffee and baked goods filling the air of the café known as Brooklyn Brew. Mr. Thompson, the boss of the café, was behind the counter, his hands moving with practiced ease as he tamped down the grounds, his face lined with years of quiet experience. The sound of the espresso machine hissed as steam swirled, a small slice of normalcy in the rhythm of the café.
Mr. Thompson, thin and a little tall but not as towering as Alastor, looked up with a quiet glance. His graying hair, the slow transition from its natural dark hue, gave him the kind of dignified age that spoke of time passing, yet his eyes retained a sharpness, a quiet vigilance. His face was worn, the sort of weathered look you'd expect from someone who'd spent decades working with his hands, fixing things that broke down or wore out. There was a subtle strength in his figure, built not on brawn, but the silent endurance that came from years of doing something with purpose. He was the kind of old man who carried the weight of history in his bones but did so with a quiet grace.
"You're late," Thompson said without looking up, his voice thick with mild reproach but softened by the familiarity of routine.
Alastor removed his jacket with a careful motion, hanging it over the back of the chair by the door. He stretched his shoulders, the faintest crack of discomfort passing through him as he straightened. "Needed some air," he replied, his voice as steady as ever, deep and smooth.
"Air's free, but time's not," Thompson muttered, adjusting the pressure on the espresso machine. "Dinner's in the oven, but don't let it burn like last week."
Alastor's lips twitched upward, a small smile of acknowledgment. He moved toward the kitchen, opening the oven door to reveal a tray of lasagna. The warm smell filled the small space, a reminder of the simple comforts he was learning to appreciate. With a careful hand, he pulled it out and set it on the counter, the movement smooth yet deliberate, as if the weight of it took more than just a moment's thought. He paused, but only for a beat, before plating it.
Two months. That's how long he had been here. Long enough that the daily rhythm of Earth life—small, predictable moments—had begun to take root. The bustling streets of Brooklyn, the noise of the café, the mundane exchanges with customers—it all felt strange, yet it was beginning to settle into him like the steady hum of the espresso machine.
The apartment wasn't much—an old building with creaky floors and walls that seemed to hum with the voices of the past. It had become a home, though, ever since Alastor had moved in with Mr. Thompson. The old mechanic had offered him the place without a second thought when Alastor had first arrived, looking for a quiet space to gather himself. In the weeks that followed, they'd settled into a comfortable routine, the two of them navigating their separate worlds within the same small space.
Thompson's apartment was still filled with tools and half-finished projects, the remnants of a life spent fixing, rebuilding, creating. He'd been a mechanic for decades before retiring, but it seemed he couldn't quite give up the habit. His hands moved with a deliberate slowness, finding comfort in the disassembly of small, ordinary machines.
The bell above the door jingled again as a few customers filtered in, the soft murmur of conversation mixing with the clatter of cups and the hiss of the coffee machine. Alastor moved behind the counter, his usual calm and efficient movements drawing the brief glance of a customer who couldn't help but notice him. He was often the subject of the occasional, lingering stare—not from arrogance, but from something simply undeniable.
Standing tall, with a broad, muscular build that spoke of a life lived with purpose, Alastor's striking blue eyes scanned the café with quiet focus, always alert, always observant. His black hair, neatly slicked back, complemented his chiseled jawline, giving him a strong yet handsome appearance, the kind that drew attention without him needing to try. It was the kind of look that suggested he could easily be mistaken for someone in his mid-20s, though the sense of experience in his posture told a different story.
He reached for the register, moving with the fluidity of someone who'd done it a thousand times before—though his wrist felt a little tighter today.
"Restock aisle three when you've got a minute," Mr. Thompson called from the back.
Alastor nodded, his movements easy, though the slight ache in his shoulder wasn't something he could ignore. He shifted his posture subtly, as if the effort to ease the discomfort didn't deserve acknowledgment. Still, there was no sign of it in his face—he looked, as always, the same youthful man. The façade, however, didn't hide everything.
By late afternoon, the café had quieted. Alastor leaned against the counter, his gaze drifting outside, where the world of Brooklyn rushed past. A few people were already bundled up against the coming chill, their faces a blur in the crisp autumn air. He exhaled slowly, wondering—no, feeling—how long he would keep this routine. How long he could play the part of someone who had nothing to hurry for.
The streetlights flickered on as the sun sank lower, casting a cool amber glow over the sidewalks. It was a comfortable evening, the hum of the city never quite quieting, but Alastor didn't mind. There was something about the noise that made the silence feel more tolerable.
As he returned to the apartment that evening, Mr. Thompson was sitting in his recliner, staring at a small motor on the coffee table, tools scattered around it in disarray. The old mechanic's hands moved with a practiced slowness, carefully disassembling the parts, pausing only when necessary to inspect or tighten a screw.
"You get used to it, don't you?" Alastor said, slipping off his shoes, his broad shoulders relaxing with the movement.
"Used to what?" Thompson replied without looking up, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"The routine. The days all blend together," Alastor said, lowering himself into the chair across from him. "But I guess that's the point."
Thompson grunted, then paused, considering Alastor with a sideways glance. "I didn't think you'd ever be one to settle down. Thought you'd be chasing something bigger." His fingers tapped idly on the motor before picking up the next wrench. "But you're here. So, what's the story?"
Alastor's gaze lingered on the scattered parts of the motor—small, ordinary things that would never be more than that. Yet there was a strange comfort in them. A simplicity that felt, somehow, like peace. "Maybe I'm chasing quiet," he said softly, the words feeling unfamiliar even as they left his lips.
Mr. Thompson chuckled softly under his breath, but his gaze returned to the motor. "Well, you might get your fill of that. But don't stay quiet for too long, kid. Life's short."
Alastor paused, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee mug. "I'm starting to realize that," he said, the words barely above a whisper.