Written from a dream, although I changed some things for narrative purposes.

They stored dead superheros here, although the only part of that sentence that was remotely accurate was “here”.

They sat or perched or lounged or lay, lined up on the wall/floor like chess pieces, their uniforms relics of bygone eras or echos of times that may have never been.

Some had been super, or would be.  Some had been or might be heroes, or at least called that.   

They were not dead; they were not alive.  They waited, injured or sick or just tired, until… until.

This was the place outside of time, the place where those who had gone went.

And into here walked an living woman.  She was superhuman, because she had been created such.  She was a hero, because her nature was to help. And she was, by dint of being inhuman, created, not allowed in this place.

Still she came.

The magic of the place drained her strength with every step.  The guardians who kept it as it was would be here to fight her off any moment.

Still she came.

She strode to a mighty man, a superb hero, who rested here, brooded here in stasis, healing.  He had died; he was not dead.

“You WILL come back,” she whispered in his ear.  He, of course, did not respond. “And I WILL be waiting.  However long it takes.”

The guardians were nearly here; she was nearly weakened.  “But don’t take too long,” she hissed, and then she was gone, striding regally although it hurt to lift her feet.

In the silence, in the stasis, the superhero (who had been both those things and would be again) smiled.

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