The Long Road Home #1

He was a hero to some, a villain to others...and Hal Jordan wondered just how long it would take for him to sway the opinion of the latter.

Be patient, he told himself as he hung in orbit above the Earth, a hazy green nimbus the only thing protecting him from the cold, crushing void of space. It hasn’t even been two days yet. It’s going to take time...for you and them. But Hal didn’t want to wait, he wanted his old life back, or at least as much as he could salvage.

He’d taken a few small steps in that direction, contacting old friends of the “civilian” variety. For those that didn’t know of Hal’s double life, some half-hearted explanations had to be made, of course, but most were just glad to find out he was alive, and were happy to have him back in their lives. Ollie had been lending a hand as well, letting Hal crash at his home in Star City and just being there for moral support (“Us dead heroes have to stick together,” his long-time friend joked). And, of course, there was the Corps. After finally being freed of Parallax, they’d accepted him back into the fold, no questions asked. That had been the biggest morale-booster for Hal since he’d come back: being able to bear the symbol of Green Lantern once again. They didn’t have to take him back, not after Parallax had used Hal to dismantle the Corps, but they did...and it felt like he’d never left.

When Kyle asked him to come to Oa and reacquaint himself with the new Guardians, however, Hal declined. “Let me think about it,” he said. “I want to get things in order down here before I start thinking of up there.” At the moment, zipping across the galaxy seemed to him like running away, a perfect excuse to ignore the fact that many of his colleagues, people he’d fought alongside for years, didn’t trust him. Few of them had said anything outright, but he could feel the tension when he ran into them, like his life had become an old-time movie serial, and Hal was the shifty-eyed stranger that just rode into town.

Batman had been the most blunt about it so far: “Do you expect me to believe this? That you were influenced? Possessed?” Bruce said it in such a tone that it sounded like he was calling Hal a bald-faced liar without actually doing such. To a small degree, he could forgive the man’s lack of tact: it was Bruce’s way to constantly play devil’s advocate for the Justice League, cracking open silver linings to root out the clouds.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Hal had answered, “and quite honestly, I don’t care.” But that wasn’t completely true: deep down, it worried him that, for the rest of his life, the shadow of Parallax would eclipse the light he so desperately wanted to carry through the universe once again. He wished he could make everyone forget he’d fallen from grace, just snap his fingers and wipe out the whole incident. The irony was, if he'd still been possessed by Parallax, he could have done just that. But that creature was out of his soul now, imprisoned once again in the Central Battery on Oa, so instead he pushed himself harder than he’d ever done the first time he bore the ring, doing his best to show them all that, despite the past, he could be a hero once again.

That was what brought Hal Jordan to his current vantage point: with the ring, he could scan the Earth for any signs of trouble. The fact that his position also placed him square between the planet and the JLA’s base on the moon wasn’t lost on him. Hal supposed that, unconsciously, he’d chosen the spot as a way to send a message to anyone in the Watchtower who doubted the Green Lantern’s intentions: I’m standing out on the front lines while you’re hiding away in a fortress. Who’s got the best interests of the world in mind here? Had it been Guy standing there instead of Hal, his fellow GL probably would have flipped the bird at the Watchtower’s long-range sensors for good measure. But Hal wasn’t interested in picking fights, he just wanted to do his job, and do it well.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” he said aloud, gazing down upon the Earth far beneath his feet. Nighttime was beginning to cover the West Coast, the entire North American continent sparkling with clusters of light. Out of habit, his eyes traveled up the Pacific coastline, searching for a specific pattern of lights that wasn’t there anymore. Stop torturing yourself, he thought, and placed a white-gloved hand over his eyes for a moment. How do you expect others to forgive you if you can’t forgive yourself? It was the one old wound he feared would never heal properly: the loss of Coast City had been the beginning of the end for him, and it was the one piece of his old life that he could never retrieve. There had been some rumblings made by the government recently about rebuilding, but it wouldn’t be the same. You could replace the buildings, but not the people.

With a sigh, Hal let his hand drop away from his eyes, glad that no one was there to see him at such a low moment -- the way he felt, he was sure his mask wouldn’t be able to hide his emotions. He then remembered that was why John stopped wearing his: to show people he had nothing to hide. “Sorry, friend, guess you‘re a little braver than me in that department,” Hal muttered as he looked back down at California. This time, however, his eyes were drawn further south, towards San Diego. Something about the light radiating from there didn’t look right. After a moment, he saw the discrepancy: they were dimming.

Having spent nearly his entire life on the West Coast, Hal was familiar with rolling blackouts, but this wasn’t the same. The darkness was spreading out in a circular pattern like a blast radius, instead of following the layout of the power blocks. It moved slowly as well, almost imperceptible at first, but it appeared to be building speed. Bringing his right hand up, Hal said, “Ring, analysis.”

At a glance, the ring Hal wore on his middle finger looked like an unusual class ring, perhaps one given out by a quirky fraternity. In a way, it was: the members had once stood 3,600 strong, but now only five belonged. No other frat, however, could boast of being in possession of one of the most powerful weapons in the universe. With two simple words, the ring scanned the phenomenon, processed the collected data, and delivered a response in the space of a heartbeat: [Rapid drain of city’s power supply in progress. Energy being redirected to location at epicenter of disturbance].

“Where’s that?”

[STAR Labs].

Not good, Hal thought, then said aloud, “Ring, power check.”

The ring paused a moment to assess its current charge, then replied, [Power levels at 98.71 percent].

“Once more unto the breach,” Hal said to himself, then plunged into Earth’s atmosphere like a falling star.

For a moment, Hal wasn't sure which way was up: the wave of energy had knocked him backward, but it seemed to be taking forever for him to land. When he did, he heard the crunch of glass breaking and the hollow thump of metal beneath him. Hit a car, he thought as he lay there, eyes closed. Must have blown me clear out of the building. His back throbbed from the impact. Of all the things he'd missed during his hiatus from mortal life, that chew-up-five-aspirins, post-battle ache was certainly not one of them. He wasn't sure if he should try moving, but since no one appeared to be coming over to lend a hand, he didn't have much choice. In fact, his surroundings seemed eerily quiet: no shouts, no sirens, just a snapping sound like a flag in a high wind. He opened his eyes, white spots swimming in his vision. Once he'd rubbed them clear (no easy feat when wearing an eyemask), he lifted his head to take a look around, and soon saw why it was so quiet.

He'd landed on a car, but it wasn't in the street: he'd been blown into a parking garage. Hal couldn't recall seeing any nearby when he'd arrived on the scene, but he hadn't really been focusing on the other buildings around STAR at the time. He also saw that power had been restored, but the lights within the garage were a bit low, and stuttered from time to time. With a groan, he propped himself up on his elbows. He was sprawled out on the hood of the car, head pointed towards the front grille and heels propped up on the roof. Good thing most newer vehicles don't have three-dimensional hood ornaments, he thought as he rolled off the car, it would have impaled the back of my head. As it was, his head didn't feel like it was in the greatest shape. Might have a concussion...that was one Hell of a blast. Hal leaned against the car and held his ring up to chest level. "Ring, physical status," he said.

Nothing happened.

"Physical status," he repeated, a little louder this time. When there was still no response, he looked down at the ring. To the untrained eye, it looked no different, but Hal could see that the emblem was dull, a much darker green than the band. He cursed under his breath. Just as he feared, the engine had drained all of his ring's power. Even the emergency charge and the distress beacon had been bled dry -- he didn't even have enough juice to summon his battery for a recharge. I don't believe this. I just got the ring back, and I'm already grounded. He rubbed his sore neck and began to cast his gaze around the dimly-lit garage, searching for the stairs.

That was when he spotted the Casimir engine, charred but intact, leaning like a drunk against a truck about thirty feet away. Nearby was a good portion of one of the lab's walls and various other bits of equipment, some whole, others neatly sliced as if with a laser. He also located the source of the snapping noise he'd heard earlier: someone had tried to cover the naturally-open walls of the parking garage with sheets of plastic tarp. The corner of one had slipped loose from its moorings and was now flapping back and forth as the wind gusted through the opening, carrying flurries of snow with it.

Either San Diego is having some unseasonably cold weather, Jordan said to himself, or I got tossed a lot further than I thought. He took a few steps toward the opening, hoping to get a good look outside and get his bearings, but stopped when he heard voices coming up the ramp leading to his level of the garage:

“...finally caved in.”

“Naw, this was a boom-boom, not a crash-boom.”

“Might’ve went boom-boom if it fragged some cars. Tanks may be bled, but vapor can blow.”

“You smell gas? You smell smoke? I don’t.”

“If there ain’t smoke, then how do you know it was a boom-bbom?”

“My ears know, man.”

Deciding it would be a good idea to hang back until he knew who these folks were, Hal ducked behind the car, out of sight from the ramp. Unfortunately, the angle of the ramp meant that they'd see the engine and other debris when they reached the top. Not much I can do about that, Hal thought as he peered around the car's rear fender, waiting for whomever to come into view.

Two men emerged from the lower level, both armed and dressed in outfits similar to those worn by professional motorcyclists: leather (or leather-like) jumpsuits, form-fitting and heavily padded at key points. They each had the word SLABBERZ and the outline of a coffin on the back of their jackets in garish red paint, but beyond that, they were like night and day. The shorter of the two had a shaved head covered in thorny tribal tattoos, and enough chains and studs attached to his jumpsuit to give a metal detector a seizure. His companion was a bit more subtle: aside from random-looking swipes of color on his sleeves and down the legs of his pants, his only outstanding feature was an old-style leather aviator helmet, complete with goggles, which he pulled up when he caught sight of the Casimir engine. "Holy...lookit this," the wannabe flyboy said, gesturing at the device. "What the Hell is it?"

"Dunno. How'd it get in here is what I wanna know," the bald one said.

That's what I'm wondering, Hal thought. Except for the loose flap of plastic and the ramp, the entire level of the garage was sealed up, with no way in or out large enough for the engine to have come through. The Green Lantern did have a theory, but as long as he was stuck in this building, he wouldn't know for sure.

Flyboy stepped around the engine and approached the section of lab wall behind. "Kind of weird, all this stuff poppin' up out of nowhere." He ran a hand along the wall, which wasn't the brightest idea: with most of the support structure gone, the only thing holding it upright was good intentions, and the slight pressure of Flyboy's fingertips sent the whole thing tumbling down onto the vehicles behind it. A great cloud of plaster dust rose up, engulfing Flyboy and causing him to stumble backward in an effort to get away from it. Baldy started laughing at him until Flyboy ran straight into the engine, shifting it enough to make it slide it off the truck.

Hal scrambled out from his hiding place and tried to put as much distance between himself and the two stooges as possible -- he didn't know how much energy the device might have still held, and he certainly didn't want to be nearby if it blew up. Luckily for all concerned, nothing happened, save for some of the charred outer housing cracking off when it hit the concrete floor. "You stupid fugger!" Baldy yelled. "You broke the thing!"

Coughing, Flyboy said, "It was an accident! Besides, you don't even know what the damn thing..." He stopped as he caught a glimpse of the Green Lantern slipping behind a row of cars. "Hey, you! Get out here!" he shouted and brought up the rifle slung over his shoulder.

Dammit, Hal thought, his back pressed against a vehicle. Most of the cars in the garage were familiar to some degree or another, but the sporty little number he was currently crouched behind had a body styling he'd never seen before, all impossibly-smooth curves and no discernible seams between the windows and frame. From this new hiding place, he could see a door marked STAIRS - LVL 3 not too far away. He could try and make a break for it, but without the ring's protection, he'd be risking a bullet in the back. Have to try a different approach. Slowly, he stood up and stepped out into the clear, hands dangling at his sides and turned palms-forward.

Both of the men stood less than ten feet away, guns raised. Flyboy was carrying what looked like a high-powered hunting rifle, but Baldy's gun was more akin to a next-generation military weapon -- the only thing on the two-foot long, boxy object that distinguished it as being a firearm was the trigger and stubby muzzle. "What the fug are you supposed to be?" Baldy asked, gesturing with the gun.

Hal was taken aback for a moment. This was a drastic change from the greetings he'd gotten earlier. "I'm Green Lantern," he told them.

Flyboy laughed. "You're a green something, that's for sure."

"Shut it," Baldy snapped at him. "That your junk back there, Greenie?"

"Not exactly," Hal said.

"Then you don't got no problem with us keepin' it?"

"Depends. You tell me where I am, and I'll tell you if there's a problem."

"You're in the middle of Slabberz territory," Flyboy said, "and that, in itself, is a problem. For you, anyhow." He nodded his head in the direction of the ramp. "Come along quiet, and maybe your problem won't get too big for you to handle."

"Fine." Hal lowered his head, brought his hands up to shoulder level, and began to walk forward. When he reached the two men, they parted enough to let him pass. Unfortunately for them, Hal Jordan had no intention of going quietly: he clamped his upraised hands onto their shoulders, pushed himself upward, then slammed his bootheels into their knees. They both went down howling, Baldy clutching his right knee, Flyboy his left. Hal snatched up their guns and ran for the stairwell, tossing the guns as far as he could before banging the door open. He vaulted the rail in the narrow, windowless stairwell, going from the third to the second floor of the garage in one fell swoop, then ran over to the 2nd-level door. The handle was gone, but he tried to force it open anyways. It refused to budge.

"Green..." a voice behind him muttered, "green angels...falling from Heaven..."

Hal whipped his head around. It was even darker in the stairwell than it had been in the garage proper, and Jordan hadn't seen the man sitting in the corner as he ran past. Like the two upstairs, this man wore a leathery jumpsuit, though he didn't look like any sort of threat compared to them. Cradled in his arms was an old coffee can, from which a thick, reddish-pink smoke was billowing. "Don't go...don't go through there, angel...that way lies Purgatory..."

"I've been in Purgatory," Hal told him. "Trust me, it doesn't look like a parking garage."

"Fly, angel...fly back to Heaven!" The man waved a hand upwards, stirring up the smoke. A smell like burnt sugar coated the back of Hal's throat, making him gag.

Suddenly, the 3rd-level door banged open. "Damn-near broke my leg, you green sumbitch!" Flyboy bellowed.

"Gotta go," Hal said to the smoky man, then bolted down the stair, the man's singsong voice following him: "Green...means go...go to Hell..."

As he reached the ground floor, he found more people sitting in the stairwell. There was more of that strange smoke as well, so thick that it refused to dissipate as he rushed by. "Jolly Green Giant!" a woman called out, giggling and pointing, her upper torso clad in nothing but strategically-placed vinyl strips. The door to the garage was open, but clogged with people who merely stared through Hal as he approached, dreamy smiles on their faces.

The smoke, it's some sort of drug, he thought...and it was a difficult thought to have: his head was beginning to feel fuzzy, and objects in his vision were looking runny. If I don't get a breath of fresh air soon, I'll be just as dopey as them. He did his best to tighten his mental focus, then began to push his way through the throng until he made it out of the stairwell.

The main level of the garage wasn't much better than the stairs: the smoke was more isolated, coming from only a few metal barrels scattered here and there, but the amount of people increased tenfold...and not all of them appeared to be in their own personal dreamland. Some were already looking in Green Lantern's direction in a way that didn't strike him as friendly, and things certainly didn't improve after Flyboy busted through the drug-addled crowd, yelling, "Outta the way, briq-heads!" He had a pistol in his hand, and took a pot-shot at Hal the second he saw him. Luckily for Hal, it went wild, but the echo of the gunshot caused others to pull out weapons, and none of them appeared to be of a mind to ask whether or not their visitor was similarly equipped. Well, this is turning out to be another typical day on the job, Hal thought, then turned and beat a hasty retreat towards what looked like the exit, bullets nipping at his heels.

Unlike the third level, the open walls on the ground floor had been closed off in a sturdier fashion: a combination of patches of sheet metal, crumbling cinderblocks, and stacks of stripped vehicles lined the interior walls, leaving only the original entrance clear. A collection of massive ATVs and viciously-armored motorcycles stood nearby. Hal considered grabbing one, but he didn't want to waste time trying to start it, choosing instead to run out of the parking garage and into the snow-covered street. The buildings surrounding the garage provided him no clue as to where he was, other than the place was suffering from what most city governments termed "urban blight": shells of cars lay half-buried under snowdrifts, windows even in the tallest of high-rises (at least the ones still standing) were shattered, and as far as Jordan could tell in the gray daylight, not a soul could be seen for blocks. He tried to step only where the snow had been churned up by tire tracks to avoid leaving a trail, but that would only help him for a short while -- until he could find a place to hide and assess the situation further, he was a black-and-green moving target on a white field.

He could hear people shouting behind him and the whine of engines revving to life. Better get under cover quick, Hal thought, sprinting through the blowing snow for another block before ducking into an open doorway and crouching down amongst shards of glass beneath the blown-out front window. The building was out of the garage's line of sight, so unless the gangbangers had the foresight to drive slow and pick out his footprints, they shouldn't be able to figure out where he went right off. For the next few minutes, all Hal could hear was the echo of shouts and motors bouncing off buildings. It was impossible to get a fix on where they were and how many. Quite a few passed right in front of his hiding spot -- there was no mistaking when the cycle-noise was only six feet from your ears -- but none seemed to pay it any mind.

When the echoes began to fade away into the distance, Hal allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath and leaned against the wall. The leaden sky outside provided just enough light through the window for him to see a scorched countertop near the back of the room, as well as the remains of some tables and chairs. Painted on one wall, partly obscured by a layer of black grime and smoke damage, was the kelly-green Starbucks logo. Just my luck. First time I come in here when there's no line, and the counter-person's taking a break, he thought with a smile, then stood up and walked over to the counter, hoping to find some clue as to where he'd landed up. Obviously, the energy that the Casimir engine had absorbed, then let out in a blinding burst, was sufficient enough to have somehow teleported the Green Lantern to a point far beyond San Diego. Since it was still daytime in this place, it couldn't be anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. It'd also have to be someplace that would possibly have snow in June, as well as a large, run-down urban area. The only place that sprung to mind was Australia, but those guys in the garage sure didn't sound Australian. The numbers refused to add up.

He kicked at a small chunk of masonry in frustration and watched it skitter across the floor, coming to rest against a twisted wire rack. Jordan had paid the rack no mind when he'd first looked about the shop, but now that he was standing closer to it, he saw the metal sign attached to the top, and the message still semi-legible upon it:



It took Hal a moment to wrap his head around that. Sure, Seattle was infamous for its lousy weather patterns (he'd been witness to more than one bone-soaking downpour while visiting Ollie and Dinah back when the city had been their stomping grounds), but more than six inches of snow in June? The thought was ludicrous...unless it wasn't June anymore...

The roar of engines grew closer again, temporarily snapping Hal out of his train of thought. He slipped behind the counter and waited for the noise to fade, but this time it became a low, steady thrum of idling motors. Didn't fool them for long, he thought as he listened to the gang members call out to each other, laying out a plan of attack to find him. Hal spied a door leading to a back storeroom behind the counter and decided to chance it. Anything was better than sitting there waiting for them.

While the storeroom was in worse shape than the coffee shop proper, he managed to wade through the mess and pry open an emergency exit leading to an alley. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he headed off to the right, keeping the general direction of the garage to his back. His mind was racing along as well, filling with thoughts of not just where he might be, but when.

Okay, let's say this is Seattle. That puts me about a thousand miles north of where I started. Fine, I can believe that, but I shouldn't jump to conclusions about being knocked into another time. What proof do you have beyond snow flurries, Jordan? He reached the end of the alley, skidding to a stop and pressing his back to the wall. Out in the street, he could see three bikes idling in front of a building across the way, but only one gangbanger was in sight, pacing on the sidewalk and toting more of that high-tech ordnance. Well, the guns these guys have is a good start, he told himself, along with the fact that they all seem to take fashion tips from Mad Max movies. And let's not forget that a few of those cars I saw earlier didn't look like standard Detroit rolling iron. If I'm still in the same time-frame that I woke up in this morning, then I have become seriously out of touch.

No matter the where or when, Hal needed to get out of the area, and in one piece. That meant better transportation than just his boots. He saw a length of pipe lying at the mouth of the alley, picked it up, then waited until the guy turned away from him again. It was impossible to be noiseless with all that snow crunching underfoot, but Hal was quiet enough to get within six feet of the guy before he heard him and brought his gun up. Green Lantern rushed him and swung the pipe, knocking the gun out of his hands before he could get off a shot, then stepped to the side and delivered a blow to the small of the man's back. Hal stood ready to swing again, but the man was on the ground, cursing from the pain and in no rush to get up. Deciding that was good enough, Hal went over to one of the bikes and hopped on. While the frame was bulkier than he was used to, and the tires as broad as those found on a car, the throttle and brake appeared to be the same as motorcycles he'd ridden before. Once again, that was good enough.

As he began to gun the throttle, the two missing gang members came out of the building. "Hey! He's down here!" one of them shouted, and the two of them opened fire on him. Hal peeled out, narrowly missing a bullet to the head, but one of the other shots sank into his right thigh, inches above his knee. The bike went into a skid, but Hal managed to correct it and continue down the street, fighting the instinct to take his hand off the throttle and clamp it over the wound. "It'll keep," he hissed through gritted teeth, "just get clear of these idiots first."

He weaved down rubble-strewn streets and past husks of buildings until he saw signs (what few were still there) pointing the way to Interstate 90. He was familiar with I-90 from previous Seattle visits, and used the markers to orient his path in a roughly eastward direction, so as not to find himself possibly driving into Puget Sound. Meanwhile, the trail of bikers behind him seemed to grow every time he glanced back: just the two at first, then another, then three more, until he had nine hulking machines on his tail. He had a good lead on them, but as the remains of the city dwindled away to nothing, so did his hopes of losing them. Hal pressed on, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could last: the green of his boot was being buried under red, and the wound itself was beginning to itch and burn. He didn't take that as a good sign, especially since the exposed portions of his face were having a similar sensation. Maybe it's frostbite from all this snow blowing in my face, he reasoned. The uniform's insulated, but the cold's starting to cut through that, too.

After what seemed like years of driving through endless white, Hal spotted a cluster of low buildings to the north. He opened the throttle a little more and made a beeline towards them. As he drew closer, he saw they were a collection of warehouses (though many had fallen in on themselves) encompassed by a high chain-link fence. A large, battered metal sign still hung from the fence, stating the place to be Maple International Shipping & Storage. The message spray-painted over the top of this held Hal's attention a bit more:



Considering how lousy his other options were, Hal decided to risk it and slid to a stop in front of the gate. It was padlocked shut and wrapped in multiple lengths of chain -- whomever wrote the message on the sign was serious about their "No Visitors" policy. The fence itself was roughly twelve feet high and topped with coils of razor wire, some of which had fallen away. He picked one of the clear spots and began to climb, relying more on his arms so as to take pressure off his injured leg. By the time he made it over the top, the bikers on his tail had passed into firing range, and they peppered the fence with bullets as Hal made his descent. He jumped off the fence with only four feet to go, then ran as fast as he could up the main roadway between the warehouses, pain ripping through his knee like a sawblade with every step.

Once again, the need to find cover was paramount. Unfortunately, the warehouses that were still intact were also locked tight. As he moved deeper into the complex, Hal began to realize he was better off on the cycle -- all he'd succeeded in doing was corralling himself for a slaughter. That point became crystal-clear when he turned right after darting between two of the storage units and found himself in a cul-de-sac. A large, imposing warehouse stood before him, flanked by makeshift walls of corrugated metal, blocking off any exit save for the way he just came. Hal turned around to go back, but it was too late: five of the gangbangers were already coming in the same way he had, guns out and their desire to use them written all over their faces. "Fun time's over, Greenie," one of them said. "You made us waste a lotta juice comin' out here, so now we're gonna take it outta your ass."

Hal set his feet and raised his fists -- if any of them even tried to touch him, they'd be walking away with his ring-print on their jaw. His right leg was almost numb, and he felt light-headed from the blood loss, but he was resolved to not stop fighting until someone put a bullet in his head. In fact, when the crack of a gunshot rang out, Hal thought one of the gang members had tried to do just that, but then he realized the noise had come from behind him. At the same moment, the head of the centermost man snapped back, and he fell to the ground with a thud, a neat bullethole between his eyes. The remaining gangbangers brought their guns up, cursing and yelling, "Where'd that come from?" in turn.

"Well, lookee here," a voice called out from somewhere in the vicinity of the large warehouse. "Ah come up here fer a bit of peace an' quiet, an' whut do Ah find? A whole passel of skunks a-sittin' on muh front porch!" The Southern twang on some of the words was so heavy, they became almost unintelligible. "Whut's the matter, don't they teach y'all how tuh read no more?"

"Listen," one of the men answered, "this bastard here attacked us on our own turf..."

"An' now yo're on mine! 'Sides, Ah don't give a damn whut he done tuh y'all afore, all's Ah see right now is one unarmed man bleedin' tuh death an' the five of yuh...correction, the four of yuh loaded fer bear with nary a scratch on yuh. Figure Ah'm just givin' the fella a fair chance."

"Fair chance?!? You son of a bitch..." The man began to take aim at the warehouse, but another shot rang out before he even had time to pull the trigger. His body landed right next to the first one.

"Don't test me, boys!" The last word came out sounding more like "bo-ahs". "Ah didn't get all muh beauty sleep last night, an' Ah'm feelin' a mite cranky!"

Hal stood stock-still the entire time, not wanting to give either party a reason to turn their attention back to him. Dear God, he thought, this guy sounds like he's enjoying all this. He began to wonder in whose hands he'd be better off.

"Screw this," one of the remaining gang members said, "he ain't worth it." He took a few steps backward, then turned and bolted back the way they'd come in. The others hesitated for a moment, then decided to follow suit, leaving Hal to the mercy of the unseen gunman. He slowly turned to face the warehouse. Now that things had calmed down a bit, he could see a series of horizontal slots about eight feet above the hangar-like doors. He then realized the design of the cul-de-sac was quite intentional: anyone that came through the area's single entrance would find themselves running right into the gunman's line of fire.

"Yuh all right, son?" the gunman called out.

"I've had better days."

"Ah know whut yuh mean. Y'all come on up tuh the doors an' we'll get yuh fixed up right as rain. An' don't worry, Ah've got yuh covered if'n them owlhoots decide tuh double back."

Hal began to hobble over to the warehouse, thinking, Owlhoots? Who talks like that? It seemed a rather silly thought to be having in the middle of all this madness, but something about that phrase -- not to mention the voice that said it -- kept picking at his mind, refusing to go away. It was familiar somehow, a memory that he just couldn't dredge up.

The doors slid open just enough to let two people out: a young man and a woman, both of them bundled against the bitter cold much better than Hal was. "Hey there, bud," the man said, "need a hand?" He then put Hal's right arm over his shoulders before the Green Lantern had a chance to say anything. The woman did the same on his left, and he let them all but carry him into the warehouse. As they passed through the entrance, Hal looked up and saw a catwalk stretching out above his head, and the underside of the gunman's boots. Hanging down from the catwalk was an old wooden sign declaring that This Is A Dark Ride. Hal couldn't agree more.

The interior of the warehouse had been divided up with more of that corrugated metal, creating false walls. Crates and equipment were stacked up all over, and cables ran down from the high ceilings and snaked across the cement floor to provide light and power where needed. About a half-dozen people were gathered in the front hall, none of them looking anywhere near as rough-and-tumble as the ones Hal had seen in the parking garage. After one of them closed the door to the outside, the woman beside Hal said, "Somebody go find Vance, tell him to get down to the infirmary!" She and the young man (actually, he seemed only a year or two out of boyhood) began to steer Hal down one of the hallways, but he asked them to stop a moment.

"There's at least four more of those guys out there," he told them. "I can see that you folks have your front door pretty well taken care of, but you might consider flushing them all out before they can regroup."

"Ah wouldn't worry too much 'bout thet," Hal heard the gunman say directly behind him. "Fellas like thet, they kin be like big, mean dogs: all snarlin' an' snappin' at yuh, but soon's yuh show 'em yo're a bigger, meaner dog than they is, they run home with their tails 'tween their legs."

Hal turned around, meaning to tell the gunman that you can't be too careful, but the Green Lantern found himself struck dumb when he saw who was now standing before him, thumbs hooked under his belt. The clothes the man wore -- a black shirt and boots coupled with pants and a long coat of the deepest midnight blue -- were out of character for him, but the Old West-style gunbelts crisscrossing his hips suited him quite well. They weren't the ones he saw the man wearing the last time they met, but that was no matter, nor was the fact that the man had to be at least a century out of his element. Hal was just glad to see a familiar face, even one as badly scarred as this man's.

"Jonah Hex?" Hal said, then let out a laugh. "Of all the people...I must be dreaming."

Jonah's brow furrowed. "Do Ah know yuh from somewheres, stranger?"

"I know it's been a few years...about six or seven, from my point of view." Hal slipped free of the two people flanking him and took a few careful steps forward. "I wouldn't think you'd forget somebody like me, though. Or this." He held up his right hand, the ring facing toward Jonah.

"Yuh better start talkin' sense soon, or Ah'll toss yuh back outside muhself." The anger in his voice was becoming plain, even under the thick Southern dialect.

"You really don't remember? Come on, Jonah, it was back in 1878, near a little town in Arizona called Desecration..."

Jonah's eyes grew wide. At first, Hal thought he'd succeeded in jogging the gunfighter's memory, then he realized the look was more akin to shock. Behind him, Hal heard the woman breathe, "Oh, shit."

"Ah cain't know yuh," Jonah replied in a low, even tone.

Now it was Hal's turn to furrow his brow. It wasn't so much what Jonah had said as it was how: not "don't", but "can't". He started to take another step, saying, "What are you talking about?" but his injured leg gave out before he could finish and he pitched forward, falling right into Jonah's arms. He stared at Hal for a moment like the Green Lantern was a live grenade, then his expression darkened, the unmarred left side of his face becoming almost as ugly and twisted as the scars and burns on the right.

"Get the Hell away from me!" Jonah shouted as he pushed Hal to the floor -- the Green Lantern clamped his jaw tight as needles of pain jabbed into his gunshot wound -- then Jonah drew a gun and pointed it at Hal. Unlike the holster it sat in, the firearm was no antique: it was a .357 Magnum, a proverbial "Dirty Harry" gun. "Touch me again, an' Ah swear tuh God Ah'll kill yuh," he snarled.

The woman stepped forward, putting herself between Jonah and Hal. "Put it away, cowboy," she said.

"I don't think he can hear you, Stiletta," the young man said as he bent down to try and pull Hal to his feet.

She ignored him and kept her eyes fixed on Jonah, staring him down from beneath a sweep of blonde hair. "Shooting this guy won't change anything, you know that. Now calm down, put the gun away, and we'll work on getting some answers."

"Ah don't want no answers," Jonah said, neither his hand nor his eye wavering. If he'd pulled the trigger at that moment, the bullet would have passed through the woman's stomach and into Hal's skull. "Ah want this bastard tuh disappear."

Hal climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on the young man -- the barrel of the gun tracked him the whole time. "Jonah, what the Hell did..."

"Shut up. Should've shot yuh when Ah had the chance, but now yo're in here...yo're in here like thet...thet thing was..." He swallowed hard. "Ah don't want tuh know any more."

"Cutter, get this guy out of here, fast," the woman ordered, never taking her eyes off the gunfighter.

"No argument here." The young man tugged on Hal's arm and led him down the hallway they were originally headed to. Above them, suspended from the ceiling by cables, a herd of carousel horses hung in mid-gallop. Some were missing a leg or two, others their entire head. The surrealism of the entire day was becoming a bit much for Hal.

Little did he know, the worst was yet to come.