There is no such thing as probability.

Toss a coin the same way, it falls the same way every time. Roll a dice with the exact same spin on the exact same surface, it’ll bounce the exact same way.

Probability is just a word for human uncertainty. A way to pretend that things are random and not entirely determined by physics.

So while his power is officially registered as ‘ability to cause minor alterations in probability’, what he can actually do is alter the physical world, just a little.

It doesn’t take a lot.

Alter the friction of a surface, the tilt of a stone, the bounce of a bullet, the refraction of light. Twist the world, just a little, toward his desired ends.

It takes practice. Hours spent rolling dice, flipping coins, firing bullets, staring into mirrors.

For the longest time, the only truly useful thing he can do is to manipulate games of ‘chance’. It’s enough to keep him fed, and to keep him on the move. No one likes it when he wins too much.

But slowly, he begins to reach that level of unconscious competence that precedes true mastery, where he no longer has to think about the specifics but simply adjusts the world around him by instinct.

He tries harder things, more precise, larger. He begins creating, not just altering. Changing instead of moving. After all, what’s the real difference between one element and another? Just the rearrangement of a few little atoms.

It’s terrifying the first time he melts a bullet in midair, the reflex snapping out and shifting it from a streamlined projectile into a superthin lopsided plate that catches the wind and falls to the ground at his feet.

Apparently he's been winning too much here. Time to move on.

But he doesn’t move, just stares at the man who tried to kill him, as he slowly shifts the ground beneath the thug's feet and the shoes he wears until they’re a single solid piece, shifts the gun in his hands to rust that crumbles away.

“Who are you?” the would-be assassin gasps, stumbling and falling awkwardly as he tries - and fails, thanks to his stationary feet - to back up.

He shrugs, picking up the thin scrap of metal that used to be a bullet, and walks away.

It’s definitely time to move on.

It isn’t long after that when he begins altering his own body. Carefully at first, slowly, testing and rechecking, heart racing at every risk, ready to undo it and rush to a hospital if necessary.

It is necessary, a few times. He learns a lot there, and his next experiments are more successful.

Then he begins to study the body more seriously, buying textbooks and taking courses as his tests grow more and more radical.

Immortality isn’t cheap and the process isn't fun, but he can afford the price. Chance is his ally. He can’t lose.

By the time he forgets who he used to be, no one else can possibly track his origins either. His genetic makeup is so far removed from human that only the shell remains, the flawless form of an ideal person, too perfect to be real. They’ve long since stopped believing he's anything but a hero from another planet.

He doesn’t have to wave his hand to shift the world at his command, doesn’t need to touch to heal, doesn’t need to walk in the air on impossible elements woven from the wind itself that dissolve behind him. But it’s part of his role, and he's long since forgotten how much is real and how much pretense.

Sometimes, for fun, he'll still roll dice, just to see if they’ll change their patterns. But after so long studying, so long manipulating, he doesn't even need to look to know how it’ll land. The feel of it in his hand, the angle at which he tosses it, the surface upon which it’s to land.

There is no such thing as probability.

Only physical reality, and the one who commands it.