The immediate rush of successful evasion was replaced by the cold, hard pinch of reality: pajamas, no wallet, no shoes, and a desperate need for caffeine. My IQ of 276 was useless if I couldn't bribe my way past the physical limitations of this new reality. The nearest logical checkpoint the closest equivalent to a civilized base of operations was a brightly lit café visible half a block ahead. But first, money.
"Necessity is the mother of invention," I muttered, adjusting my plaid waistband. "Or, in this case, the mother of temporary, technologically advanced larceny."
I spotted a standalone ATM kiosk nestled into the wall of a small credit union. The model was sleek, unfamiliar, and covered in what appeared to be holographic security stickers. Perfect. A challenge.
I slowed my pace, transforming my purposeful walk into a casual, observational stroll. But then, I caught myself. New tech meant proprietary encryption and modern countermeasures—a time sink. I needed speed, not spectacle. I spun on my heel, ignoring the sleek machine. I needed something simple, something with exploitable mechanical failures.
I ducked into a narrow side street and found the relic I was looking for: a grimy, stand-alone ATM bolted haphazardly to the side of a run-down bodega. This machine looked like it ran on punch cards and bad decisions. Perfect. Old tech means known exploits and predictable mechanical vulnerabilities.
I slowed my pace to an indifferent stroll. The machine was a VeriTech 4000, probably discontinued before my home dimension invented biodegradable plastic. Its security was physical, not digital. My arctic blue eyes scanned the panel: visible pin tumbler lock securing the cash dispenser, basic magnetic stripe reader, no modern sensors. This was a hackable antiquity.
I needed tools. I pulled the Rick and Morty comic from under my arm. I peeled back the laminate cover, separating the smooth, flexible plastic wraps (high-grade polyester, surprisingly useful as a non-conductive shim) from the cardboard. Then, my eyes settled on a small, oxidized coin wedged into the gutter between the panels—a discarded US copper coin (pre-1982, higher copper content, excellent conductivity). My lucky day.
I retreated into the alcove of a dumpster, folding the plastic wraps into a thin, rigid strip.
The ATM model had a standard, visible external card slot—basic magnetic stripe reader—and a keypad that was sticky with age. Hackable antiquity.
I gently inserted the rigid plastic wrap into the fine seam where the fascia plate met the card reader assembly. My sensitive fingers felt for the tiny internal mechanical latch. With a tiny, almost inaudible click, the internal reader assembly partially exposed itself—enough to see the magnetic stripe head.
The copper coin was the key. Its thickness and conductivity were ideal. I used the folded plastic wrap to guide the copper coin slowly into the magnetic read head. The static charge and the metallic swipe created a unique, temporary field disturbance that mimicked a partial card read error. This was enough to force the older machine's software into an Error State 37, which required immediate cash inventory verification.
The screen flashed, bypassing the PIN entry field and displaying: "MAINTENANCE ACCESS CODE REQUIRED."
My IQ of 276 had already modeled the most probable sequential patterns and manufacturer defaults based on the VeriTech series history I'd accessed in the first few seconds.
I keyed in the sequence with clinical efficiency: 2-5-8-0. Incorrect.
I keyed in the sequence again: 1-3-7-9. Incorrect.
The final, and most statistically probable, default for this specific model series was tied to the year the base model was discontinued, often offset by a simple constant. My mind flashed through the dates.
I keyed in the winning sequence: 2-9-7-0. Access Granted.
The maintenance menu was a beautiful, ugly green screen. I navigated the simple text interface: [1] Diagnostics [2] Cash Inventory [3] Dispense Override [4] Reboot.
I selected [3] Dispense Override. The machine didn't ask how much—it simply asked: [1] Test Amount (1 Bill) [2] Max Dispense [3] Custom.
I chose Custom, inputting the maximum feasible amount that wouldn't immediately trigger a physical inventory failure alarm at the central office: 380.
The cash slot spat out a thick stack of mixed bills. I quickly snatched the money.
Now for the cleanup. I couldn't just leave the machine displaying the bright green maintenance screen; that screamed "HACKED BY A GENIUS." I needed to revert it to a state that suggested simple, local hardware failure—the kind of problem a technician would blame on a bad capacitor, not a clever lunatic in pajamas.
My fingers flew across the sticky, aging keypad. I navigated back to the main maintenance menu:
[4] Reboot.
I selected it. The screen instantly went black, then blinked back to life with the standard, comforting digital display: "VeriTech 4000" I confirmed the maintenance override was completely cleared from the display buffer.
Next, the physical evidence. I retrieved the copper coin and the plastic wraps, pocketing them as valuable reusable components. I gently manipulated the magnetic read head assembly with the tips of my fingers, pushing the internal latch back into place until I heard the faint snick of the mechanism seating properly. The exterior slot now looked sealed and normal.
I didn't want the next user to get money, either. That would invite too much attention. I quickly initiated a final, invisible command sequence—a subtle software ping that flagged the internal cash dispenser sensor as 'Error: Cash Out (Low Denomination)'. This was a soft lock; it wouldn't set off alarms but would simply tell the next five users the machine was empty, buying me precious time.
I was satisfied. I had resources. I had proven that technology, regardless of its vintage, was simply a set of rules waiting to be exploited. I had done it using literal garbage and a highly focused thought process.
I adjusted my pajama bottoms. The ATM now sat passive and silent, its display beckoning users into a futile transaction, a perfect technological dead-end. The only evidence left was the profound mystery of the floating toilet two blocks away.
I pushed open the door of the café. The bell above the door chimed, a small, mundane sound that heralded the chaotic arrival of the smartest, most dangerous man on this planet.
++++++++
I walked straight to the counter. The barista, the same purple-haired young woman, didn't even blink at the sight of my plaid pajamas and $380 richer demeanor.
"One large, high-octane black coffee," I stated, pulling out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. "The objective is still neurochemical saturation."
"Four fifty-three. Keep the change, genius," she replied, bored, handing over the heavy ceramic mug.
I navigated to the small, tucked-away booth I had mentally bookmarked earlier. The smell of dark roast was a balm to my over-taxed cerebral cortex. I took a deep, fortifying sip. The bitter, scalding liquid was divine.
My eyes, however, weren't fixed on the coffee; they were fixed on the television screen mounted high in the corner. It was tuned to a local news channel, running a continuous, breathless loop of chaos from a nearby industrial park.
The visuals were unmistakable.
A giant, chrome-plated automaton was tearing through a warehouse district. But that wasn't the focal point. The focal point was the figure battling it: a man in blue and red, a flowing scarlet cape defying the laws of aerodynamics, whose presence alone seemed to bend reality.
The camera zoomed in, catching the perfect profile of the man as he delivered a world-shaking punch. The stylized "S" on his chest was a geometric masterpiece.
The news ticker flashed across the bottom of the screen: "METROPOLIS UNDER ATTACK: MYSTERY HERO INTERVENES."
My mental processing stopped. Not because of panic—that had been successfully suppressed one chapter ago but because the sheer, undeniable confirmation of my dimensional coordinates had just flashed in high-definition glory.
I stared, forgetting to sip the coffee, the mug frozen halfway to my lips. My IQ 276 had analyzed police uniforms, architectural trends, and subtle design cues to narrow the field to a superhuman reality. But seeing him, the primary, cultural linchpin of the entire superhero concept was different. It was the moment theory became painfully, physically real.
This wasn't just a world with superpowers; it was a world with Justice a capital-J concept. Which meant it was a world with Villainy, with Global Conspiracies, and worst of all, with a ridiculously rigid moral framework that someone like me would inevitably violate.
The man on screen was a walking, talking paradox of physics and righteousness, and I was sitting in a cafe barefoot in plaid pajamas.
I took a long, slow, mournful sip of my coffee, the heat barely registering against the shock. I finally muttered the one line of meta-commentary that captured the profound, magnificent absurdity of the situation.
"Well, shit. I'm in the DC Universe."