The warehouse appeared abandoned from the outside. Shayera had received a tip that civilians were being held hostage by thugs from a gang inside. She should have known better.
The moment she crashed through the window, what she had expected to be like any other warehouse was instead filled with advanced technology that looked similar to the practice room in the watchtower. She knew who this was.
"Sophist," she said flatly.
"Good evening, Shayera. Thank you for coming," his voice rang out from the speakers.
"I don't remember making an appointment. What is this?" she replied while scanning for civilians and gripping her mace.
"A continuation of our work together," replied Sophist.
"This game between us ended months ago. I'm not interested in more of your lessons," Shayera replied.
"This one is different and necessary. You've truly made remarkable progress, but you're still in need of some extra lessons," Sophist replied.
"You don't get to decide..."
The environment shifted, and ancient Egypt materialised around her. The palace. The gardens. The Nile visible in the distance.
And Khufu. Her first love. Standing before her exactly as she remembered, young and strong. "Chay-Ara," he said, using her original name.
"This isn't real," she said, her hand letting the mace fall to the ground.
"No, but your grief and love are," Sophist's voice confirmed.
Khufu smiled, and he reached towards her before the scene shifted. The assassin appeared. The knife. The moment of betrayal that cursed them to endless reincarnation.
She watched Khufu fall, the light leaving his eyes, while she watched herself cradle him in her arms. She died moments after.
"Stop," she said quietly.
The environment shifted again, this time to World War 2 London during the Blitz. Keith Lansing appeared, a childhood friend from that lifetime. The plane went down, and he was never seen again.
Shayera had been in New York when she received the news via telegram and had flown over with the hope that he lived. She searched and found nothing. She saw herself standing by the shore, looking out.
"I know what you're doing. Exposure therapy. Force me to relieve the trauma until I'm desensitised," Shayera said, her voice hard.
"Is it working?" Sophist asked.
"Fuck you!"
"That's not an answer," Sophist replied.
The warehouse returned briefly before shifting to something more recent. St Roch, thirty years ago, and the life she shared with Hawkman. Their last attempt at trying to make it work.
The house appeared around her, and he walked in, his hair now showing a little grey. "Shayera," he said.
"Don't", she closed her eyes.
It showed their last conversation. An argument over something trivial, and the argument that made them realise they had simply become too different.
Then the mission. The one who had killed him. The explosion was in the distance, and as she flew towards the smoke, all she could do was find his body in the rubble.
"Stop", she said again while clutching her fists so hard she drew blood.
The environment changed again, and Shayera's heart stopped. 1874 in a small house in Pennsylvania. Modest and working-class. The life she lived before her memories returned. Before she knew she was Hawkgirl.
She was Sarah Matthews then, a wife to Anthony and mother to Isabella. Normal and blissfully happy for twenty-six years. She was in the kitchen, and the afternoon light shimmered through the windows along with the sound of a child laughing.
Isabella appeared, seven years old, with her dark hair in braids and her wide smile, a doll clutched in her hands. A doll she had sewn for her.
"Mama, Papa's home!" she yelled.
Anthony walked through the door, just a man. Just a carpenter. Good hands. Kind eyes. They were in love all her life. Shayera's breath came in short gasps.
"No. Not this one. Please not this one," she whispered.
"This is the one that matters most," Sophist said, his voice quieter than usual.
The simulation continued. She saw her die back then, a simple accident. When she regained her memories in her next life, she rushed over and eventually found him. Thirty years since their meeting. Anthony was in a hospital bed, coughing blood. 'Tuberculosis,' they said. He had no idea who she was, but she stayed anyway, giving him company till he passed over the next months. She saw her Isabella all grown up, crying over him. Then the day finally arrived.
"Promise me...Isabella..." he muttered, his voice weak.
"I promise. I'll take care of her. I promise," Shayera heard herself say.
"You know... I always loved you... Sarah..." he muttered with a smile and squeezed her hand before he stopped breathing.
Isabella cried as she saw her dad die, while Shayera dropped to her knees, crying as well. Even with a different face and thirty years later, Anthony knew it was her, and after all that time, he still loved her.
Shayera dropped to her knees just like her in the simulation. She helped Isabella throughout her life, but she couldn't be her mother. So too did her day eventually arrive, and she helped her pass on just like she did Anthony. She sobbed.
The sound was tearing from her chest. She tried to bury that grief ever since. Seeing all that again, it was too much.
The simulation ended, and the warehouse returned. Shayera was still kneeling on the cold concrete as tears streamed down her face. Sophist teleported near her.
He walked towards her, staying only a few feet away, and waited.
"You're a bastard," Shayera said when she could speak again.
"I know," he replied.
"That was cruel."
"It was."
"I should kill you."
"You won't."
Shayera looked up at him, her eyes red and face wet. "Why? Why do this? I was healing. I was getting better. That's what you wanted, right? Why drag me back into..."
"Because you're carrying it wrong. You've spent the last five thousand years accumulating grief and trying to bury it. Every loss is stacking on top of the last. Every death makes the last harder," Sophist interrupted.
"What else am I supposed to do?" she asked.
"Process it. Actually, let yourself grieve instead of trying to punch it out of you. You've never let yourself sit with the pain and fully feel what you've lost," he replied.
"I feel it every day," Shayera laughed bitterly.
"No. You carry it. That's different. Grief isn't meant to be carried, it's meant to be processed and then released, Sophist said, leaning forward.
"Easy for you to say. You're not immortal. You don't have to watch everyone you love die and come back and die again," she replied.
"True. But I still understand grief, and I know if you don't let yourself process it, you'll keep burying yourself with it. If that continued, it would eventually destroy all that progress you've made," he answered.
Shayera stayed quiet for a moment. "Anthony and Isabella. That was the worst one. The only time I got to be someone besides Hawkgirl," she said finally.
"And you lost them anyway," said Sophist.
"Yes."
"Did it feel different? Losing them versus Keith or Khufu?" asked Sophist.
"Yes. That life was without Hawkgirl. Without the curse. I had a daughter, and now they're just gone," Shayera replied.
"So that grief is unique. Separate from the others. Deserving of its acknowledgement." Sophist said.
"I guess."
"Then acknowledge it."
"I just did! You made me relive it. I'm acknowledging it," she yelled at Sophist in a rasp.
"Feeling it and processing it aren't the same. Tell me what you learnt from loving them. Losing them. What does that life mean beyond the pain? " Sophist replied.
Shayera didn't answer immediately and sat with the question. "Anthony taught me to be patient. He was a carpenter. Spent hours getting joints perfect and sanding wood. He never rushed. Never cut corners. Just... did the work right. I was always moving. Always fighting, he showed me some things that deserve time. Deserve care," she eventually answered.
"And Isabella?"
"She taught me joy. The way she'd laugh at silly things and get excited about the fireflies. She would make up stories about her doll. I'd forgotten how to do that – to just live in the moment without worrying about the past or future," she replied, tears still falling down her cheeks.
"So their lives gave you something. Beyond just the pain," Sophist said.
"Yes."
"Then honour that. Remember what they taught you, not just the fact that they're gone," Sophist replied.
Shayera looked at him, the man she was supposed to hate. "Why do you care? What do you gain from this?" she asked.
Sophist was quiet for a moment. "I told you months ago. I thought you were extraordinary, and I wanted to prove it. To everyone and yourself."
"And?"
"I think I've done a good job. You were breaking when I found you. Now you're healing. But this was weighing you down, like a poison," he answered.
"So you poisoned me first?" Shayera said.
"I forced you to confront it. There's a difference," he replied, offering her a hand.
Shayera stared at it for a while before taking it, letting Sophist help her up. They stood facing each other. A hero and whatever Sophist was. She wasn't sure what he was anymore.
"I don't like you," she said.
"I don't need you to," he replied.
"I understand why you did this, but it doesn't make it less cruel," she said.
"No. But did it work?" Sophist agreed.
Shayera considered. The grief was still there, but the weight felt a little different. Like she finally set down a burden before picking it back up, properly this time.
"Ask me in three months," she said.
"Fair enough. For what it's worth, you kept your promise. You took care of Isabella and made sure she lived a life full of love. That matters," Sophist replied, turning to leave.
"Wait... Now that I think about it, how do you know? You read my journals!" Shayera exclaimed.
"Nice seeing you again, Hawkgirl," Sophist smiled before disappearing.
Shayera flew home and landed on her apartment balcony as the sun rose. She stood there a moment to watch as the light spread across the city. Inside, she pulled out a box she'd kept hidden for decades.
Anthony and Isabella, frozen in a photograph. A family photo, slightly faded, that showed them all smiling. Shayera traced her finger over Isabella's face.
A reminder of their love, not their loss.