Infinite DC
Chapter Seven: The NeverEnding Story

“Um, o-okay,” stammered Cisco. “T-Take a deep breath.”

Following his instruction, Cara’s chest puffed out. Her round, sizable breasts like balloons inflating beneath her black t-shirt.

Cisco had the stethoscope hovering over them, his arm frozen in position for a seemingly substantial amount of time. His eyes locked with the cleavage from the very blonde whose heartbeat he thought he was prepared to give a listen to.

Cara started to become dizzy, holding her breath for more than a few seconds.

A short distance nearby was Caitlin Raymond, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Oh, give it to me,” she moaned, walking across the lab to snatch away the stethoscope. “You can really be too much at times, Cisco.”

He babbled a response that Caitlin was unable to discern.

But the weirdest part was this whole task was his idea.

After discovering Cara’s peculiar capsule, which she manifested there within S.T.A.R. Labs, and its equally abnormal inconsistency between the dimensions of its exterior and interior, Cisco just had to be certain if it was the fabled time machine from one of his favorite television programs.

His only confirmation was in the nature of Cara’s heartbeat, which Caitlin found to be quite irregular, listening through the stethoscope.

“She’s got two heartbeats,” she verified.

Cisco victoriously clapped his hands and yelled, “Boom! Knew it! She’s a Time Lady! I’ve gotta call Felicity and Ray! We got a real-life Time Lady and her very own T.A.R.D.I.S. in our lab!”

“You’ll have to just settle with Felicity on that, Cisco,” said Barry Allen, entering unmasked in his Flash suit. “Ray’s living on his own time-space adventure, according to Oliver.”

Metal clanging resounded from inside Cara’s opened T.A.R.D.I.S.

“Hey,” she called to the individuals inside it. “You boys be careful in there!”

The heads of Darwin and Gumball poked through the doors of the Gallifreyan spaceship. “It’s difficult to replace your ‘Shredder-Tearer’ thing when you’ve got all this junk lying around,” griped the former.

“Seriously, our bedroom looks clean compared to this!” Gumball added.

“First of all, it’s called a Ripper Collar, nowhere close to whatever that was you called it,” Cara addressed. “And second, don’t be dissing my living space. You boys are guests.”

Gumball groaned. “Fine. Just tell us what it looks like again.”

“You’ll know when you see it,” Cara said. “Looks like a giant, metal doughnut.”

The boys retreated back inside to continue in their search.

Meanwhile, Barry somewhat warily approached Cara and asked, “Have you ever been to a place we call ‘Earth-Two’? It looks like this Earth, only it’s a lot—”

“Dapper,” Cisco completed.

Cara shrugged. “I’ve been to infinite Earths. I can never really determine which is which by numbers. For example, your Earth could easily be ‘Earth-One-Million’ to me.”

“That would make valid sense,” said a voice from the shadows that revealed itself subsequently. “What we call ‘Earth-Two’ is only one parallel Earth we’ve uncovered. Several others can possibly exist.”

Cara frowned at the bleakly -dressed, fortysomething fellow.

“I hate to break it to ya, Mister…?”

“Wells. Harrison Wells…of Earth-Two.”

“There’s no ‘possibly’ about it. They exist.”

Wells deliberately nodded. “And you’re living proof of it – an alien with two hearts and companions in a blue cat, a fish with legs, and some type of genetically spliced rat-monkey.”

The man’s blunt, inconsiderate tone rubbed Cara the wrong way.

She was right on the verge of biting back until Barry stepped in.

“Hey, Harry? Mind if you, me, Caitlin, and Cisco talked for a sec?”

Wells followed the three out of the lab and into the adjoining hallway, but not without exchanging icy gazes with Cara.

She felt alleviated as soon as they all were out of the lab.

Prodding questions, cold stethoscopes, and now one moron insulting her intelligence and companions? She was thankful no one asked to take her temperature, which would have been the last straw.

The sooner she got out of this dimension, the better.

“Have you two found that flippin’ Ripper Collar or not?!” She barked to Gumball and Darwin.

“Nope,” Gumball answered from inside the T.A.R.D.I.S. “But we did replace this.”

The boys once again emerged, with Gumball holding a large, dusty brown book.

Darwin cleared the dust with one strong blow…right into Gumball’s face.

“Dude! C’mon!” Gumball hacked and coughed.

His reddened eyes looked on the embroidered cover and its title: “The NeverEnding Story.”

“What’s this book about?” Darwin queried to Cara.

“Well, guessing by the name, a story that has no ending?” Gumball determined.

“But it’s so thick,” Darwin indicated. “It would have to end.”

Gumball put on a skeptical frown. “Maybe it comes in volumes.”

Hearing their deliberation, Cara set her sights back on the two little troublemakers. Once she saw the book they debated on about, her crystal blue eyes widened with reflection.

“Haven’t you boys ever heard the saying ‘Never judge a book by its cover’?” She posed. “Well, don’t judge this one.” She took it out of their hands and gazed over the cover, smiling. “It was in my previous life when I discovered The NeverEnding Story…”

Many Years Earlier…

Chaos erupted left and right from the Type-Z’s control room.

Sparks flew out of the console and flames consumed eighty percent of the area.

One inert young Portuguese woman – dressed in a purple galaxy combat top and leggings with black combat boots – laid unconscious amidst it all. Right beside her stood a tiny Mogwai, chirping in concern for his cataleptic friend.

And then, in the heartbeat of a second, she snapped awake, exhaling a faint stream of golden mist.

“Perigo!”

She sat up, taking in the anarchy exploding around her.

“Como aconteceu isto?”

Her right hand slapped over her mouth, surprised and baffled by the non-English vernacular spewing out.

“Por que eu estou falando desse jeito?”

Gizmo was as puzzled as she was, garbling curiously.

Opting not to say another word in this new language she inherited from her newest regeneration, Neas shuffled to her feet and went to work regaining control back to the Type-Z. She considered herself blessed to still know how to operate it, effectively taking the ship out of the corridor and executing an emergency landing in a random dimension.

The fire engulfed throughout extinguished as soon as she switched on the deprivation tanks hidden beneath the roundels, releasing ammonium polyphosphate onto the inferno.

Gizmo let out a congratulatory squeak, but Neas was in no condition to celebrate.

After the control room pandemonium stopped, she stumbled her way off the platform and out of the T.A.R.D.I.S. altogether, collapsing just a few feet out onto a street alley. Her vision hazy, she could scarcely make out the lone shape of a boy fast-approaching her before drifting back into unconsciousness.

Some moments passed until she once again recuperated, replaceing herself seated back in the console room. Other than a throbbing head, she felt as if her health had reverted to normal.

There was only one way to be so sure.

“Meu nome é Neas.”

Nope. She still retained that Portuguese tongue.

At this juncture, she wondered if it was permanent with the regeneration – the very thought terrifying her to the core. How could she ever travel anyplace, speaking in a language not even her own T.A.R.D.I.S. could bother to translate?

In her woeful state of mind, she spotted a young boy with brown moppy hair standing near her on the console platform, having fun with Gizmo. She figured him to be the one that helped her back into the T.A.R.D.I.S.

“Obrigado,” she expressed her gratitude to the child’s deed.

Noticing her awake, the boy responded, “Sorry. I can’t understand you.”

Neas sighed, hoping for a second he could.

“My name’s Bastian,” he introduced himself. “Your pet’s really cute.” He gestured to the Mogwai sitting and smiling on the control console. “Are you both aliens from outer space? Your spaceship is bigger on the inside.”

“Sim, nós viajamos muito longe.”

Bastian frowned. He just could not grasp a word she said.

Then an idea struck in Neas that got her up from her seat, rushing to the control console and opening a secret compartment from where she claimed a notepad and pen. She used the items to compose a message for Bastian to read in his native tongue.

Unfortunately, as Bastian discovered afterward, the message was written in the same language Neas was trapped speaking in.

It befuddled the boy, who was logical enough to discern a conundrum to the woman’s dilemma: “You can understand English, because I’m speaking English, but you can’t write or speak it.”

Neas nodded, verifying Bastian’s intuition.

“Then you just need to be reminded of it.” This suggestion gave him an idea. Taking off his backpack and reaching in, he pulled out a copy of Lord of the Rings – one of his favorite books. “Here, we’ll read this together.”

Sitting down with her, he opened to the first chapter and read aloud.

Gizmo watched on, his large ears listening fixedly to Bastian as he assisted his new friend.

Over the course of a few months, Bastian daily visited Neas’s T.A.R.D.I.S.

It was always there in that one spot in the alley where he came to replace it, each day after school.

He never did learn of her true Gallifreyan name, instead selecting one for himself to remember. As such, he dubbed her “Isabel,” a name inspired by his late mother, Isabelle Bux.

Along with the new name, Isabel swapped the clothes of her preceding regeneration for some more suitable to her current one. Rummaging through her massive selection of outfits from the equally colossal wardrobe in her T.A.R.D.I.S., she settled on a unique style with a long-sleeved, cut-out, V-necked crop top bearing an oceanic design, in addition to a matching miniskirt and black leggings. She decided against footwear, replaceing greater comfort in being barefoot.

“What do you think, Gizmo?” She modeled for her longtime Mogwai companion.

Her fluency with English wholly returned just after a month in her sessions with Bastian, though she still carried a Portuguese accent. Despite so, she greatly enjoyed them, yearning to listen to the boy read chapters from his preferred authors – some Isabel herself had the pleasure in meeting.

She could not wait to show off her new threads to him that day of his visit.

However, she found herself waiting for him longer than the usual hour of their day-to-day sessions.

“He could not have forgotten, could he?” She counseled with Gizmo, who was himself lost on Bastian’s whereabouts.

Becoming more and more concerned by the minute, she departed from the T.A.R.D.I.S. and wandered out into the alley.

She was not too far out before she heard the shifting of glass bottles and cardboard boxes within a nearby dumpster. Its heavy lid lifted by the mild strength of the boy inside, his body littered with garbage.

“Bastian!” Isabel cried. “What are you doing hiding in there?”

“I’m not hiding. These bullies from school threw me in here.”

Isabel aided him out of the dumpster, cleaning the trash off him.

“Pobre coisa,” she uttered. “Who would want to bully a wonderful boy like you?”

“We would!”

Their eyes were directed to the end of the alley, seeing three boys – two dirty blondes and one wearing a red cap – standing side-to-side and leering directly on Isabel and Bastian.

“Who said you could get out the garbage?” The red-capped boy said.

“Get back in there!” One of the dirty blondes growled.

Bastian quivered. “Oh, no! Not again!”

Isabel protectively stood in front of him, politely addressing the three bullies, “Boys, just go. This has gone on far enough, don’t you think?”

“Keep out of this lady!” Red cap belligerently demanded.

“Yeah, or we’ll throw your gigantic butt in the dumpster, too,” one of his two cohorts threatened.

Isabel’s brow wrinkled in offense. Her focus briefly went to her backside, which she had not much deliberated, even while admiring her new body earlier in the T.A.R.D.I.S. wardrobe. But, sure enough, her buttocks did noticeably protrude through her skirt and leggings.

“Oh, come now, boys,” she griped. “No need to be rude – it’s not that big.”

Having none of her levity, the bullies gave chase.

Isabel and Bastian ran out of the alley and down the sidewalk, weaving around several bystanders to reach whatever point they lost their three adolescent adversaries in. Thankfully, Isabel discerned one place in their path to hide: a bookstore.

“This way,” she told Bastian, leading him through the door and shutting it once they were safe inside.

They ducked down low beneath the window door, staying out of sight while the bullies passed by. Isabel peered through the window, seeing if the coast was clear. She exhaled with relief when she got her approval.

“Those little monstros are worse than Sontarans!” Isabel reflected.

“Get outta here!” A grumpy voice snarled within the store. “We don’t like kids!”

Isabel and Bastian strolled further in, regardless of the disgruntled man’s warnings. Past row-upon-row of towering stacks of books, they discovered an elderly, salt-and-peppered gentleman sitting in an antique wing chair with one large brown book in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other.

He turned to see Isabel and Bastian looking on him.

“You two still here?” He grumbled. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“We’re j-just…” Bastian stammered.

“You’re hiding,” the man gathered.

Bastian again stammered to explain himself and Isabel, but the latter chose to be cordially honest with the elder.

“Yes, we were,” she admitted.

“Well, you kids are hiding in the wrong place,” said the man, who flattered Isabel with his addressing her as a youngster, being as old as she was in Gallifreyan years. “Here, we just sell small rectangular objects that’re called ‘books.’”

“We know books,” Bastian argued. “We’ve read a hundred and eighty-six of them in the last few months.”

“Bah! Comic books!” The old man belittled.

“No, we’ve read Treasure Island, The Last of the Mohicans, The Wizard of Oz, The Lord of the Rings, Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Tarzan…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the man said, seeming to gain interest – and even some respect – for Bastian.

Isabel smiled, detecting that impression.

“Who’re you running away from?” He asked them.

Bastian was too ashamed to answer, leaving Isabel to shield his pride and do so on his behalf: “Just some boys being boys.”

The bookseller nodded in comprehension.

“Ah. Are you his sister?”

Isabel blushed; this gentleman was such a flatterer.

“No, sir,” she chuckled. “I’m just a good friend.”

“A hard commodity in these times,” the bookseller perceived.

Bastian’s attention fell on the large book that the old man held in front of him.

“What’s that one about?”

The old seller beamed at his interest. “Oh, this is something special. Your books are safe. By reading them, you get to become Tarzan or Robinson Crusoe. But, afterwards, you get to be a little boy again. Have you ever been Captain Nemo, trapped inside your submarine while the giant squid is attacking you?”

Isabel sniggered.

The elderly bookseller caught onto her amusement. “Have you?”

“In a way, yes, I have,” Isabel remarked. “But not from reading the book.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about,” the seller established.

“I don’t,” said a mystified Bastian. “They’re only stories.”

“Only the ones you read, boy,” the seller disputed. “This one here is…”

Before he could continue, the ringing of a telephone brought the discussion to an abrupt close. He closed the large brown book, hiding it beneath a pile of newspapers to draw attention away from it.

“Forget about it,” he recommended. “This book is not for you.”

It almost sounded like a challenge to Bastian.

The old seller retreated to the back, answering his call.

Meanwhile, Bastian – careful not to let himself be seen by the bookseller – pryingly moved aside the newspapers to give him and Isabel a good look at the dubious hardcover.

It was embroidered with a strange icon above the title, “The NeverEnding Story.”

From this long glance they got of it, Isabel’s fascination outweighed Bastian’s.

“Let’s take it with us,” she encouraged.

“Isn’t that stealing?” Bastian fretted.

Isabel scoffed. “Is this not a library, Bastian?”

“No, it’s a bookstore,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

Isabel rolled her chocolate brown eyes. “Fine. We’ll leave a note promising to return it.”

And that was precisely what was done, shortly before their hasty exit…

…which was unexpectedly blocked by a nosy little blue cat.

“You stole a book off a helpless old man?!”

Present Time

“Alright, first off, the old man was not ‘helpless’ nor did we attack him in any way,” Cara elucidated. “And, secondly, we borrowed the book, leaving a note behind for him to see.”

“Good call on the note,” Darwin approved, “but stealing is still stealing.”

Cara grunted. “Do you two want to hear the rest of the story or not?”

The assortment of forthcoming footsteps alerted them to the return of Barry, Cisco, Caitlin, and Wells to the lab, interrupting their story time.

“Hey, Cara,” said an apprehensive Barry. “We could really use your help for a complicated task.”

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “How complicated are we talking?”

“Traveling-into-another-Earth complicated.”