Chapter Text
It was a strange thing to see John again after a week of silence. Like looking into your own house to see that someone new has moved in, has changed the furniture and wallpaper. Outwardly, all was the same. Same dark eyes, same mouth set in a severe line, same perfect posture.
But Guy, who was hardly an expert on everything, knew John. John’s eyes twinkled and when he saw Guy, his mouth softened a fraction, his postured untensed a tiny bit. It took a while for Guy to catch these tells but now it was easy as breathing.
So, when Guy bothered to greet this man, he knew instinctively that something was wrong.
“How’d the mission go?” Guy asked, peering around John with vague interest. “Where’s Rayner? Jordan?”
“They were called away,” John replied which made Guy frown. The Guardians were hardly known for their transparency but Kyle would’ve at least called to let Guy know he’d be avoiding Earth a little longer. Especially considering how Guy was stuck on sector patrol until those two could get their asses here. “You’re with me.”
Guy crossed his arms over his chest, smirking. “Oh am I, Stewart? What’re we gonna do, then?”
And John just stared at him, blank. “Patrol the sector,” he said stiffly and walked, brushing Guy off like he didn’t matter.
No, that wasn’t right. John didn’t do that.
They fell into step. The silence was like someone was scraping their nails across the surface of Guy’s brain, catching the grooves and ugly bits, tearing up chunks of flesh while they were at it. Guy kept his face schooled into something easy, something casual. John would’ve seen right through him by now. “You had a tough mission or what, Johnny?” he asked slowly. “You’re lookin’ stressed. More than usual.”
“Sure,” John said evasively which nearly made Guy stop in his tracks entirely. “There was a skirmish finishing up but we dealt with it in the end.”
“Uh huh.” Nodding, Guy sped up to properly face John. “You, uh, already write the mission report or what? Didja leave it up to Jordan again? Tell me you didn’t.”
John blinked at Guy, eyes cold. “You’re curious today.”
“Can’t blame me. You’re the one that went radio silent.”
“I’m tired,” John snapped, and Guy scoffed because of course he was. John was always exhausted these days. “Let me get some rest before you start interrogating me.”
“You’re the one who told me you’d rest when you died,” Guy retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think you can get yourself off the hook so easy? What the hell happened on that mission to shut you up, huh? I called, y’know. You couldn’t bother callin’ back to tell me you weren’t dead?”
“Leave it, Gardner.”
Guy bristled. “The hell is wrong with you today? You disappear, Hal and Kyle are still God knows where and you wanna get sassy with me right now?”
And John shoved him.
Guy blinked, momentarily stunned. It didn’t even send him that far back. Because John would never pull that shit on Guy. John wasn’t like that. So…
So, something was wrong.
“Fine,” he growled. “Don’t bother me. I’ll come find you if I need to.”
“Yeah,” Guy muttered, mouth dry. “Go right fuckin’ ahead.”
And then, Guy spun on his heel and marched right the hell away. He needed a plan, needed some kind of help to deal with whatever the fuck was transpiring before his very eyes because that could not be John. And the thing wearing John Stewart’s skin had hell to pay for this godawful stunt.
He found Bruce staring at monitors and wondered if he should say something about all that blue light exposure. “Batsy,” Guy drawled, striding into the room. Bruce didn’t look up which Guy was kinda prepared for. He shut the door behind and took a cursory glance at the camera blinking in the corner. Creep. “I need your help.”
“Stewart’s around. Ask him,” came the curt response.
Guy bit down on a curse. “John’s the thing I need help with.”
That got Bruce to look up at the very least. He tilted his head, mouth already set in displeasure at being disturbed. He’d be a shit educator with the way he’s so good at making people feel small. “Yes?”
Searching for the right words was difficult but Guy probably only had a couple of seconds to really sell his problem. He settled on, “That ain’t John.”
It piqued Bruce’s interest at the very least. “How do you mean?”
“I mean that thing that just walked in? That ain’t John.”
A flurry of tapping and shifting on the monitors as Bruce read the screen that gave Guy a splitting migraine most days. “Has to be John,” Bruce said finally. “His biometrics show no anomalies.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Things slip through the cracks, Batsy,” Guy insisted. “Tech ain’t all-knowin’. It’s a gut feeling and I know John. Enough to know that ain’t him.”
“Gut feelings aren’t conducive to justice.”
“Well shit, what wouldja have me do?”
“Be reasonable.”
Guy was trying very hard not to explode and honestly, he was doing a fantastic job of it considering the situation. “What,” he ground out, “d’you mean by that? ‘Cos I’m being pretty fuckin’ reasonable comin’ to you about this.”
The cowl met his eyes, solid white film giving absolutely fuck all away. “I mean you need to recalibrate. Think. Stewart’s come back from a mission that has clearly been arduous. No one would be particularly happy if they were accosted the moment they arrived home after that.”
He could feel his eye twitching. “You think you know ‘em better than I do?”
“I think,” Bruce said, turning back to the console, “you need to learn to leave well enough alone. If this continues to be a problem, the League will deal with it.”
“Yeah, ‘cos you’re famous for dealin’ with shit like this in a normal way. I am telling you Bruce, there’s somethin’ wrong with John. Hell, maybe Hal ‘n Kyle too.”
Levelling him with a look that was unimpressed even through the cowl, Bruce huffed something that might have been a laugh. “I assure you, Gardner, you’re not the only person here who knows your teammates.”
“My friends,” Guy bit out, partly spite and partly something else. “Maybe coworkers to you but they’re my friends. An’ you don’t fuckin’ believe me when I tell you somethin’s off about ‘em.”
“You’re hardly a reliable source of information.”
“Oh, ain’t I?” Guy snarled, stepping forward before he even knew what he was doing. “Funny how that is, ‘specially considerin’ whose fault that was.”
Bruce waved him off. Guy felt his blood boil, rise to his brain until his skin flushed with it. “I’ll look into it,” he said lazily with the cadence of a man with bigger things in mind. “Thank you for bringing it to attention. Go cool off.”
Guy went. Not because he was a dog fit to be ordered around. Because punching Bruce would not bring neither catharsis or get anything actually productive done. No, punching Bruce would make things so much worse for him later when Guy was inevitably found out to be right and he could not be bothered to deal with those consequences.
But God, was it tempting.
Guy knew he was right through one, very simple fact: John refused to use his ring.
It was ridiculous. Lanterns relied on their rings for a lot of functions. Even on Earth, it was easier to stay powered up, to use it for the mindless little things so that you didn’t need to think about them. And John just wouldn’t.
That easiness in his posture, that humanity which made him John felt clinical. Like it had been replicated badly, like someone was puppeteering a sack of flesh with zero regard for how the person they were trying to be was in life. Not that John was dead because, in spite of the thing wearing it, the ring was undeniably his. Guy would know. Kyle and Hal weren’t the only freaks around.
Thinking about those two brought a hollowness to Guy’s chest too. There was a wrongness that permeated, spread. The gap between Guy and John was a veritable chasm now and it was all artificial distance because John was perfectly composed and polite to the others. Bruce probably even liked the fucker more than the real John.
That particular fact made Guy grind his teeth down, almost to stubs. “I can’t be the only one seein’ it,” he muttered in despair.
Clark, ever amiable and agreeable, nodded along although he looked unconvinced. “Space changes you,” he said simply like Guy didn’t already know that. “It’s a difficult thing to come back and act normal.”
“Sure,” Guy said dryly. “’Cept Johnny’s been doin’ this almost as long as me and he’s not complained once. But sure Clark. Keep tellin’ me I’m crazy.”
“I didn’t—”
“Really?” Guy lifted his head to stare at him, eyes burning with light. “’Cos I sure fuckin’ feel like I am.”
Guy wasn’t being fair. He knew that. But he also knew he wasn’t insane for this. He also knew that John not being able to get his ring to even spark was as red a flag as they came.
Naturally, he put it to the test.
It was a simple trap. A shimmering box of hard light. Something they used to make barriers on the fly, something that blocked not-light blows. It was easy to get out of. A gentle test of strength and willpower because if this alleged John couldn’t blast his way out of this one, Guy would have all the proof he needed.
John paused, staring at the light and then Guy. “What is this?” he asked, voice shimmering with repressed anger.
With an easy shrug, Guy grinned. “Dunno. What’s it look like?”
“Let me out, Gardner.”
“Get yourself out and then we’ll talk.”
“I—” A short, startling laugh which sounded worryingly murderous, “I can’t believe you.”
“It’s easy shit, John,” Guy rumbled, taking a step forward. “Just blast a hole through the wall here an’ I’ll let you take a swing at me and everythin’! Free of charge!”
“You—you don’t get to do this,” John seethed.
“It’s protocol. You’d do the same for me.”
The longer John stalled, the closer Guy got to conclusions he downright hated. His stomach twisted with each word that came out of the doppelganger’s mouth. “You don’t get to do this to me,” John repeated, apparently at a loss for words. Guy crossed his arms over his chest, both defensive and stubborn.
“Don’t I? Use your damn ring an’ get free. Just gimme that peace of mind.”
The glare John gave him was so full of hate that Guy had to take a step backwards. It was gone as soon as it disappeared but seeing that expression on John’s face of all people felt wrong in ways Guy couldn’t properly express. “Let me out.”
“Oh for—stop being a fuckin’ idiot about it. Kilowog would be embarrassed.”
John slammed his fist into the wall so hard, there was an audible crack. He didn’t flinch. “Let me out, Gardner. I’m not proving myself to you.”
“Oh yeah?” Guy stepped closer, inches from John’s face. If this John had the ability, Guy would be knocked out cold on the floor by now and he knew that. “That’s real interesting how you don’t wanna use the ring you’ve been wearing for years. Real fuckin’ convenient.”
Those dark eyes glimmered with something distinctly unhuman. Guy felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “I don’t like what you’re implying here.”
“Neither do I. Where’s Stewart you motherfu—”
“Gardner!”
Guy’s concentration didn’t waver as he turned around, a snarl on his lips. “The hell is wrong with you?”
Oh great. The fragging Heathers were here. “Let Stewart go,” Bruce said calmly.
“I’d love to, Batsy,” Guy drawled, “but I was right for once. That’s not John.”
“I’m not sure what’s transpired between the two of you since Stewart arrived,” Bruce continued slowly, like he was speaking to a child, “but you need to let it go, Gardner.”
“Let it—let it go? Bruce!” he shouted. “That’s not John! Are you fucking stupid?”
“You’re overreacting.” Great. Now they were talking to Guy like he had an active fucking bomb in his hand right that second. “You need to calm down. You’re acting irrationally.”
He felt his eye twitch. For a moment, he wondered if this was how John, the real John, felt all the damn time trying to wrangle Jordan. A beat later and his heart twisted painfully. “Listen to me,” Guy said, forcing his voice into something calmer, something more level, something they would actually listen to. “I ain’t lying. I don’t lie. Not about this. Not about my teammates, yeah? So when I tell ya something’s up? I’m bein’ serious as a heart attack. Please say you get me.”
Bruce barely blinked. “Step away and lower your ring, Gardner.”
Guy might actually have exploded. He swallowed harshly, the rest of his words stuck in his throat as a headache pounded against his skull and temples, the steady thrum of stress screaming to be released. His head spun in tandem with the beat of his own heart.
And Guy lowered his ring.
Not-John stumbled out and levelled Guy with a look that was malice taken form. It sickened him. “Thank you, Bruce,” Not-John grumbled, brushing invisible specks of dust off his already pristine uniform. The act alone sent a shiver up Guy’s spine. “I’ll be in my quarters if you need me.”
“Take all the time you need,” Bruce growled out, his gaze swinging to Guy who refused to be diminished. Bruce wouldn’t understand until Guy put the facts out, clear as day in front of him. That was fine. Guy could do that because, contrary to popular belief, Guy wasn’t stupid. “We need to talk, Gardner.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, lifting off the ground and flying towards the nearest empty conference room. “Right goddamn ahead of you.
He was joined a moment later. Three very unimpressed faces stared back. Guy was starting to get tired of this routine. How Hal bore it, he’d never know. “Explain,” Bruce said the moment the door slid shut behind them.
“I did. That thing wearing John’s skin’s compromised the goddamn League and none of you idiots believe me.”
“Mind your tone,” Bruce said sharply.
Guy glared. “I’ll speak how I fucking want. You’re goddamn lucky I don’t break your jaw for puttin’ my fucking friends in da—”
He didn’t get through the last bit of that sentence before Bruce was slamming him up against the wall. This was familiar. This was easy. A rhythm he could fall into as his eyes lit up and his pulse raced with the thrill of some kind of confrontation. “Do not threaten me,” Bruce said in a hiss.
Guy managed to crack a grin, cocking his head to the side in the most annoying way he could. Lord knew it pissed him off to no end when Hal did it. “Aw. Did I hurt the Big Bad Bat? Did I hurt’cha wittle feelings? You scared of me?”
Clark cleared his throat. “Bruce,” he said pointedly, enough to make him let go and take a step back, breathing deep through his nose. “Let’s take a breath and start again. Why did you do that, Guy?”
It took everything in him to not lose his shit right then and there. Guy spoke to them like he would a kindergarten class, since they all had the memories and mental capacity of children. “John ain’t John,” he said slowly, enunciating every syllable enough to make the twitch around Bruce’s mouth grow more frequent and more satisfying. “Didja get that or am I gonna hafta bust out the stickers?”
Diana exhaled slowly. “You believe John Stewart is not himself.”
With a beaming smile, Guy nodded. “A gold star for you! Wow, what a great observation! Not like I’ve been sayin’ it for the last who goddamn knows how long!”
“Enough.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough of that. What’s your proof?”
“Aw fuck, I dunno. The fact that Not-John over there’s not been using his ring? At all. Which,” he kept going, a nasty edge to his voice, “ain’t exactly in character for the guy. Or for any of us, dontcha think? You always say it, Brucie. We’re too reliant on our rings.”
And then, the bastard had the audacity to say, “Perhaps he’s taking my advice into account.”
Guy was gonna march over to the wall just to smash his own head into it and give himself more brain damage. “You—you—” He ran his hands through his hair with a brief, humourless bark of laughter. “You can’t be that fucking stupid. You can’t be.”
Bruce blinked. He absolutely believed the words coming out of his idiotic mouth. A mouth Guy wouldn’t mind punching. But no, he wasn’t gonna escalate. He needed to get these idiots to believe their League had been compromised or there would be hell to pay. “It’s a lot more plausible than…whatever you’re suggesting, Guy,” Clark hedged.
Oh, Guy would totally break his hand trying to punch a Kryptonian but it would be worth it. “Listen.” Guy said into his hands, muffled and desperate. “You’re used to Earth. This place, blue marble and all, it’s your home. It’s mine too. But…” A short, sharp intake of air. “But you don’t get how shit works out there in the void, yeah? You—things ain’t simple. You’re not used to it and that’s fine. You don’t hafta be. But that’s why I’m here!” Guy said, thumping his chest for emphasis. “I know my shit. Intergalactic law, local disputes an’ politics, whatever shit the Guardians are spewin’—I’m an expert. So you need to trust me when I say that somethin’s wrong.”
Clark, at least, looked uncertain for the first time. “You genuinely believe this?” he said, just shy of patronising. “You think there’s something wrong with John?”
“Oh for—ain’t that what I’ve been saying?”
Shaking his head, Bruce scoffed. “I’m not buying it.”
“I’m not askin’ you to buy it yet. I’m askin’ you to at least gimme a chance before you brush me off,” Guy snarled. “That’s—don’t you give a shit? I haven’t heard squat from Hal or Kyle since this shit started and now John’s fucked up and you don’t—”
“Gardner,” Bruce began, deliberately drawing out every syllable of his name to annoy him, “if there’s an issue, we’ll deal with it together. But right now? There’s nothing that actually warrants an investigation.” He smirked. Smirked. “If you believe Stewart losing patience with you is a signal for, what? Possession? A hostile alien takeover? I think you may need to reorder your priorities.”
Guy couldn’t think through the haze of emotion in his head. He breathed sharp and heavy, grinding his teeth while clenching his fists and desperately going through every single reason in his head as to why punching Bruce would be a very bad idea right now. “Okay,” he got out, strangled sounding. “Okay. I get it. You don’t like me. That’s fine,” and it really was. Guy wasn’t easy. He knew that. The universe knew that. “But you like Hal and Kyle and John. So just—for them.”
“Which is why, Gardner,” Bruce said, sharp with finality, “for them, I’m putting this to a rest. Stewart is fine. Whatever’s changed is a figment of your own imagination.”
The next couple of breaths clogged in Guy’s throat. “So what?” He almost didn’t recognise his own voice, as low and loathsome as it was. “You—you happy with this new John? Happy you got a Lantern that hates me as much as you do?”
“No one hates you,” Clark said quickly, but Bruce was already out the door.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Guy hated it here.
He didn’t hate freely. Some things felt off limits. But this? This was hate. Bubbling, boiling, blistering fucking hatred.
Not-John made himself right at goddamn home within the League, nestled in layers and layers of secrecy and protection. Nothing could wipe that smug look off of his face, no matter how many times people insisted to Guy that he was just seeing shit. A terrible time to be him, to be Guy fucking Gardner. Most people went out of their way to avoid him normally but at least he could always rely on the other green idiots to stick by.
No dice here. So he seethed and he planned because no one fucked with the Corps and got away with it under Guy’s nose.
If they didn’t wanna see what was right in front of them, if they didn’t wanna listen to Guy? Fine. Fine. Not like it hurt him or anything. Not like it was fucking killing him not knowing where John was. And Kyle. Hell, he’d give anything to hear Hal start complaining about stupid shit right now.
God, he was starting to miss Hal. He’d be insufferable if he knew.
But Guy couldn’t think about that because he was too busy trying to dodge Not-John, who apparently couldn’t be content in his victory and just had to rub it into Guy’s face. It was taking every inch of willpower not to break this asshole’s jaw.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he stated, straight off the bat and sounding so much like John that it hurt.
Guy ground his teeth together, steadfastly staring down at the cup of yoghurt he was gripping dangerously tight. “Get outta my face.”
Not-John pressed his lips together. “I understand you don’t trust me,” he said slowly, like Guy was stupid, “but if the League keeps backing me up like this, something’s gotta give. You can’t be deluded forever.” Those eyes softened, staring straight into Guy’s skull like they could see everything. He gnashed his teeth together. “It’s me, Guy.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled. “Don’t—don’t fucking talk to me. You—you don’t get to-to wear his skin and tell me that.” Guy stood and contemplated hurling the yoghurt at Not-John’s face. But there were consequences to attacking League members. It didn’t help that Bruce blatantly played favourites.
So he walked away and patted himself on the back for that choice because it was the hardest goddamn thing he’d had to do. Unfortunately, Not-John followed. He chided, “Don’t be stubborn, Guy.”
“Now I know you ain’t Johnny,” he growled, pitching his voice up to mimic those words. “’Don’t be stubborn.’ Are you an idiot? Didja get your brain replaced with full fat yoghurt?”
Doubt flashed across Not-John’s face. Guy didn’t care for it. “You really don’t believe me, huh?”
“Don’t bother playin’ that card either.” Guy stalked away. “You don’t deserve my fuckin’ sympathy.”
“I’ve stood for you.” Those words clawed up Guy’s spine and sat heavy in the base of his skull, pounding along to his heart. “I’ve fought with you. Alongside you. And, what, you’re tossing me to the curb now just because you’re paranoid?”
A rough laugh creaked out from between Guy’s lips, a cough more than anything. “Yeah, alright. Keep goin’. Talk t’ me. Tell me I’m wrong. Convince me you’re not a fuckin’ fraud ‘cos I’m gettin’ mighty close to breakin’ your femur.”
John crossed his arms over his chest. Even that motion, as simple as it was, was off-kilter. Like Not-John wasn’t used to his body, the way his limbs bent and the way his skin stretched. Like a stranger wearing the skin of someone Guy loved.
It made his teeth hurt. Or maybe that was the impending migraine. Lord knew he had too many of those these days.
Whatever. He had better things to deal with.
“Gardner.”
Guy didn’t bother turning around, but he paused mid-step. Maybe it was his stupid, useless heart trying to hope. Maybe it was that loyalty, that dog-like loyalty because if Guy was anything, he was a guard dog. The thing wearing John’s face wasn’t him, but he had John’s smile. The imprint of that, the shape and the warmth, that was a hard thing to fake. Did Not-John fake it successfully? No.
But Guy missed him.
Still, he held and would not turn around. “Talk,” he said shortly. “C’mon. Talk.”
A shift in the air. “You’ll regret this, Gardner.”
Guy sighed. “Yeah. Don’t I always?”
Not-John sucked. Not just because he wasn’t John but also because he was a fucking moron.
Here was the thing: John was a strategist. Thought things through and made good on those plans in his head because that’s what he excelled at. Hal and Guy could hardly say the same, but they were still alive, weren’t they? So sure, they could butt heads in the field but they often didn’t because Guy wasn’t stupid enough to doubt John’s intelligence. And if he made a mistake, well, Guy was more than happy paying for it.
This guy? This guy didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Flying was already too difficult a task for this idiot. Carrying Bruce along was worse, as they hustled to get to the sight of a fire plaguing an apartment complex.
This meant Guy got to listen to Not-John bow down to every little fucking thing Bruce said like it was his personal mission to kiss ass as much as possible before the day ended.
He already wanted to claw his eyes out. What more could the universe take from him?
“You two will take point in evacuations,” Bruce was saying as they flew closer and closer to the building from which a healthy amount of smoke was pouring out of. The fire licked its way up the sides and even scorched the street around it while passersby looked on, in joint horror and morbid curiosity. But there was space cleared for the ambulances parked around, although only a few of the building’s residents had managed to clear out in time. “I’ll be on the ground running comms. Understood?”
Guy glanced over at Not-John, ready for some kind of rebuttal. Considering the fact that this guy could barely keep himself aloft in the air with that ring of his, with John’s ring, he didn’t like the chances of him being able to keep a barrier going in the time it took Guy, universally renowned for his endless patience, to evacuate a bunch of scared people.
Instead, Not-John said, “Understood.”
Pressing his lips together so Guy didn’t say anything he’d regret, he made himself nod calmly and measuredly. Apparently, his face gave something away, because Bruce scowled at him. “What?” Guy grumbled.
“Put aside your personal feelings and be professional for once in your life, Gardner,” Bruce said tartly. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Better pray that cloak o’ yours don’t catch, Batsy, ‘cos I ain’t puttin’ you out,” Guy seethed, drifting away. He headed down into the roaring flames before the scathing reply could reach him.
The entrance belched fire and ash right at them but the ring’s shielding capacities kept Guy safe from the worst of the heat as he dove right in. Visibility was immediately shit but he pointed at the two stairwells, one at the right and the other towards the left. “Take the right!” he roared, already peeling away to race upwards. “Ring, scan for sentients! Anyone still alive?”
Three still in the building.
His ring pulled him forward, higher and higher. On the fifth floor, behind one of the many doors now eaten away by fire, Guy found two people. A man and a woman, both just barely conscious. The man was better off, though only by a little.
“Name’s Guy. I’m a Green Lantern and I’m here to get you out. Just stay calm for now, yeah?”
“She needs help,” he croaked, shaking the woman in his arms. She was young, her curls stuck to her face with sweat. No visibly burns but the fire didn’t need to touch in order to kill.
“You know her?” Guy asked, stalking forward and dropping into a crouch to examine her. She was breathing shallowly, every inhale a wheeze. Her pulse was thready. Guy didn’t need his ring to know it was smoke inhalation. From the looks of it, the man was suffering the same.
The man shook his head. “Can you—”
“I’m here to get’cha out. There are medics and firefighters waitin’ for us outside. You good to walk?”
The man shook his head. His eyes were glazed over, like he was holding onto consciousness by a thread. Guy only grunted in acknowledgement and lifted the woman first, hauling her over one shoulder while encasing the man in a bubble that gently drifting from the ground. With one ring blast, he shattered the window and used another shield to spare his charges the spray of glass.
Then, with scarcely a look back, he was out.
“Gardner?” Not-John’s voice crackled through his ring and he sounded uncertain.
“I got two of ‘em,” he said shortly, lifting into the air gently, as to not jostle them too badly while he descended through the clean air.
Guy touched down on sun-baked grass which crunched under his feet. The paramedics were on him before he could even dissipate the full bubble, oxygen tanks and masks in their hands. The woman was taken from him immediately and Guy watched the medics lay her on a stretcher. When he glanced away, he found the man gone too.
So Guy stood by the woman, arms crossed against his chest, and watched. He had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do. It gave him time to think, at the very least. The residual smoke and ash clung to his uniform and while it didn’t technically stick, he could feel it clinging on regardless.
Not-John landed beside him. Bruce came too, something vaguely smug in his expression. Guy paid neither of them any heed. “No one else was inside,” Not-John said with the confidence of someone must lesser than the skin he wore. “Good job.”
“Don’t patronise me.”
“Gardner,” Bruce growled.
Guy felt his jaw twitch in annoyance. “You can’t say my name and expect me to sit like a good boy, Bats. I don’t gotta like you to do my job.”
“Perhaps. But it would be more effective to keep the two of you from clashing for League stability.” He sighed, like Guy was a Robin being particularly difficult. “It would also benefit the Corps if you would just let go of this.”
“Nah,” he drawled, staring straight at the stolen eyes of his best friend. “I’ll prove it to you an’ everything.”
“Of course you will,” Bruce said smoothly, in a tone that told Guy he didn’t believe him at all. “Are you going to stay, Gardner?”
“Don’ see how that’s your business.”
“Difficult as al—”
Guy drowned the last of that bullshit out when a heart monitor started going nuts nearby. He marched off mid-conversation, partially because he was intrigued and partially because Bruce hated it when he did that.
It was the woman. The one who’d been passed out, now sluggishly trying to pull the mask off her face and rise. Two paramedics were trying to restrain her with half-baked assurances, glancing at each other with rising panic in their eyes. Guy shouldered forward. “’S there a problem?”
One medic glanced over at Guy, eyes wide. “She—there might be—”
“Might be what?” Guy asked, voice low and dangerous as he stooped to listen to her soft, breathy pleas. “Hey,” he said, gentler, “speak up. I can’t hear ya.”
“…baby,” she was wheezing. “My baby…my—my baby, my baby—"
The colour leeched from his face a moment later and it was enough to get Guy’s light flaring again. “There’s—Green Lantern, I think there’s—I—”
“Spit it out,” he snarled. “’S there someone still inside? Is that it?”
“A kid,” the medic breathed, and Guy was already moving, hissing, spitting mad and hurtling back towards the flames with reckless abandon.
“Fucking moron!” he roared over his shoulder at Not-John, wherever the bastard was because John would never do this, would never screw up this badly. John would stay in those flames until he was sure and because he wasn’t here, Guy would do it in his stead.
Three inside originally. Two that Guy got out and Not-John had only bothered to come back empty handed.
The building was near total collapse by the time he wrestled his way in. “Hello?” he yelled. “Kid? Kid! Name’s Guy! I’m here t’ help you!”
Nothing but roaring fire. Given how the thick smoke was starting to encroach on the passive barrier Guy’s ring provided him, time was running the hell out. He moved, kicking over burning stumps of furniture as he went. It was sweltering, far too hot for any adult, let alone a kid.
“Hello?” he bellowed with nothing else to do. “Ring! Scan for sentients!”
One detected.
“Fucking—where?”
His ring blinked and pulled him forward and then up, one story higher than where he’d found the previous two victims. Guy went willingly, although his feet tripped and stumbled every few steps. He landed in a tiny bedroom, the fire contained to the eastern side of the apartment. Smoke still hung low here and clogged up the air. For a moment, he expected to find a tiny corpse.
He didn’t get that.
“Hello?” he rasped, testing the ground gingerly, pressing his fingers against the plaster, moving. “Kid? Hey, you ‘round here? I’m a friend. I’m gonna getcha out.”
He heard a little gasp.
Guy froze. “Is that you, kid?”
There was a scuttle, someone pulling back while trying to be quiet about it. Not thumping because no child would be strong enough to make a decently big noise after this much time spent inhaling smoke but it was clear to him, at least. And it came from down low.
He cleared his voice. The smoke had laid on thick, created a bitter film that coated mouth and the inside of his throat. “You got a voice, kiddo? Anythin’ louder than that?”
A mumble. Guy’s heart picked up and he couldn’t fight the crazed grin as he dropped to his hands and knees, barely flinching at how the heat pressed through his gloves. “Aw, c’mon! I can’t hear ya, buddy. You can call louder than that!”
“I’m here,” said the voice again, soft and high pitched and so, so afraid.
It came from the bed. He drummed his hands against the floorboards. “One more time! Where are you?”
“I’m…” A wavering cough. “I’m right here!”
He didn’t hesitate to shoot a hand out and shine his ring directly beneath the bed, only to find—
The kid let out a short, sharp shriek and flinched away from him, pressed against the wall. Guy stiffened and retreated immediately. “Kid,” he said as softly as he could with the right amount of urgency in his tone, “we gotta get out. It ain’t safe.”
She shook her headful of dark, tangled ringlets and only shied away. Those eyes watched, luminous in the encroaching flames. Guy was struck with a sense of desperation and rising anger. God, he wished he could break Bruce’s jaw right now without a hint of regret. He couldn’t, but he wanted to.
Guy hunkered down, lowering himself until his head was squeezed beneath the bedframe and the floor. “Hey,” he said, battling to keep his voice calm, “you needta listen to me, okay? I’m Green Lantern and I’m here to getcha out and safe. That means you gotta come outside before this whole thing comes crashin’ down like a house of cards.”
Still that silent refusal. The pressure in his chest had reached a boiling point, like an unbearably hot weight crushing his ribs and sending the shards directly into his heart. Guy couldn’t leave. Not with this little girl trapped. But she would not come out and his options were running low and he wanted to drive his fist so far into not-John’s face that it’d come back out the other—
Deep breaths. Try again.
“Kid,” Guy ground out, low and gravelly and desperate, “come out. You ain’t safe here and you need to listen. Just for a little bit. Can you do that?”
This time, a resolute shake of her head.
Guy’s chest flooded with molten lava and he stood sharply, turning to face the too-hot wall as he screamed through his teeth. His fists clenched tight and had it not been for his gloves, his fingernails would have bitten into his skin so hard it would’ve bled. He needed to keep it together, needed to push through this because falling apart now when everything else in his fuckass life was going to shit would not help.
Another deep breath that didn’t do much of anything. Guy’s vision swam when he opened his eyes, both the brewing pain behind his skull and the sting of smoke contributing to his state. But his barrier held somewhat and he kept it up without much trouble.
So he went and he tried again.
The girl had shrunken away even further, pressed all the way back and almost completely out of Guy’s reach. How she managed to squeeze in under the slats, he had no clue, but he knew children had the inexplicable ability to crawl into literally any place they shouldn’t and so he chalked it up to that.
“Okay,” he got out, strangled and soft, “lemme start again. I’m a Green Lantern. My name’s Guy.” At the confusion that cut through the fear in her little face, he bothered to snort. “Yeah, kid. That’s my name and it’s a good name. Picked it myself an’ everything. You got a name too?” She shook her head and he bit back a sigh. “Yeah alright. You can be Curly for now, then.”
That got a reaction.
Her eyebrows furrowed, first with shock and then with indignation. “Curly?” she repeated, sounding vaguely angry.
Guy’s lips twitched upwards. “Uh huh. You got a problem with that?”
“My name’s not Curly! Curly’s a cat name!”
“Nah, kid. Curly’s more a dog name. But you got your little corkscrews so it fits you too.”
Lips pushed out in a full and furious pout, she hissed, “You can’t call me Curly.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I gotta call ya somethin’!”
“You can’t!” she insisted, sitting up straighter. He could see, through the emerald light, the soot stains on her cheeks, her skinny arms. “You can’t call me that.”
Guy tilted his head thoughtfully. “Huh. How ‘bout Pipsqueak?”
Her eyes flashed with an impressive amount of irritation. “No.”
“Hm. Ooh!” Guy flicked his finger, summoning up a tiny construct version of his own ring which floated all the way over to the kid to hover right in front of her face. She went cross-eyed staring at it, before tentatively reaching out to grab it. Her mouth was agape as she turned it over in her hands. “You think you’re good sidekick material? Kid Lantern has a nice ring to it.”
She glared at him reproachfully and tossed the ring back. “I can’t be a hero.”
“Aw, who said?” he asked, crouching further to lean on his forearms. “The fun police?”
“I don’t have any powers.”
Guy grinned at this, flashing his own ring at her. “You wanna know a secret? I don’t got any powers either. I get everythin’ from this. All the flyin’ and the shootin’ light lasers and the breathing in space—that’s my ring.”
The girl tilted her head, her cupped hands still glowing with the construct light. “You’re not a hero either.”
“’Course I’m a hero,” Guy said easily. “I woulda come runnin’ in even without the ring. Heart’s what makes a hero, not whatever powers or jewellery you wear. I think you got a good chance.”
She didn’t believe him and he couldn’t exactly blame her. But she did crawl forward, just a little bit. It wasn’t permission to take her, not yet, but he was getting close. “Why don’t you wear a mask?”
“Don’ need one.”
Curly scoffed. “All heroes wear a mask.”
“And why’s that, miss ma’am?”
“To hide their faces.”
“Well,” Guy said with a little shrug, “I ain’t got anythin’ to hide. Name’s Guy Gardner. Grew up in Baltimore. Got a degree in psyche and teaching at Michigan. You wanna know anything else about me?”
She regarded him carefully. “Were you a teacher?”
“The best,” he laughed. “Got to meet all kinds of little shrimps like you.”
“I am not a shrimp!” Curly said hotly, scooting further forward just to scold him. Guy kept his expression neutral, though barely. Progress was progress and he’d take anything at this point. “You have to call me by my name.”
“Well then,” he rumbled, head dipped as low as he could get it without straining his neck too much, “what is your name, sweetheart?”
She chewed her lip for a moment. And then, softly, “Juliet Pillai.”
Nodding along, Guy fought off his grin just enough to appear serious about it. “Juliet as in Romeo and Juliet or Juliet as in somethin’ else?”
“Romeo and Juliet?” Her nose wrinkled. “The-the story about the couple?”
“Uh huh. It’s a play by this guy, Shakespeare. You heard of him?” Juliet shook her head. Guy hunched forward. The flames were at the barrier now. He could feel them press against his construct, his ring, a subconscious wall of heat at his back. “Shame. I got to perform that in college.”
“Did you play Romeo?”
“Nah.” A smile, as gentle as he could. “I was a damn good Mercutio, though.”
“Mer—Mercu—you’re making words up!” Juliet said shrilly.
“I’m not, I’m not, I swear!” Guy got out through his laughter. “He’s a real character. Romeo’s best buddy. Uh, says…somethin’, somethin’, dreamers often lie.”
Jaw set, eyes glittering in indignation and something else, something a little warmer, calmer, the kid shook her head impatiently. “You don’t even remember your lines,” she said tartly.
“I did that gig before you were born, Juliet. You gotta be, what? Four? Five?”
“Six!” she hissed.
“Six?” Guy raised an eyebrow, mouth parted in the right amount of shock. “You gotta stand up ‘n show me how tall you are ‘cos I ain’t believin’ it ‘til I see it.”
Juliet huffed and yanked herself free from her hidey hole, all fury and determination, to stand at her proud height of shorter-than-the-average-dog as Guy backed away. She got about five seconds of victory before Guy reached out, looped one arm around her waist and held her close as his ring sparked to create a bubble around her. “Hey! You can’t—”
“Easy, easy,” he said, letting her down so she could stand in the bubble rather than get held. “You’re alright. Lemme getcha out, ‘kay? That’s all I’m here for.”
“You tricked me,” she accused, all grumble and no bite.
“Yeah, well. Told ya I was a good teacher.”
The apartment complex was done for. Guy broke another window to escape and didn’t feel bad about it at all, the kid huddled close to his legs as he flew.
Guy and Juliet breached the wall of smoke to a gaggle of desperate onlookers, all of which took one look at the little girl safe and sound in his bubble before slumping physically in relief. Guy landed near the woman from before, near unconscious but still hanging on by a thread. “This your mom?” he asked gruffly.
Juliet shook her head as Guy lifted her and set her on the bed. “My sister.”
“Your sister got a name?”
“Rose.”
Guy’s lip twitched the slightest bit but he crouched by the bed, right near the young woman’s ear as her eyes lazily tracked his movement. “Hey. I got your little girl, ‘kay? You’re both gonna be just fine.” Rose managed a nod, her dark eyes shining. “I mean it,” Guy went on. “This kid of yours is goin’ places. You two look after each other now.”
And with that, he stepped away.
Guy’s mind was already elsewhere. “Bats,” he snapped, slipping from one mood to another as easy as breathing. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Bruce asked because he fucking sucked a lot of the time.
Grinding his teeth together, Guy got out, “Him. Mister Doppelganger.”
“If you mean Stewart—”
“I don’t but sure.”
“—he left.”
Guy had to do a double take, jaw opening and closing with a snap. “He…huh?”
“He went to the Tower,” Bruce said, speaking nice and slow again. Guy was too baffled to be upset about that for now. “To cool off.”
“And you let him?”
“I’m not his babysitter.”
He had to turn away, kicking up into the air again and breathing harsh through his nose in his self-contained bubble of oxygen and despair. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay, whatever, fine. Shit. Shit!”
“Gardner, you—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, lifting himself higher into the air. “I’m gonna find that dumb son of a bitch. Don’t follow me.”
No sooner had Guy’s boots hit the dangerously shiny floors of the Tower that he had started practically sprinting.
Conference rooms were all empty, John’s room untouched, main hub free of any familiar green so Guy barged his way into the records room and balked. For a moment, he was sure he was hallucinating which was never a good sign for him but—but no. It was real. It had to be real.
Not-John’s skin was moving. With his back to Guy as he stared at the monitor and pored over the controls, he watched the flesh underneath the black and green uniform ripple and writhe, like something was living just underneath the surface layer. Like if Guy peeled the skin off, he’d find something new.
All he could manage was a rattling breath which prompted not-John to turn and face him. Guy registered the ugly green tint and the flabs across what should have been John’s face before he was launching himself forward, all fury and instinct and desperation.
Guy wasted no time and grabbed the thing by the back of its neck, fingers digging into flesh that reacted to his presence, that revolted under his touch and shoved it forward. With an unholy crack, Guy slammed its face into the console. Bones shifted and there was a growl, a gasp, something close to a scream but Guy was moving before he could properly think, the ringing in his ears reaching a peak as he continued his assault.
“Where is he?” he hollered as blood ran over his white gloves, staining them crimson. “Where is he you fucking bastard?”
“Let go!” The thing said it in John’s voice which almost worked, which would’ve worked if Guy hadn’t been so worked up. “Let—let go of me Guy! Stop—stop!”
The flabs—the tentacles—had retreated and its skin had shimmered before settling back into dark brown and Guy shoved it against a wall, forearm pressed straight to its jugular as his eyes flicked towards the controls, towards whatever the hell this guy was fiddling with.
Not-John—the Durlan—hadn’t gotten far. That didn’t stop Guy at all. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed. “Where’s John Stewart? Tell me!”
“I’m John Stewart,” it gasped, eyes bulging, horrified and panicked and bloodshot. Guy didn’t care. “Gardner—Guy, please!”
“Where are they?”
Someone grabbed Guy by the back of his uniform, two fistfuls of fabric and a yank that had Guy flying away as the Durlan dropped to the ground, massaging his throat. Guy thrashed, squirmed, writhing in the grip as he bit down on every single awful thing he could ever say. “Gardner!” someone was saying, horror dripping from their voice, “Gardner, stop!”
He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. Not while John, Hal and Kyle were still out there. Not while they weren’t safe. “Let me go,” he snarled instead, bringing his hands up into clenched fists in front of his face when Bruce filled his vision.
The boy scout held him still. Batsy stared him down. Guy lifted his chin, determined to quell the rage enough to look reasonable. God, he had to look reasonable. “Gardner,” he growled, not even a full sentence needed to carry the weight of his fucking disapproval.
“I was handlin’ it,” he said, low and short. “I had that. You didn’t wanna help me so I—”
“You just attacked another League member unprovoked,” Bruce said, cutting through Guy’s words like butter. Guy felt his brain short-circuit as he tried to keep up, tried to make sense of what the hell this asshole was even talking about. “Do you understand the consequences of what you’ve done?”
“Attacked…” Guy shook his head, slowly at first and then faster, faster. “No. No. No, c’mon, no! I’d—I’d never attack John. You—Clark!” He squirmed but the grip on his uniform did not lessen the slightest amount. “No, shut up. That’s not—that ain’t him!”
“We all saw,” Clark said sadly. “Bruce sounded the alarm when you left the scene earlier and he was right to do so. What were you thinking, Guy?”
“You don’t got the facts!” he said incredulously, pointing right at not-John now struggling to his feet. “That’s a fucking Durlan!”
“Durlan?” That was Diana, less sympathetic than Clark but much more reasonable than Bruce.
Guy nodded frantically, though he was sure she couldn’t really see him. “Shape-shifter! I swear on my life that I’m right. I—I fucking saw him shift!”
“Gardner—”
“Don’t. God, don’t. Bruce, jus’ listen to me.” Guy was begging. He hated begging. “Put him in containment. Lemme run some tests—hell, lemme call a Lantern and have them run a test if ya don’t trust me but I swear on—on the Corps that I’m right.”
Bruce regarded him for a long moment. Guy stared back, clenching his hands to will his fingers not to tremble. And then—
He shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m putting you on probation,” he said quietly, bothering to at least make eye contact.
Guy’s jaw worked furiously. “You—you can’t do that!” he spluttered. “You can’t just—no! No, fuck you and fuck your pompous fucking ass! You ain’t got the right to bench me!”
“Maybe not,” he responded cooly. “But I need time to figure out what to do with you.”
Lightning shot up his spine, a streak of nothing but pure, unadulterated fury. “No.” Guy’s denial dripped in malice. He shook Clarks hands off and stepped forward, nose to nose with the bat. “No the fuck you don’t. I’ve done everythin’ in my goddamn power to raise the alarm. I’m tryna protect your ungrateful ass and now you wanna deal with me? What, you gonna gimme a slap on the wrist?” His voice dropped an octave, something nasty flooding every word. “You gonna leash me?”
Bruce barely twitched. “Maybe if you learned how to sit like a good boy, I wouldn’t have to.”
“You—"
Clark barely grabbed Guy in time before he could go and break Bruce’s jaw. “Enough!” he boomed, loud enough to send daggers into Guy’s skull. He blinked, momentarily dazed before the world snapped back into focus. “Enough. Stop fighting. Walk away, Guy.”
The boy scout hadn’t let go yet and likely wouldn’t until Guy was well out of the room. Smart of him. Infuriating but so, so smart. Guy made himself turn on his heel and march out. He met no one’s eyes. Why bother?
The table was cold and Guy’s head was breaking apart. It was like the cotton fuzz in his skull was starting to spill out of any available crevice but nothing was ever enough and so his entire head was attempting to split open like an unholy egg. He was going to throw up. He might even cry.
He had his cheek pressed against the metal, half of his body folded over in a way that should have been uncomfortable and awkward, but the pain of his position was nothing compared to the migraine attacking him now.
A cherry on top of an already shitty situation.
The smoke had cleared and the League tiptoed around him like he was a powder keg, like he’d snap and attack one of them if they breathed too hard in their direction. No one was listening and Guy should have resigned himself to that a long time ago because he’d spent the last, what? Week trying to convince them something was off to absolutely no avail.
So no. No point. Guy would need to act the moment his head let up and his best bet was off-planet, likely Oa if he could bother to make it. If the League got hijacked, if sensitive information was lost and they pinned the blame on Guy, he’d leave and never look back.
For now, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the tides of agony to turn. It was taking a ridiculously long time.
If Guy had the energy, he would have moved his ass to his room and fished out the medication the Oan doctors gave him for this express purpose. If John were here, if the actual real, flesh and blood John Stewart were here, those meds would be sitting on the table within arm’s reach with a glass of water.
Guy’s throat was thick with an emotion he refused to name. So, he drowned it all out with the hammering in his skull and ignored the buzzing coming from his comm system until it got to a point where he’d rather rip his own teeth out than continue having to hear it.
“What?” he rasped.
“Conference room 310.” That was Bruce, unmistakably clipped. He hung up before Guy could swear at him. Right. The reckoning. All of the pretty consequences wrapped in a nice little bow of yelling and condescension and a flight ban that Guy will promptly ignore. He’d deal with this and head to Oa. If he made it all the way, he could figure the rest out from there.
It felt kinda cruel, though, to make him walk in this condition. Guy pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temple as he went, squinting through the blinding lights as he dragged his feet, taking his sweet time to inconvenience whoever the hell Bruce decided to rope into this intervention.
The door to the conference room was closed when he arrived. This one had the fun personality trait of being located on the storage levels of the Tower, underneath the important shit, the common areas and whatnot. It always gave Guy the impression of a place where secrets went to die.
When he shouldered the door open, he found darkness. Emptiness.
Guy’s gut twisted when he stepped inside, though he was too disoriented to figure out why just yet. Instead, he got out, “Quit lurkin’ and come lecture me so we can both move the hell on.”
Nothing. The silence felt oppressive and when Guy backed up towards the door again, fingers grabbing at the handle, he found it jammed. Guy did not remember closing the door on the way in. Something was wrong.
“What the shit is goin’ on, Batsy?” he grumbled, just shy of actually tense. Guy squeezed his eyes shut long enough to power through the starbursts of pain, little fireworks exploding against the black behind his eyelids every time he shuttered them closed. “Bruce? Bruce! I got places to be so you’re gonna hafta drop the dark and mysterious a—”
The movement came from his left and he jerked away, though not before something ice-cold and distinctly metallic wrapped around his wrists tight enough to bruise. It startled him into reacting, ring at the ready although he couldn’t properly see exactly who he was attacking.
His attacker’s intentions grew clearer when a gloved hand grabbed roughly at Guy’s fingers, yanking at his ring.
A blast of light, head-splittingly bright and more than enough to have Guy flinch away from his own formless construct, vision swimming when he tried to reorient himself. “Who the fuck—”
The grabbing came again and so Guy ramped up the heat, springing away and towards the door. The handle wasn’t jammed but locked, likely from the outside. He cursed, unsure of which language exactly came out of his mouth but with enough vehemence to mean it.
Another blast of light and heat, enough to blister skin at close range as he backed away, as he tried to figure out who the hell he was fighting, what the hell was going on. He bumped into something, the table now pressed against the wall. Guy hissed when a fist from the darkness sank into his gut and kicked out, using both arms to shove at the armoured figure now bearing down on him.
Okay. Okay. Not great. He wasn’t loving any of this. Definitely not when it felt like his brain was cooking from the inside out. He needed—
There existed a space between atoms and important things. That was where he was right now.
Maybe.
And time existed too, a fractured thing of glass and sand, partially melted as it slid through his fingers and crystalised around his nails. He was time, in some strange way, in different places all at once. But that grew confusing after too long. He was in the conference room, lying on the tile with the wet pouring from his skull, a fracture through his mind like lightning. He was burning in a basement. He was on hot sheets. He was laughing in a bar.
His head was split right apart at the seams. There was no light or sound and yet the darkness was not an empty one. The pain was there, stagnant and unbearable and he knew this was not quite right. That he was not where he was supposed to be.
So, he had to escape. He just couldn’t find his way out.
This place was all dark hiding spots, nooks and crannies. The space underneath the bed, the bathroom, the cabinet if things got bad. A familiar place, and he was small enough to curl up, knees to his aching chest, cheek pressed to his arm and breathe.
Was that him breathing? Hoarse and shallow, like each lungful did not satisfy. God, his head hurt.
He crawled from the cabinet. The space between floorboards shone bright yellow and he might have been afraid, although the murk in the air made it difficult. Something was missing. Something was wrong. He was hurt, injured, but not in the right places. Bruises and breaks and blisters and burns that did not hurt when he pressed on them. No aches, no pains. So something was wrong.
And his head. God, his head.
He slid fingers between the floorboards, fingers that would not fit no matter how hard he crammed them in. He’d never tried before to rip the monster out, never had that kind of strength, but he did now. The creature, liquid gold and brilliant and terrible, gnashed and roared and called his name in a drawl that sent a shiver down his spine.
No. He wasn’t meant to be scared.
Something was wrong.
The floorboards came up and the light shone, blinding him even if there was nothing to blind. Nothing at all, because this wasn’t real.
His eyes were dead.
It wasn’t black or red or white he saw. It was nothing. Not a single thing. The spiderweb of the optic nerve traced a steady pattern and it was a strange thing to look into his own head. He raised his chin, skin taut, skin wet, and creaked out a breath. It wasn’t over. He was still there.
One hand raised a half-inch off the sheets. Still had his fingers. Couldn’t feel them, though.
Willing was a difficult thing. Took too much energy. But he wasn’t supposed to be here and he would change that. So he willed and he couldn’t see the green but he could try.
“Get up,” he might’ve said. The words slipped clumsily from lips unused to the act of talking. He wondered when that happened, how long he had been lying in this grave to rot. Did they leave him here? Was he alone? The fear shone butter-bright.
He couldn’t slow. Couldn’t sleep. No, sleep was a luxury for people with friends. “Get up. You’ll rest when you’re dead.” Nothing. Not a twitch, but the tug grew stronger. “They’re dyin’ without you,” he said. Who was they?
A hum of a voice, a hiss-click, and he was gone again.
He’d been damn good under stage lights, sweating and yelling, doing some approximation of acting even if he’d forgotten half his damn lines. But…but he wasn’t prone to forgetting. Not then.
It was familiar then, to be back on this stage. Sunken to the ground, low underneath an audience that towered above. Greek-style, an amphitheatre, him at the center underneath the lights. He looked up, swallowed, and found the words had died on his tongue. Or maybe they’d never been there to begin with.
The ones he loved, faces unknowable, stared back and waited. The ones he would love sat a little closer. The lights were bright enough to see the flickering shadows across their faces, their expressions pulled up into grins.
He wondered and opened his mouth again to find his tongue gone, a stump in his place and still no lines. He knew them, of course. Didn’t spend two weeks staying up late to cram the words and cues in his brain for nothing. But he could not talk, rendered mute and obedient and still.
He was not good at being still.
What role did he play now? A charmer, a lover, a fool, a king?
The crown on his head was heavy. His hands were bare and that was significant for no small reason. Why were his hands empty?
He cleared his throat, or what remained. The words came easily because he had the memorised. Of course he did. He knew his lines. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this…”
Except…that wasn’t right. And he couldn’t remember.
Reaching up to discard the crown, he found only hair, slick and sticky and matted to his skull. The ones he loves were still staring, eyes fixed to his hands, covered in gold. It made more sense then. He was playing a god.
The motions flowed better then and he still would not speak but the audience looked on and nodded faintly in approval. He was winning them over, bit by bit, edging towards stage-right to escape into a wing, to shift the crown off his head and breathe again because he was supposed to be doing something.
The tug came. Locked somewhere behind his ribcage, like someone tied string around his heart and passed it through his skin to pull on every now and again. Where was he? The theatre remained but the seats were empty. Figures.
So he spun and plunged himself into something new.
ACT 1
The living room, as it used to be.
THE BOY sits on the hardwood floor, legs crossed, both eyes on the TV screen. It flickers between static and sound, the last remnants of the great beginning fading into the background. One eye is swollen shut and the other is wide. THE OLD MAN sits in an armchair, eyes up to the ceiling, about to doze.
THE OLD MAN
Ain’t your fault.
THE BOY says nothing, utterly fixated on the screen and its stardust.
Y’hear me? Ain’t your fault. Ain’t your fault you’re a screw-up. Ain’t your fault y’can’t do a damn thing right. That’s all me. Always has been.
Silence, as uncomfortable as they come.
We’re a long line of screw-ups. Justa buncha shitheads with no goddamn business breathin’ easy as we do. You ain’t much better. Not brave or strong or good for anythin’. That’s my fault. Shoulda done somethin’ ‘bout it earlier. You understand?
THE BOY
Okay.
THE OLD MAN
‘S that all you gotta say t’ me?
THE BOY does not shift his gaze. Something feels wrong. The floorboards creak under the weight of the golden light.
Look at me! Goddamn it, look at me!
THE BOY cannot see.
THE BOY
Okay.
THE BOY doesn’t move. It’s not his fault.
The static grows louder. THE BOY feels his skin tighten, threatening to burst apart. He cannot turn himself away. THE OLD MAN stumbles to his feet, belligerent, furious. He has always been furious. He will be buried furious.
THE OLD MAN
You little shit! Get out! You get the hell outta here! Y’hear me?
Green bleeds from THE OLD MAN’S fingertips. His hands wrap around THE BOY’S neck and breaks it clean in two. It’s faster than he deserves. THE BOY is motionless on the floor. Spinal fluid leaks from his nose and mixes with ichor. Both eyes are still affixed to the TV, to the end of all things. THE OLD MAN finishes his bottle and exits stage left.
Blackout.
He’d hopped from one scene to another, as easy as breathing. A step in the right direction took him elsewhere. He stood below the light of a galaxy and looked up, breathless for a long time. Or, perhaps that was by design, the beauty asphyxiating him slowly but surely.
Still, he was here, wherever here was. And there was a show although he knew not where the stage had gone. The canopy of milk stretched above him, warm and inviting. It spoke of safety and danger and warmth amidst the blistering cold.
But his feet would not leave the ground no matter how hard he tried. So he knew, deep in his heart, that something was terribly wrong.
He was alone.
Yes, that made sense. He had to be alone. There was no breeze, no ice on his skin. He wasn’t even standing and could not feel the weight of whatever gravity pressing his feet to the ground.
His fingers were empty. That felt significant.
So he made a fist and found it difficult, like his hands did not want to obey. Like there was a disconnect between what he wanted and what he did. A twitch, a flutter, a stumble in his chest and then nothing. The quiet crept in and sank its claws into his skin, pulling down into tendons and flesh and digging all the way into bone. He was alone.
There was no sky, no empty space. He could not fly. He might never fly again because something was horribly wrong.
“Where am I?” he asked the air. The wind whistled in response, but that could not be true. His head hurt. It was ringing, a rattle in his skull like someone had slid a cymbal inside and was repeatedly smashing a rock against it. “What’s goin’ on?”
Nothing still. He did not feel his lips move as he spoke. That was likely a bad sign.
But where was he? Certainly not where he was supposed to be. He reached up, wiped the wetness off his face and stared ahead towards the horizon of this wide, flat plain. Endless black and the colour of a dead star above him, a cosmic nursery. A cluster of them, embryos of stardust, winked at him. He pulled his lips up into a twitchy, gentle smile. This was a good place to disappear, he thought. This was a fine place to forget the rest as it came.
The green wrapped around his wrist, a thready thing. It barely shone as it should and refused to burn his skin as it tugged over and over again. He stumbled to follow, eyes down to keep himself from tripping even if there were no obstacles to trip on. The green pulled and pulled and pulled, all the way back onto the stage.
The spotlight blinked once, twice and shone.
ACT 2
A park bench before the end.
Waterfowl peck at their feet. The lake shines brilliantly under the sun and children splash in the shallows. They aren’t supposed to, technically, but parents turn a blind eye for their happiness. Idle conversations rise and fall as families, couples and friends spend the weekend outside in the sunshine. THE BOY and THE PILOT sit together, shoulders nearly touching for how small the bench is. Neither talk yet.
THE BOY
You, uh, doin’ okay?
THE PILOT
glancing over
Fine. You?
THE BOY
Great. Goin’ back up soon. You’ll be stickin’ around a little longer?
THE PILOT
Yeah.
He looks older these days. Silver streaks his temples. The lines around his mouth and eyes are more pronounced. THE BOY worries quietly and fills the silence wherever he can.
THE BOY
You can…you can talk. If ya want. I’ll listen. Got nothin’ better to do anyway.
THE PILOT exhales sharply. He does not want to speak.
Buddy, it…it ain’t gonna get better if ya keep it shoved down. Take it from me.
THE PILOT
hesitantly
I’m worried.
THE BOY
…About?
The air shifts. THE BOY glances down and there is gold coating his fingertips. It wasn’t there before. THE PILOT seems not to notice, trapped in another time, another place. It was wrong. All of this was wrong.
Hey, what’s…what’s goin’ on around here?
THE PILOT
What do you think? I’m gone. They are too. We all will be.
The wind picks up. The picturesque setting warps and the people meander onwards, stuck in their perfect day. The last good day.
THE BOY
You ain’t makin’ any sense, idiot. The fuck are you on about?
THE PILOT
It’s over.
He’s exhausted and it’s plain to see. Shoulders slumped and defeated, the trickling, pulsing yellow at the veins of his wrists and his weary, aging face. He’d been beautiful once. THE BOY would be remiss to not consider him beautiful now, though it was different in no small way.
It’s over for me. Look up.
THE BOY looks. It’s death coming for them, bearing down on their necks. He is frozen, incapable of movement. THE PILOT looks peaceful almost. Like he wanted this. Like this was where he was supposed to be.
THE BOY
You—are you nuts?
THE PILOT
Gotta have a couple screws loose to do everything I’ve done. I’ll be okay. You should go, though. This place isn’t yours.
THE BOY
I can’t—I can’t leave you.
THE PILOT
patiently, grinning
You wouldn’t leave me. That’s not who you are. I’m asking you to go because this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.
THE BOY
No. No, wait, just—
THE PILOT
laughing
It’s okay. I’ll see you soon.
The heat arrives. THE PILOT melts like a candle, skin stripping from flesh stripping from bone which chars as it boils down into nothing more than dust. The shape of his grin stays etched into THE BOY’S mind. He sits in the wreckage, a crater, a graveyard. The sky is red. The sun shines. He is alone.
Blackout.
The pilot was not dead. That much was true.
And he was a wanderer, walking the faint path between two dunes of sand. The heat baked his skin, burned him even if he had nothing to show for the damage. Instead, he continued on his lonesome path towards a tomorrow that would never truly come.
The sun did not set here. It hovered above the horizon day by day, hour by hour. It would never set and cast strange shadows on the dunes and the desert and on him, twisting his shape into something monstrous.
His shadow walked behind him, long and spindly and warped. It was almost a person, the sum total of its parts barely breaching conscious thoughts. Or maybe it followed with the dogged loyalty of a family pet, never questioning, ultimately obedient. But it accompanied him, its fingers, his own fingers, wrapping around his ankles and wrists. It slowed his movements just barely. Just enough.
In the horizon shone the sun, bright, brilliant, splendid. The overwhelming gold beating down on his face was tempered with something smaller, that quicksilver streak of emerald. That was what he followed. That was what he marched towards.
It was quiet work. Mindless and droning and boring, his only companion being the shadow that stayed just out of sight, that reached out if only to slow him down on his steady march. A walk towards something unknowable, something to reckon with. A walk towards everything he had ever known.
He kept going because there was nothing more to do. Around him, voices from beneath the sand that shifted under his feet. It was difficult to scale a dune. Even more difficult to tune into the conversation, the rough cadence of conversation and understand what was happening because he didn’t, not really. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what.
So, he walked.
Throat bleeding, lips cracked, tongue thick in his jaw and he walked. Sand between his teeth, wearing them down into fuzzy stubs and he walked. Grit in his eyes sealing them shut, scraping them raw and he walked. His skin scalding under the sunlight, flaking as it charred and he walked.
His curse was to walk. The shadow from behind rested its pointed chin against his shoulder. Its cries echoed as if he lay underneath water, but he could discern the agony. It cried like a child might. It cried desperately, without stopping. It cried because all it could do was cry.
A pet, then, with that animal helplessness that seemed to plague its kind with a fury. Nothing but unspoken tragedy in those eyes set in front of a mind that could not comprehend divine tragedy. And his pet would follow him, spindly limbs grabbing, clawing, begging and crying for an end to the pain.
He walked towards the sun regardless. He would keep walking until the sun stopped. What more did he have left?
The sand shifted beneath him and when he attempted to step down the dune in his awkward hobble, he found himself tumbling instead. There was no pain in falling. No humiliation. There was just falling, sand in his mouth, his hair, his eyes, his nose.
And then a quiet stop.
He looked up and saw no sun. A door blocked it, a familiar door. He got up, shadowless, and reached out. One hand on the knob, fingers that twitched and ached as he pried the damn thing open. He stepped inside and the lights flicked on.
ACT 3
Apartment, the kitchen.
THE BOY sits with THE POET on the tiled floor of a kitchen, backs pressed against the cabinet doors. They almost touch but can’t. THE POET is weary, eyes red-rimmed with the echoes of a grief that hasn’t arrived just yet. THE BOY glances around. The space is unfamiliar and yet not. They talk to fill the silence. To stall the inevitable.
THE POET
You can tell me, y’know? I might not totally get it, but I’ll try.
THE BOY is quiet for a while, eyes fixed on the fridge. Inside lay EURYDICE.
THE BOY
It ain’t grief. It ain’t mourning somethin’ you had. You never had it to begin with. You…
He gestures because the words don’t come easily. They never have.
You come home and there’s bottles on the floor an’ you walk over ‘em ‘cos no one’s gonna clean ‘em up. He’s still there an’ he won’t change. You hope he would, though. You jus’…just want somethin’ normal. An’ you spend every day hopin’ something’ll stick. You’re supposed to love him but it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, ‘cos there’s damn near nothin’ to love. But this is it. This is all you ever get.
THE POET
God, I’m sorry.
THE BOY
So am I. You didn’t have it good either, didja? Funny. We weren’t given a chance.
THE POET
Yeah. Sure feels that way a lot.
THE BOY is struck by the tragedy of his companion’s youth. He’s too young for this, too fresh-faced in the midst of the crumbling ruins around him. THE POET wears his sorrow plainly for all to see in this moment, dark eyes downturned, glistening. Visible without that fuckass mask. THE BOY knows it’s not the end of his tragedy and he can do nothing to stop it.
THE BOY
Tell me ‘bout her.
THE POET
THE POET shakes his head, almost overcome. Kid’s always been emotional, has always worn everything on his sleeve. It’s already done irreparable damage.
I can’t. Not like this.
THE BOY
You got a favourite memory? Anythin’?
THE POET
He is quiet, thinking, lips drawn tight so they don’t tremble.
How could I choose? How am I supposed to pick just one?
THE BOY
Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, kid.
THE POET
What am I supposed to do now? How do I keep going?
THE BOY
He knows THE POET will grieve for an impossible future for the rest of his time. He knows nothing will change the tides of fate. But THE BOY has been grieving too, for an impossible past. And there they are, two livewires crossed and sparking, primed to do impossible things. THE BOY shifts closer, not allowed to touch.
You keep goin’. You don’t got a choice, kid. You take it a step at a time and you walk ‘til you can’t see the past anymore. An’ you keep walking. You’ll carry this as long as you live and you’ll learn to live ‘cos it’s the only thing you got left.
THE POET
Nodding, trembling
Okay. Okay. Thank you.
THE BOY
Don’t thank me. Just come find me.
THE POET
You’re not staying?
THE BOY
I—I don’t think I can.
THE POET nods, eyes dry, jaw set. He stands then, bare feet on the kitchen tiles and approaches the fridge. His hands shake furiously.
THE POET
I can’t hold it off any longer. It’s time.
THE BOY
It’s okay, kid. You’ll survive this.
THE POET
Yeah. I know. And I’ll see you too. Soon.
THE BOY
Soon.
THE POET pulls the fridge door open. THE BOY gets only a glimpse into the emerald light inside before the screaming starts.
Blackout.
He was so cold.
The ice stretched for miles, as far as the eye could see and he was at the center of it. The south pole, or the north maybe, stuck with his head tilted up watching Polaris.
Ice crunched underfoot. He didn’t know how he arrived here, why only one star bothered to shine, why the sky was black and dead. World-eater, he thought. Devourer, though that made no sense. Nothing had jaws large enough to eat entire stars.
His eyes remained on Polaris, which looked off. A distinctly different colour. It was so dark but the ice underfoot crunched to remind him of its presence. The wind bit into him and the cold slipped through his boots and into his feet, crawling up his ankles. It laced itself through his fingers and held both of his hands tight, seeping directly into his blood. His breath, slow and pained, misted in the air.
He was alone here, at the end of the world. Polaris could not speak, though he desperately wished it could. But he was brave at the very least and started forward. There was nowhere to go, nothing to see but endless black, so the walk was mindless as it always was. As it always would be. He was in no great hurry.
Polaris hummed above him. The colour was still wrong, and it was too far to place properly but he stumbled onward anyway. The dark did not speak. He didn’t really want it to.
It’s just…he was so cold. So horribly, blindingly cold. An ice that stuck, an ice that dug deep, burrowed and lived in his chest cavity. So awfully cold that he could scarcely think through it. There had been a time where the cold was a familiar embrace, an icy kiss to his lips. There was a time, long ago it felt like, where he cocooned himself in the depths of an iceberg because it was the only place he could breathe. He couldn’t now. The ice constricted his chest, squeezed what remained of his body. Air came in unfulfilling stutters and he subsided on whatever he had.
He pressed on. Those parts of him were forfeited, lost to the wind. Polaris winked, a flash of emerald, and he wandered towards it. Reaching, reaching, never quite able to touch. Walking, walking, until the ice underneath him finally cracked. Until he plunged into the icy black and opened his eyes.
ACT 4
Xanshi, a bustling marketplace.
THE BOY walks and is careful not to step on the children running past, screaming and laughing as they play their game at breakneck speeds while adults linger to keep a close eye on them. There is life here, colour of every type. It’s unknowable now and only a few people live knowing how it once was. THE FRIEND walks close by, drinking in everything with a sad smile.
THE BOY
I shoulda been there.
THE FRIEND
How? You couldn’t have known.
THE BOY
Neither could you.
THE FRIEND is pensive, knowing, and carries the grief of billions on his shoulders. He stands in spite of it all, though it is a miracle his knees haven’t buckled.
THE FRIEND
It was my call to make and it’s my cross to bear. And I couldn’t put that on you too. Not when you had nothing to do with it.
THE BOY
You don’t gotta carry everything yourself. How many times do I hafta tell you that?
Fondness gleams through THE FRIEND’s weariness. His eyes hold a shine to them as he beholds THE BOY and shakes his head ruefully.
THE FRIEND
I know. Just let me do this, alright? If I don’t remember them, if I don’t carry them, then who else will? How else will I make sure I don’t repeat the same mistake?
THE BOY stares at his companion as if he’s an idiot. He is, to be fair, though only sometimes. Still, it’s a rare enough occasion to be worth noting.
THE BOY
You won’t. I know you won’t. The whole damn universe knows you won’t.
THE FRIEND
Maybe. But it took years and billions of lives to build that trust. I’d rather it hadn’t taken any sacrifice at all. But here I am, still breathing, when so many others lost their lives because of my actions. So I have to make it count.
THE BOY
You have, dumbass. A million times over. You’ve saved our asses more times than I can count. Get off’a that cross before you choke on it all. You don’t deserve that.
THE FRIEND
I don’t think judging what I deserve is up to you.
THE BOY
Well, it should be. It goddamn should be, ‘cos I watch you drown in this guilt again and again and I’m fucking sick of it. Lemme carry it. Lemme be there.
THE FRIEND
Laughing
Aren’t you always? It isn’t personal. It’s just how it is, man. You don’t have to carry everything. Let us hold ourselves up for a little while. Let us hold you up every once in a while, too.
THE BOY
THE BOY is scowling, displeased. He’s angry. He’s always been angry. It’s just how things are. But when THE FRIEND places a gentle hand on his arm, the anger dissipates. They exist for a while, until THE BOY can finally manage words.
You’re too good.
THE FRIEND
For you? Or just in general?
THE BOY
Both.
THE FRIEND
I think you’re the good one, out of the two of us. And I think we both know you’re too hard on yourself.
THE BOY
Pot callin’ the kettle black, I think.
A pause before more spills out, uncharted territory. Neither should be here. Neither particularly care.
I miss you.
THE FRIEND softens. For a moment, he is young again, the shackles of responsibility gone. For a moment, they are just two friends examining the marketplace goods.
THE FRIEND
I miss you too.
THE BOY
Where are you? Where didja go?
THE FRIEND
I’m not sure. I’ve been waiting, though. For you.
Tears prick at THE BOY’s eyes. He isn’t sure why he’s crying.
You’re stronger than anyone else I know and I trust you with my everything. I need you to come find me. I’m in danger. We all are. Something’s wrong and you know this.
THE BOY
What—I don’t—
THE FRIEND
Do you trust me?
THE BOY
Of course. Of course I do, Johnny.
THE FRIEND
Then come find me. Please.
THE BOY is about to respond before his eyes catch on something shimmering in the corner of his eye. It’s beautiful, a tendril of something green. Light in its purest form and nothing corporeal. When THE BOY looks back, JOHN is gone. Xanshi is still, moments before oblivion. THE BOY is alone again, the light his only companion. One foot in front of the other, he follows and exits stage left.
Blackout.
Water lapped at his feet before bursting into a sharp array of light the moment it made contact with him. He crouched and reached, his trembling hands sinking in until everything up to his wrists were submerged and the water glowed in response.
Like magic, like clockwork, the night was lit up with the green-blue light emitted by the seashore. He dug his fingers into the sand beneath the waves and allowed the peace to exist.
There was nothing else here but sand and sea and the luminescence that coated his hands.
Eyes to the moon hung precariously in the sky, so big it seemed impossible, he opened his mouth. When nothing, not a plea, a shout, a whisper, a laugh came out, he closed it again, jaws clicking shut as he thought and thought, lips twitching with the faint memory of a smile.
It was all he had left to breathe and exist and even this would not last. He was alone here, on this beach with nothing else. Not a soul walked these shores by him, with him. No hands cupped his own, held him by the shoulders, wrapped around him like a vice. No. He was all on his lonesome basking in tranquillity he did not need.
Where was the noise? The chaos and light and beauty? Where was he, who was he to deserve this peace? What could he have done to need this?
Questions were all he had and it took strength he lacked to push himself up and free his hands of the glow, to shake off the water. He did not want to be alone. He would not be alone. He would not die here on this empty beach with no paths, no roads, no nothing.
Up and up, eyes to the moon shining so brightly that it had drowned out the surrounding stars. One step and another into the lapping waves as the world around him shifted. He was not alone. He could not be alone. He would not be alone.
One step and another, over and over. The water rushed over his head, salt stinging his eyes as he reached out and cupped the light.
ACT 5
Earth, eight billion years from now.
THE BOY and CURLY stand on a barren rock that had once been home. What remains of the Sun, a white dwarf now, burns dimly in the distance. There is no moonlight anymore. The sky is the least polluted it has been in all of history and it is a beautiful sight with no one else around to see it. It’s bitterly cold. There is no atmosphere left and so the vacuum closes in. It’s so quiet. So lonely.
THE BOY
Was it worth it? Dyin’ for this rock? Didn’t make much of a difference in the long run, eh?
CURLY is gentle and striking. Her face is brown, though there is a streak of white fur which runs from her forehead to her snout. Her ears are perked up and slightly folded at the tips, perpetually curious. Her dark, soulful eyes glimmer with unspoken intelligence. She was loud in her previous life but now sits quietly by THE BOY’s feet, an ever-present guardian.
You didn’t deserve it. Dunno what they were thinkin’, sendin’ you off like that with no plan to getcha home. Guess they didn’t have rings to get ‘em outta trouble. But, then again, it wasn’t them in trouble, was it? Heard they loved you right at the end. Not enough, apparently.
THE BOY wonders if CURLY could understand. Her eyes seemed to, at the very least. She wasn’t stupid.
Don’ look at me like that. I’d change fate if I could but it’s too late now. We’re both here an’ I guess we’ll be here a while. Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t get what happened to you. Maybe it’s for the best. I’d’ve lost my damn mind up there in that metal coffin. I’d’ve screamed ‘til my voice was gone.
A beat. A glimmer above them as another star burns itself out.
Bet you did. Bet you tried to call for help in your own way. Aw hell, it ain’t fair, Curly. Things like us ain’t meant to survive. We die for the greater good and we stay dead, yeah? It ain’t our place to fix things. We just pave the way for improvement. Just how the cookie crumbles.
CURLY glances up at THE BOY, head tilted. It’s almost too much. She’s small enough to fit in his arms and large enough to play with. Her body burned in orbit. THE BOY was doing much of the same and it felt fitting. As if it was her revenge on the wretched race that sent her up.
THE BOY hesitates, stricken.
C’mere.
He kneels and scratches her neck, traces the line over her skull, stares into her eyes. No. How could she possibly fathom revenge? How could she think that when all she had wanted was care? THE BOY speaks, gravelly and grieving.
Musta been beautiful for a while. I’d kill t’ see it again. The blue marble, that’s what they call it. Y’don’t know what a marble is, though. Maybe tennis ball might be better.
CURLY stares, too comprehending, too still, too knowing. They call her the pioneer, little curly, little lemon, barker. The patron saint of one-way trips. THE BOY hopes she watches over him too, as little as he deserves her. He’s afraid and he’s sure she was too. They could be afraid together here, at the end of all things.
I dunno how to tell you your death wasn’t meaningless. People still think of you. There are others with your name. You ain’t forgotten, sweetheart. You’re everyone’s pup.
THE BOY opens his hand. Nestled in his palm is a green ball made of hard light. A construct. CURLY perks up at the sight of it and he suppresses a smile. THE BOY stands and throws it as hard as he can and she chases, a streak of joy, a bark and a wagging tail. They are alone together and will play for the rest of time. CURLY barks at him, insistent.
Yeah, I’m goin’, I’m goin’. I’ll be back quick, though. You won’t even realise I was gone.
As the two trek up the mountain, THE BOY turns to see four figures standing at the base. He cannot recognise them. His head is too muddled. But they’re in familiar green, arms around each other. One of them, a child, steps forward with a blinding grin. r.
I see ya. I do. I’m comin’, alright? I ain’t givin’ up on any of you. Not while I’m still breathin’.
At the end of all things, THE BOY walks a familiar path towards the stars lit by an emerald flare. He follows and climbs his way towards the light and CURLY accompanies him until she cannot go further. He pats her goodbye. He will see her again soon. He’s sure of it.
Whiteout.
Guy Gardner blinks awake to the blinding lights of his cell. His head is sticky and his limbs refuse to cooperate. He is alive and not supposed to be. Something is deeply wrong but when the hand laid against his chest twitches, he feels the warm weight of his ring. He feels supercharged. He feels hot. He feels everything.
Alarms blare in the distance. The cell is rage-red even if all he can see is blinding, beautiful green. His head turns slowly and locks onto the thing in John’s skin. For the first time, he sees genuine fear in its expression.
There’s a flash of light, a scream, a plea somewhere.
And finally, Guy Gardner is free.
Kyle stumbled as they dragged him, one on either side with their arms hooked through his own. The touch was cruel, their gazes jagged but frustration simmered off of them which Kyle took as a good thing. He was still alive. He hadn’t broken yet.
Keeping quiet, of course, never yielded anything good. “Are you smiling?” one of them asked with a tone like a whip, and Kyle could not deny fast enough to avoid being slammed against the wall, solid steel and awful on his mangled back. A forearm under his chin, pressed tight against his jugular and Kyle could not breathe.
When they began to change, he slammed his eyes shut. He would not—could not see. “Kyle,” they said through a voice that made him want to cry and hurl, “look at me. C’mon, just look at me. Please, Kyle. Open your eyes.”
Hair tickled his cheek, soft and blonde and coiled tight at the ends and Kyle could not open his eyes. “Shut up,” he rasped. “Shut up.”
A thumb slipped into his mouth and hooked over his bottom teeth, pressing down to pull him forward, straining his neck further against the arm that pinned him. “Kyle,” they chided in that awful, awful voice, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Just tell me what I wanna know.”
He couldn’t talk with the finger in his mouth, pulling, pushing, tight, tight, tight.
And then they drew away dizzyingly fast, one hand fisted in Kyle’s hair to drag him this time. He went, almost boneless with eyes still squeezed shut. The door opened and he did not look as they shoved him in, as his knees crumpled and his chin clipped the floor. As he curled up and waited for them to leave.
Seconds crawled by. An arm positioned itself underneath his shoulders and lifted. Kyle went with it, limp, eyes sliding open enough to track Hal’s movements. “Drink,” Hal was saying, holding the bottle to his lips.
Kyle had just the wherewithal to turn his head to the side, a stout refusal. “Kyle,” John said from the other side. The anger had leeched from John’s tone long ago, replaced with nothing more than despair and resignation and Kyle hated to listen to it for longer than necessary. “This isn’t the time to play hero. You’re burning up.”
He did want the water. Needed it. His throat was hoarse, mouth sore, tongue swollen and bitten through. But Kyle refused to keep using up the few resources they had while Hal and John were slowly dying alongside him.
Not that they’d die. Just that it was getting uncomfortably close.
Instead, he kept his mouth turned away and asked, “How bad?”
“You’ll live,” was the grim response. “Just need to keep it clean.”
Kyle could’ve laughed. Their cell was filthy. Ripped straight out of a medieval dungeon in terms of interior design. It was spacey in a way that let the cold air in and settle and there weren’t even any windows to gaze longingly out of. Just bare walls. Just the metal door. God, they could be anywhere and not know a thing.
“Kyle.” That was John again. “You need to drink something.”
“Feelin’ like a mimosa right about now,” he slurred, stubbornly staring at the opposite wall. “Or a beer. Man, I’d kill for a cruiser.”
“Kid, c’mon.” Never a good sign when Hal started calling him ‘kid’. He’d been doing that more and more lately, not that he held off in any particularly significant way before captivity. “Before you get any worse.”
“It’s not too bad,” Kyle countered. “Haven’t cut off any fingers yet. And nails don’t count.”
“Kyle, you—”
“It’s your water.” He finally had the strength to push the bottle away, though he wasn’t strong enough to send it tumbling to the floor, thank God. “Quit being martyrs. I can live with a little dehydration.”
A pause. Hal lifted him a little further and dragged him backwards to rest Kyle against a wall with the practised ease of a man who’d done it a hundred times previously. His back hit the stone and he winced, not because Hal was being rough but because there was a nasty bruise layered over a whip mark and he hated aggravating it.
It took several minutes for his eyes to clear enough. Kyle had adjusted to the dark, to the pain and the fear. He could even adjust to the idea of dying. But the moment his gaze landed on Hal and John, he knew the one thing he would not be able to handle in this place was loneliness.
Hal sighed. It was jagged, sharp, catching in his crushed chest. “Lotta trouble for a couple passwords, huh?” he mumbled, like it was a joke. It kinda was.
John gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Could be worse.”
“How so?” Hal asked as if he was genuinely curious.
With a snort, Kyle chimed in. “Could be Sinestro.”
“Could be. Could be Mongol. Or Atrocitus. Or Black Hand. Or Goldface. Or the Controllers. Or—”
“Enough!” Kyle said through a fractured laugh. “We get it, Hal. We’ve got a lotta enemies.”
“Kinda embarrassing, huh?” John’s eyes were glints of warmth in the dark, soft in a way that had Kyle relaxing just the slightest bit. “All of those people out to get us. All those universe-enders. And this is what does us in.”
“Don’t remind me,” Hal groaned. “I could go a lifetime without seeing someone change into Kilowog and die a happy man.”
“I think I’d cry if I saw the real Kilowog,” Kyle added.
“I think I’d puke.”
Before, and Kyle didn’t have a count on days because the day-night cycle didn’t exist in this pocket of hell, there had been talk of escape. A weak guard here, a potential connection to their absent rings there. To a Lantern, nothing was infallible and maybe that was the case in this place. Maybe the escape route was staring them full in the face. Maybe getting out was easy.
But…
But sometimes things don’t work out. And sure, they had tried at first. But then they snapped Hal’s leg in three places, broke half of John’s fingers and burned Kyle’s arms so badly the sounds of their collective screaming still rattled in his skull whenever he tried to sleep.
The hope for escape withered and died quietly in the aftermath of harsh breathing and tears and the stench of blood in the air. They could never get that smell out of the stones they lay on, no matter how much water they could spare to wash it.
It wasn’t anything worth thinking about now. Kyle’s energy had turned to surviving and the other two pivoted as well. They could hope for an easy exit or they could hope for rescue. Kyle would hold out for either.
For now, he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. It was to stave off sleep because unconsciousness brought chunks of time where his awareness was gone and Kyle hated waking up to someone being gone. He hated waking up to them grabbing him by the arms to drag him off.
John moved, slow and purposeful, to sit next to Kyle. Hal dragged himself to do the same on the other side. It was all they had.
“I’m gonna kill Gardner,” Hal murmured with no heat to his words. “Never takes him this long to get his shit in order.”
“Please,” John huffed, “like you’d do any damage.”
“You’re supposed to support me in my endeavours.”
“What am I?” Kyle didn’t need to turn to see the quirk in John’s lips. He had it memorised by now. “Your parent? Be a big boy and face it, Jordan. Guy’s got you beat for now.”
“Where do you think he is?” Kyle asked, not because he wanted to break up the bickering but because the pit in his stomach, both hunger and dread, called for an answer. “What would the hold up be?”
“Anyone’s guess. It’s likely they’ve got us further out. Whatever they’ve got holding our rings might be a factor. Could be why the Corps hasn’t come in yet either. Why?” Hal raised an eyebrow. “You think there’s trouble?”
“Hope not. Hope he’s having a better time than us.” But the sick feeling persisted, and Kyle’s mouth wobbled so he closed his eyes and counted to ten if only to preserve water.
John’s fingers brushed against Kyle’s shoulder. It sent a jolt through him, the touch unwarranted even if it wasn’t threatening. “He’s more capable than people think. He’s fine.”
No one mentioned how it sounded like John was trying to convince himself as well.
The quiet stretched. Kyle was starting to hate it. The moment anyone stopped talking, the moment Kyle was left alone, his thoughts filled him in with all of the awful conclusions and realities they were facing. They needed help. They needed to get out. Hal was worse by the day, tight-lipped and gaunt and lethargic when he shouldn’t be. John kept stilling, kept going silent, like it was taking too much energy to continue. His breathing was worsening and he’d finally stopped letting Kyle press his ear to his chest to listen. That was so horribly out of the realm of good that it made his heart stutter.
He couldn’t leave without them. He didn’t know what he’d do.
Hal sighed sharply. Kyle turned to watch his head lift off the wall, eyes darting from corner to corner. “Do you…” he began but trailed off, eyebrows creasing. “Fuck. I’m losing it.”
“Welcome to the club,” John mumbled.
A moment later, John was upright too. “What?” When Kyle didn’t get an answer, he glanced between them and repeated himself, louder this time. “What?”
“You don’t feel that?” John whispered, using the wall to push himself up. He could still walk, though it was a slow, cautious limp, pupils bright and glassy. “You don’t…huh.”
Kyle flinched as Hal let out a short bark of laughter, something that sounded borderline painful coming from his mouth. “Speak of the devil,” he said through a manic grin, “and the devil will come.”
The words took a full five seconds to process in Kyle’s dulled mind. Before he could speak, before he could even think about pushing the semblance of a response out of his mouth, there was a shudder, a sensation like a rolling wave through their entire cell.
BOOM!
It was deep baked into the earth and stone they sat on, something that clawed up Kyle’s spine and reverberated in his head, jostling every pinprick of pain in his body. He gasped with it, blinking confusion out of his eyes as John pressed both hands to the wall, eyes almost too bright to be natural.
Kyle felt it too.
The thread was so familiar it hurt. Like reaching out and interlocking fingers, like someone massaging warmth back into your frozen hands. He had nothing to give, no will or light to spare, but he stayed rooted to the spot and let it wash over him. It was an encompassing presence, a solid one. Fire and fury and the taste of blood in his mouth.
Something was burning. Kyle could smell it. Kyle could taste it. There was screaming and burning, the ground creaking beneath him as—as something made its appearance.
Was that Guy? It couldn’t be. Kyle had never felt him burn so bright. He could feel the heat from here.
“What’s going on?” he asked breathlessly.
“My guess?” John stood tall in front of him and Hal, shoulders square, hands as loose as he could make them. “We’re either about to be rescued or killed. Place your bets, gentlemen.”
The door didn’t open. All two hundred pounds of solid metal melted before their eyes as light began to shine through. Blinding, blistering light. Kyle hissed the moment he was forced to look as that thing, the light personified, stepped through the molten hole it left in the door. It scorched the ground it stood on, so brilliantly white that Kyle could hardly see. It was like looking into the epicentre of a nuke. Like a supernova in slow motion.
And then John, quietly, gently, said, “Guy. It’s us.”
That was Guy. Kyle could’ve kicked himself for not being able to recognise the flickers of emerald hovering around the halo of light, the heat that seemed to encompass it all.
Guy didn’t say a word. Kyle felt his gut twist. Instead, he extended his arm in total silence. Kyle couldn’t see the motion, didn’t see his fingers unfurl, but he did watch three bolts of green shoot towards them.
Kyle’s ring hovered in front of his face. The only reason he didn’t cry was because he’d hardwired himself not to. Raising his trembling hand, he marvelled over the way the ring slipped onto his pointer finger, how it lit up instantly and flooded him with warmth, with that nourishment Kyle had taken for granted. Slowly, he got to his feet, reaching to help Hal up too.
Guy stood stock-still. Kyle couldn’t even tell if he was processing any of this.
“Guy?” Hal’s voice was gravelly. Strained. “Gardner! Hey, c’mon, enough with the silent treatment. Guy?”
Something was wrong.
John tilted his head. He didn’t say a word. His ring glimmered on his finger, though he hadn’t used it to power up just yet, and so he still limped with every step forward. Right into the light. Kyle watched him go, part awe and part something else.
He hobbled into the fire. Guy had scorched the surrounding stone and the metal still dropped in molten clumps to the ground and John did not hesitate for a moment in his steady beeline towards Guy.
“It’s over,” he was saying, steady and soft. “You’re done. We’re out. You got us out, Guy.” The light flickered, as if in question. Kyle’s eyes adjusted enough to see John reach up to cup the sides of Guy’s face with his mangled, bruised hands. “You’re done,” he repeated. “You got us our rings back and you freed us. We’re alive. We’re gonna be okay. You can stop now.”
A bare whisper. Not even really a sound at all, but it echoed through Kyle’s skull nonetheless. “Johnny?”
“Yeah.” John was smiling, grinning, his voice nothing but relief. “Yeah, Guy. It’s me.”
It took a long time for Kyle’s sight to adjust. The heat dissipated with the light and, aside from occasional starbursts, the cell was dark once more and it was just the four of them.
Hal started forward, a construct splint on his leg though he was floating to keep the weight off of it. “Scared the shit out of us,” he was saying, something mad in his eyes. “The hell took you so long, even? You’re damn lucky I’m too tired to sock you.”
Guy blinked at Hal, uncomprehending, face still cradled in John’s hands. Kyle didn’t even get the shout out before Guy’s knees buckled.
They both crashed to the ground onto a pillow from Kyle’s ring, something panicked, something half-formed, but it broke the fall and let Hal closer in frantic bursts of movement as he clumsily knelt to assess whatever the hell was wrong.
“Shit,” John rasped, moving so he was behind Guy, bracing him against his chest. “Shit!” he said again, more emphatically, more panicked.
“Oh God.” Hal was in front of Guy, blocking Kyle’s view even as he took a stumbling step forward. “Hey, look over here,” Hal said and flashed a weak beam of light into his eyes, green and pale and empty as they were. “What the—shit! John, we need—”
“Way ahead of you.” With a grunt, John pulled himself to his feet to hook two constructs under Guy’s arms and hoist him up. And Kyle finally saw it. The damage.
For half a second, Kyle thought Guy had dabbled in face paint or something. Or that he’d, at the very least, fallen into a painting headfirst. The colours were sickly and stark on his sheet-white skin, purple and blue and something nearing black. It was a blotchy sort of mural, stretching from the forehead, cheeks and lips of the right side of his face, swirling up to give him a black eye before becoming a concentrated mass of darkness at his temple near his hairline which was so horrifically swollen that his head looked misshapen.
Blood coated his hair. It was matted in, dark and brown and dry, streaks of it having dripped down his ear and neck before disappearing into the collar of his uniform. Guy’s face looked like someone had—had grabbed him by the head and smashed him into a brick wall with no care for what lay inside.
He was gonna be sick.
“What—how—" Kyle started with no real hope for answers because Guy wasn’t talking.
“Get him outside,” Hal muttered, ring sparking as he manoeuvred Guy towards the melted door which had since cooled and solidified, damaged enough for Kyle to push it open. He tried not to marvel at the simplicity of it, of just walking out.
The base was small, crudely constructed. Red light filtered in through the panelled windows and the chunks of wall that had been ripped right apart or melted through. Occasionally, Kyle caught a twitch underneath the rubble and kept moving, eyes wild and forward, legs trembling in their strain to keep him up.
Outside, they were met with the warm, crimson light of a red dwarf and under the dome of a false atmosphere. A main sequence star probably, with a light so mesmerising that Kyle caught himself stuck staring at it. It was familiar. This planet, this little rocky planet that was barren for miles all around, felt familiar. Just…he didn’t know—
“Proxima Centauri,” Hal said, flat.
Kyle blinked and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Looks like it. Earth should be…” He glanced at his ring, glanced up at an ever-expanding universe and then promptly gave up. “Somewhere. Rings can take us the rest of the way.”
Hal had stepped forward, eyes locked onto that dim, red star. “Proxima Centauri,” he repeated, something dangerous in his tone. “We were on Proxima Centauri this entire time.” His head whipped around and stilled as he pointed to a star in the distance, shining with a distinctly yellow tint. “That—that’s Sol. We—we—”
“Hal?”
He didn’t turn, didn’t move except to clench his fists tight, the brace around his leg achingly bright. “That—the entire fucking time!” He raked his hand through his hair and tore a scab open. Blood poured freely down his eye, his cheek. “We were on Proxima fucking Centauri and you’re telling me we didn’t know? Earth—four fucking light years!” That last part was a shriek so ugly it had Kyle cringing.
“Hal.” That was John, a waver in his voice that had Hal deflating immediately from whatever rage possessed him. “Help me.”
And he did, moving mechanically as if his limbs did not want to obey. They crowded Guy, pulled into the orbit of a man who didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Kyle wanted to grab him, to ask him, to beg him for answers.
What happened to you?
Nothing came out. Like he was too afraid of the answer.
“This isn’t something we can just fix, John,” Hal said tersely. “We need a doctor. We need—”
“We all need a doctor,” John cut in. “So we’re gonna go straight to the closest one we have available.”
“Won’t take long,” Kyle offered weakly. “It should be a straightforward trip to the Tower. From there, we can update Oa and figure out what exactly happened while we were gone.”
The agreement passed in silence. John dipped his head to murmur the plan in Guy’s ear, a quick, “We’re gonna get you fixed up on Earth, okay? Just hold on tight.”
Kyle had kicked off, hovering in the air to lead the way just as—
“No.”
Everyone froze and then looked down at Guy, mouth still parted and gaze locked somewhere in the middle distance. Kyle landed on solid ground with a quiet thump. “No?” John repeated, the very edges of his calm flickering. “Guy, what do you—”
“No,” he said again, more insistent, more desperate. “No. Not…not Earth.”
His words had a distinct slur to them, like they were falling from his lips too slow. Like he couldn’t control them properly. “Gardner,” Hal said, voice cracking, “Earth’s a stone’s throw away. Don’t—don’t be stubborn now.”
“Jordo,” Guy got out and it had Hal stopping dead in his tracks, jaw creaked open as if to continue talking but utterly silent all the same, “don’…make me go—go back.”
Kyle’s stomach twisted so painfully he didn’t quite hear the next handful of words. He watched, though, as Hal nodded at something John said before taking Guy off his hands. “You remember how to—”
Hal waved him off. “I got it. I’ve been doing this for him since forever.”
Pursing his lips, John stared hard at Guy. “Oa’s a long way.”
“Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. C’mon,” Hal said, the space around Guy flaring to life with a series of cushioned constructs. Kyle recognised it as stabilising gear. The type paramedics used for head and spinal injuries. “Let’s just make this as quick and painless as possible.”
When Kyle made to step forward and follow, John stopped him short. He startled, just a little, staring dumbly at John as he explained, “We’re not following yet. We need to go to Earth.”
He shook his head, bewildered. “We should go with them. What if they don’t—”
“Kyle,” John continued, firm and kind, “we’re heading to Earth because something clearly happened and we owe it to the League to check in. If there’s been a breach, if the Durlans got what they were looking for or if anyone’s been compromised, it’s up to us to find out. Kyle. You with me?”
“Uh huh.” He was nodding along. Wasn’t feeling much of anything, though. “Yeah. Okay.”
A hand on his cheek shocked him out of the haze long enough for him to jerk and then relax. Just Hal patting his face, a little clumsy but well-meaning. “Stay safe. Both of you.” He bit his lip before stepping backwards tersely. “Call me if you run into trouble.”
“We’ll call you anyway,” John promised. “No one’s getting left in the dark.”
“Hal.” Kyle’s voice only started working when Hal began to float, Guy prone and close to his side. All attention on him now. Needed to make it count, but all he could really manage was, “Ask for Soranik when you get to Oa. She’s—just ask for her.”
“Copy,” Hal murmured, and then he was off like a comet.
Kyle watched him leave, watched that bright emerald arc across the sky dissipate before his body gave out. Kyle went down silently, John’s shout of alarm muffled in his ears, as he planting both hands to the rocky ground and retched.
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
-Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5