Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His CO had warned him to “hold his tongue for once in his goddamn life”. So, Hal held his tongue. Not for the first time in his goddamn life, thank you very much.

It was at least the second time.

For the record, he wanted it stated that he was not doing it just because he’d been asked; in fact, he was doing it despite the fact he’d been asked.

But he’d been stuck in a room for three weeks, contemplating the meaning of honor, dishonor, punching, not punching, questions, and not asking them.

Quiet time for reflection had never been his thing.

The fact of the matter was, he was bored. He’d assumed he was going to be carted off to even more confinement, but to his surprise, he had been taken to a meeting room, and en route asked “to hold his tongue”, et cetera.

Which brought him here. To said meeting room. Sitting with his CO (still looking punchable) and two government goons dressed in all white (also looking incredibly punchable).

But Hal held his punches and his tongue.

It was harder to do than one might think, considering they’d asked him to stand in one of those airport scanners beefed up to the max with tech he didn’t recognize, then made him change his clothes, then had him sit in a room for half an hour while they “reviewed the results”.

He heard the words “negligible contamination” and “on-boarding”, and then finally, he got to learn what this circus was all about.

“My name is Agent F, and this is Agent O.”

Hal held back the question fighting to escape his lips, namely: do those initials stand for Fuck Off, or is that just a weekend thing?

He'd gotten in enough trouble re: asking and telling.

“What Agency do you represent, then?”

The two agents looked at each other, then back at Hal.

“That's classified.”

“Of course it is.” Hal rapped his knuckles on the cold, metal table. “Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

They folded their hands in sync (creepy), and Agent O spoke up.

“A month ago, we detected a strange energy emanating from a densely populated metropolitan area. Shortly thereafter, it became inaccessible to external interference.”

“Remote observation was likewise limited,” Agent F continued seamlessly, “due to the presence of a dome-like shield."

"A dome-like shield, huh. In what ways was it dome-like but not, in fact, a dome?"

The Agents exchanged another look, before apparently deciding Hal's question wasn't worth acknowledging.

"Three weeks ago," Agent F contined, "something emerged from the dome-li—...from the shield.”

"Whoa, you don't say?" said Hal.

He smiled when a vein ticked in Agent O's forehead. It wad nice getting visible results like that.

“Fortunately, we were able to capture it. Unfortunately, due to ongoing hostile conditions inside the shield, it suffered heavy damage. We've been able to repair it, but not to the original level of functionality.”

Hal sucked on his teeth, thinking over what they'd told him.

This kind of spy shit wasn't typically Hal’s area of expertise, but he'd had the same basic training as anyone in the military.

More importantly, he had a degree in aeronautical engineering, so he had enough brain cells to rub a couple together and spark a decent idea or two.

“You tried to fly it back inside and crashed it, didn't you?”

They bristled, but didn't deny it.

At least he somewhat understood why he was here now.

“Can it even fly now?”

“It's operational,” they said together.

Great.

Hal rubbed his eye, wishing for a cigarette. Mostly to give himself something to do, to buy himself time.

“These hostile conditions, tell me about them.”

“Someone detonated a bomb next to volatile materials. It created a self-perpetuating sandstorm, fed by the energy contained only by the shield.”

That sounded like bullshit to Hal.

“That sounds like bullsh—”

His CO shot him a look that would have one-shotted him, if looks could kill.

Hal cleared his throat.

“That sounds, uh. Bad. A bomb, huh.” Surely not nuclear; they would have evacuated if that were the case.

More importantly, Hal would have heard about it. A month ago, he'd had the kind of military clearance where they told him things like that, usually before sending someone off to drop bombs of their own.

“Who set it off?”

“That's classified.”

“Of course it is.” Hal leaned back in his seat. “This self-perpetuating storm, what kind of energy is feeding it?”

Agent F cleared his throat.

“That's…”

“Let me guess: classified?”

“Highly,” said Agent O, either not picking up on Hal’s sarcasm or not caring.

“I've never heard of energy and a bomb doing anything like this.”

“All you need to know is that our organization specializes in its study and usage, and this is well within the parameters of possibility.”

“Guess I'll just have to believe you, then.” Hal offered a sardonic smile. “What's all this got to do with me?”

They slid a string-tied folder across the table to him.

“It has to do with two things: one, the primary artifact we recovered, and two your involvement with it—”

“What the hell?”

He'd managed to get the string unwound and the folder open in record time.

Inside, right on top, was a photo of him standing next to some kind of…vehicle. It wasn’t a fighter jet. It wasn't like anything he'd seen before.

He jabbed his finger into the photo. “Where did you get this?”

“We obtained the photo from satellite imaging.”

Hal pointed to the photo again. “That's not me.”

“We have reason to believe that it is. A week ago, specifically.”

“And I have a very strong alibi, ask anyone.”

“We're aware you were detained.”

Detained. What a nice way of putting it.

He looked at the photo again, focusing on the vehicle and not that it was him (or someone who looked like him) standing next to it.

It was an interesting piece of machinery. It had wings, but it looked more like a car or a submarine than a plane.

He flipped through the rest of the file, hoping for more information, since the Agents weren't, precisely speaking, forthcoming.

It was more photos—some of the vehicle, post-destruction. Some of a lab, likewise destroyed. There was also a dossier of information about the location of the sandstorm, but most of it was redacted to the point of unreadability.

The only thing he could tell was that it was in Illinois, as well as some statistics about weather patterns and how sandstorms work with regards to flight conditions—

With a kind of clarity he didn't often get in his life, it clicked exactly why they were all gathered in this room.

“You're asking me to fly that thing in there.”

Agent O adjusted his sunglasses.

“Asking is merely a formality. Whether you agree or not, you will comply.”

“After all,” Agent F continued, gesturing to the photo of Hal, “you've already done it.”

Bullshit.

“Okay, but I don't remember that happening," Hal explained with a frankly heroic amount of restraint. "As previously established, we all know exactly where I was a week ago.”

Sitting in his quarters. Confined.

"A normal side effect of time anomalies," Agent F assured him.

It sounded like Government Dialect for 'we don't pay you to think about these things'. Technically, they didn't pay Hal at all anymore, probably.

Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

Hal stared at the photo, trying to make sense of it. He looked satisfied in the photo. Pleased.

None of this made any sense.

“Why do you even need someone to go in there, let alone me?”

“We believe ground zero is being perpetuated by a rogue experiment. We need you to stop it.”

“Stop it? How?”

“If you say yes,” Agent O continued, “we'll give you gear to protect you from the experiment. And contain it, of course.”

“And if I say no?”

They gestured to the other pictures strewn across the table. “That's what happened to the last people who came in contact without protection.”

Hal grimaced, the pictures of the exploded lab, with huge slashes in the walls taking on new meaning.

Hm.

“Are you gonna tell me what this experiment is? It looks like a rabid badger got loose.”

“It's better if you don't know the details.”

“Better for you, or better for me?”

They didn’t answer his question, not that Hal expected them to.

They stood up in lock-step, like robots or one of those hivemind bugs. Ants. Bees. Termites, maybe.

“You have until the end of the day to comply willingly,” said Agent F. “Make your peace with anyone you need to, and settle your affairs.”

Hal squeezed his hand into a fist. The only one he needed to make peace with…

It was probably too late now.

Once goons F and O were gone, his CO stood up and ordered Hal to follow him to his office.

Hal almost refused on principle—he was pretty sure he didn't have to follow orders anymore, considering there was a non-zerk chance of an impending court martial with his name on it—but curiosity won out over obstinance. 

If he wanted more information, he'd have to play along.

The office hadn't changed since last Hal had seen it. Somehow he thought it might feel different after everything, but no. It was still the same office. Same desk. Same chair. Same accolades on the walls.

Same goddamn flag hanging in the corner.

His CO sat, gesturing for Hal to do the same.

Once Hal complied, he slid a recording device across the desk to Hal. It was a strange device; high-tech, but banged up. Old and yet new.

The hair on Hal's neck stood up. This smelled like more bullshit.

“I'm not supposed to share this with you, so if anyone asks, you have no idea what this is.”

“I don't have any idea what this is,” Hal pointed out.

With a pointed look, his CO pressed play. At least, that's what Hal assumed he'd done, since a video started playing, hovering in the air like a star wars hologram slash film projection.

It was grainy footage, hard to parse, but the shape of whatever was on screen looked human. There looked to be some sort of green filter over the video. Nightvison, maybe?

“You blew it up. You blew it up,” an echoe-y, rattling voice asked. “Why would you—? How could you? I don't—I can't—the ghost shield! Activate protocol 77-Alpha-Golf-India-Sierra-Bravo—”

A klaxon alarm went off, flashing red on the video. So. Not nightvision, after all.

“That doesn't spell anything,” Hal pointed out.

His CO grunted. “It's a code phrase. Keep watching.”

The footage went white, like a small bomb went off.

The footage cleared, and a young man was left in a heap on the ground. Black hair, dressed in some sort of…white jumpsuit.

Agents not unlike the ones who'd just wasted a hour of Hal’s life rushed into the frame, slapping some kind of high tech collar on the kid, high tech handcuffs, and spouting off some version of the Miranda Rights, except that they were telling him all the rights he didn't have.

He threw the agents off, dashing over to a wall and grabbing a pair of strange metallic gloves with claws. He ripped through the collar and cuffs, destroying the weapons leveled at him with prejudice.

Hal understood now where the photo with all the claw marks gouged in metal had come from.

The scene cut to a new frame. The same kid, still cuffed and collared, but now sitting in an all white room, with white furniture, and probably a two way mirror, if Hal had to guess.

He'd seen the inside of enough detention cells to know, from both sides of the glass.

“For the last time, I do not control time. You guys are the ones who blew up a whole dimension and thought nothing bad would happen. Now if you recall, I kindly rescued you, so if you could do me a solid and return the favor by letting me go—” he winced, the collar around his neck lighting up.

They were torturing him. Hal wasn't naive enough to think habeas corpus meant anything if the government thought you knew something they wanted to know, but this was a kid.

The video cut ahead further. Same kid, looking much more tired.

“And if I agree, you'll leave them alone?” he asked, blue eyes piercing.

“You have my word,” said someone out of shot.

The kid nodded. “It won't hurt, will it?”

“No,” said the voice.

Hal didn't believe it. Based on the wan smile the kid gave them, he didn't believe it either.

“Well. It's not like I have much of a choice, do I? I already know how this ends.”

“There's always a choice, son.”

“Sure. You could choose to let me go. But I know you won't.”

The footage jumped ahead again, the same kid. Now strapped inside some kind of…well. Futuristic medieval torture device or something. He was suspended in an X shape, hands and feet contained.

He looked dangerous. He looked amused.

“You guys are way too colorful to be the GIW—say, do you know Hal Jordan?”

What the fuck, he thought. “What the fuck?” He whispered, with feeling.

His CO pressed stop, offering him an expectant look.

Hal wasn't sure what he wanted. Probably not another fat lip.

“I still don't know who that is,” he said, because he didn’t.

“I'm aware.”

“Then why show this to me?”

His CO tapped his finger on the desk a couple of times. It was a tick Hal knew well. It meant how much information do I want to share with the security risk sitting in front of me.

Hal could be patient if he needed to be. Especially since he had a feeling he was gonna find out, one way or another, exactly what was going on here.

Finally, it seemed the benefits of sharing outweighed the costs of withholding.

“This device is one of the few things from their experiment they could recover. What they didn't tell you is that it's from the future.”

“ …the future? Really? What am I saying, of course it is. It's probably from aliens, too, I bet.”

Maybe his CO was just inured to Hal's brand of kvetching by this point; he didn't even blink.

“Carbon dating doesn’t work for time that hasn’t passed yet," he continued, "but they’re estimating it’s about five to ten years from now.”

Hal leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “With all due respect…this is some real bullshit, you know.”

“I fear we don’t know the half of it.”

“I'm not doing it.”

His CO sighed. “You know, I'm not sure where this is coming from.”

“Where what is coming from?”

“This petulance. This arrogance.”

“What can I say? I'm a pilot. We're cocky. Especially when you're as good as I am.”

“You're a damn good pilot, I'll give you that. One of the best I've ever met, even. But as a pilot, you're replaceable. This egoism has no place in the military.”

“That's what I've been saying,” Hal sniped.

His CO narrowed his eyes, the first sign that Hal was getting to him.

It wasn’t much, but Hal would take it as a victory.

“You may have Martin's looks, and his skills, but you do not have his temperament. The only reason you're here is because of the good grace his actions bought you.” His shoulders sagged, like all his energy left him. He looked his age for once. “I don't know where this attitude came from, but I know this isn't how Martin and Jessica raised you.”

Hal sucked on his teeth. “Dear old dad died before he could do much raising.”

“Jordan—”

“Jim called me yesterday, you know," Hal interupted. "I missed her funeral. I didn't get to say goodbye to her in any way that mattered, all because you decided that I was military material.”

“You know we can't just let personnel leave because their parents are sick—”

“Dying! She was dying. And now she's gone, and my brothers probably won't speak to me again, and you know what? It's starting to sound like maybe I have nothing to lose, after all, so sure. Send me into a probably radioactive sandstorm in an untested flying death trap and maybe if I die fast enough my mom and I can walk through the pearly gates together, bust my dad out of catholic heaven before they kick us out, and go live on a cloud somewhere, doesn't that sound nice.”

The silence was thick enough to cut, hanging between them.

His CO burst out laughing.

“Damn, you do have a mouth on you. You're Jessica's kid, alright.”

Hal did feel a bit better, maybe. Except for everything.

“I don't really have a choice do I? About the mission.”

“Son, there's always a choice.”

Hal scowled at the phrase, wondering if it was an intentional quote from the video or not.

It didn't matter. Hal might not be strung up in a machine, but he knew what options were available to him here.

Do this mission, or else.

Still, he wouldn't be Hal Jordan if he didn’t find a boundary and push on it.

“Give me one good reason.”

“You do it, and I’ll give you what you want. Release you, honorable discharge, record wiped clean. You can do whatever the hell you want after this.”

Assuming I survive this, he thought. But if there was anything he hated, it was letting fear control him.

It was a constant co-pilot, but Hal was the one in the cockpit.

“Alright. Fuck it. Let’s dance.”

“There’s the Highball I know.”

“And love, no doubt.”

His CO just sighed.

They didn’t even uncuff him for the flight from Edwards base to Illinois, which was undignified and uncalled for, rely. He'd already agreed to help.

They ignored him when he'd pointed this out to them. Assholes.

When he was shown what he'd be flying in and the supposed “protective gear” they offered, he almost laughed.

They offered: a white, skin-tight latex jumpsuit; a metallic bracelet; and a soup thermos they called a “capture device”.

It was a joke.

“There are easier ways to kill me, you know,” he told them.

They didn’t laugh.

“True death is a second best case scenario,” Agent F informed him.

Cheery bunch.

“Are you going to tell me how any of this works?” he asked, holding up the thermos and the bracelet.

“The wrist ray should deploy automatically in case of hostiles."

"Should?"

"The thermos is self-explanatory,” Agent F explained (or rather, didn't).

“Point and shoot,” said Agent O. “Now suit up.”

At least they informed him he could wear the spandex under his regular flight suit. If he died, he wanted to go down like a pilot, not a clown.

Though the suit did make his ass look good. It's one saving grace.

The flight controls were at least simple. A bit more science fiction than function, but nothing he couldn’t figure out.

In his mind, he pretended it was like any other test flight. They let him take his green bag with him, though they didn't let him pick his own snacks.

And that was it. They packed him in and pointed him towards the storm without so much as a good luck.

Fucking assholes.

His first thought when he saw the shield was that dome-like was a good word for it, after all, but geodesic was a better one.

His second thought was that it was massive, glowing green like radium, strange shapes swirling behind it that lesser minds might imagine to be monsters.

His third thought was that this was definitely going to kill him.

He didn't get a chance for a fourth thought; as he breached the sheild, there was no time to think. Instinct and skill was the only thing that'd pull him through.

Hal couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. He didn’t cry often; not for any of the macho bullshit reasons most guys said they ‘didn’t cry’. He just didn’t. Couldn’t, maybe.

If he really pressed himself to think about the last time he remembered crying, without a doubt it was age 8, 3rd grade, just outside Edwards Air Strip, watching his dad’s plane crash and burn in a fiery heap.

If he found himself on the verge of tears now, it maybe had something to do with the similarity of the situation.

He wasn’t dead, which was the good news.

He was stranded in the middle of a strange, green sand desert that shouldn't be here with only enough water for a week, maybe two, and a plane that a) wouldn’t fly and b) had no radio connection. So. That was the bad news.

Maybe he shouldn't have made fun of agents F and O for crashing the plane. It wasn’t easy to fly—more like a rocket than a fighter jet. That didn't even account for the atmo instability.

They hadn't mentioned the sand would suck the energy right out of the stupid plane.

He also wasn't one hundred percent he wasn’t dead, because again: Strange green desert that shouldn't be there, and also the plane he definitely crashed and hadn't ejected from. Which was the worse bad news because it meant the good news wasn't good news because it wasn't true and he was dead, he had to be. Good news had to be true to be good, or something.

The plane, which was in one piece, more or less, but which wouldn't start, had no telemetry, and had completely failed him within seconds of passing that stupid barrier.

He'd kept the damn thing steady in the air, he even thought he'd pull off a miracle landing, until he'd hit something solid and massive in the air (which wasn't supposed to happen, but everything else about this situation was already so fucked, he just. Wasn’t gonna question it).

If he wasn’t dead, it was a miracle. And if he was dead, he'd like to have a word with management. Because this afterlife? Sucked.

He sat there staring at the heat waves rising at the sand for longer than he should have, but not as long as he would have liked. But really, there were only two options: sit there and wait to die (assuming he wasn't already dead), or try to fix it.

Waiting around to die had never been his way, so. Fixing was the only choice.

Hopefully someone would come looking for him, but that wasn’t something he could count on. Nor was it something he dared to hope for. Especially since this ship was “one of a kind” and “the only thing that can penetrate the barrier” and “You're the only one who can do this, Hal Jordan, because you're both talented and expendable but your ass is pretty great at least”.

So he pulled out his tools and got to work.

It was as the sun was setting on day one that Hal realized that he was maybe just hastening his death (assuming he wasn't dead already); working in the sun only made him lose precious water. After he’d gotten the panel off the back fuselage and inspected the engine, he’d realized he was in over his head. If he had every tool at his disposal as well as internet access and a state of the art hangar, maybe he could have fixed it.

But Hal just had himself, the desert, and a plane from the future.

He wouldn’t let himself think the phrase ‘I can’t fix this’. Not fixing it wasn’t an option.

But the sun was setting, and the blazing heat was turning into freezing cold, and Hal was drenched in sweat that had been great for keeping cool in the scorching sun, but not so great for a desert night.

He hopped into the cockpit and shut himself in. Maybe things would look better in the morning. That’s what his mom always said when things weren’t going well. Sleep on it, Hal, it’ll look better in the morning.

Hal sure fucking hoped so.

Hal woke to the sound of something tapping on the cockpit window.

His first thought was where am I?

His second thought was I’m saved!

His third thought was what the fuck is that?

Standing—floating? —outside the cockpit was a…being? Yeah, being. Hal was confident that was a word that could work for this situation.

Floating outside Hal’s cockpit was a being with snow white hair and glowing green eyes, wearing some kind of band around its (his?) head, a strange belt, a blue leather jacket which did not match his black jumpsuit, a gaudy ring, carrying a glowing green scroll—

Ah. Hal was hallucinating, okay. Or maybe dead; he still wasn't real clear on his extant status.

The being tapped on Hal’s window again before becoming impatient and sticking his (its?) head through the glass.

Definitely a hallucination. A HAL-lucination, ha ha.

Christ.

“Hey, so, I see you’re not in like, the best situation, but if you don't mind me asking, how the hell did you get here?”

Hal was glad he’d already concluded that none of this was real, or he might have tried to answer the question seriously.

It probably showed how bad off he was that he was answering the question at all, but it wasn’t like he had anything else to do or anyone else to talk to.

“The same as everyone else, probably.”

The being looked around dramatically. “Oh, I'm sorry, do you see anyone else here? It's just you and me, and you're not supposed to be here. So I ask you again: how did you get here?”

“I flew in.”

“Flew…in?”

“From outside the dome. Shield. Thing.” Hal waved his hand around vaguely. Normally he was an early riser whether he wanted to wake early or not (thanks for nothing, USAF).

Something about the light here was off. Weird. Greenish.

It hadn't woken him, was the point, and he was groggy.

“You flew in from outside the shield in this?” The being frowned. “Why? How?”

“That's classified, actually.”

“Classify this,” the being said, flipping Hal off.

Hal closed his eyes. If he was dead, maybe hell was real, after all.

“Seriously, where did you come from?”

It was strange that Hal's hallucination, stemming from his own mind, didn't have access to all the information Hal did, but maybe this was his subconscious attempt to make himself feel useful.

“I flew in through the green, shimmering wall with this plane” —Hal knocked twice on the hull, enjoying the metal realness of the sound of it — “and then I crashed, and now I'm probably dead.”

The being had the audacity to sigh, sounding almost disappointed.

“You're definitely not dead. I thought maybe a portal had opened up.”

“A portal?”

“Nothing you can help me with, apparently.”

So much for being useful.

“I'm going back to sleep,” Hal announced.

“Fine, but you should probably climb out of there, the sun’s about to rise and it’s gonna get super hot. Greenhouse effect, you know how it is.”

Hal stared at the horizon, already bleeding pink-orange into the purple sky. He remembered what that sum felt like yesterday.

“Fine.”

Hal popped open the cockpit and climbed out.

He stretched his arms up and over his head, leaning back until something cracked in a satisfying way that probably meant he'd have trouble with his spine ten years down the line.

Assuming he made it that long.

“Are you sure you haven't seen a giant green swirling vortex floating around in the sky or anything?”

Hal didn’t have anything to say to that, smart or dumb, so he elected to ignore it.

“Do you have sand in your ears?” The being asked. “I said—”

“No, I heard you, but it's bad for morale to entertain dehydration demons—or that's what they always say on Dr.Phil, anyway. Or maybe that was ‘inner demons’...”

The being mouthed Dr.Phil without recognition. Maybe this was a representation of Hal's inner child he needed to heal—

Yeah, no. He was stopping that thought there.

“If you can tell me whether you saw a portal or not, I'll be out of your hair and you'll be delusion free.”

What Hal wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee. Even the swill from the mess hall would do. All he had was a dry-ass MRE.

“No, I haven't seen a giant green swirling vortex floating in the sky.”

Untrue to his word, the being did not disappear. He looked at his green glowing scroll—scowled, really—and folded his legs criss-cross applesauce style.

“Are you sure? It should have been around here somewhere—”

“Well, it wasn't. Maybe it's on a different sand dune?”

“Maybe you're on a different sand dune.”

Ah, well. Sure showed Hal for trying to converse with a Hallucination.

If this was Hal’s dehydration-induced inner child hallucination, Hal probably had some school teachers to apologize to.

An hour passed during which the being said nothing and watched him.

It was unnerving, frankly. He'd almost preferred the endless questions.

“If there's something you'd like to say, just say it.”

“I don't think you'll like it.”

“That's never stopped you before.”

“You don't know me well enough to say that.”

“Sure, but I'm assuming you're me—or some version of my my mind conjured up due to dehydration and or a head injury—and I'm self-aware enough to know that what people think about what I have to say doesn't matter enough not to say it—”

“Woooow okay, we are not operating on the same wavelength here, at all.”

The being flew in front of him, hovering. “I'm not you. Definitely not.”

“Then who are you?”

The being cocked his head. “My name is Phantom.”

He waited, as if that name was supposed to mean something to Hal. It very much didn’t.

“Like ghost of Christmas past? Jokes on you, I hate Christmas.”

“I am not a Christmas ghost, worst holiday ever—”

“Aha! So you are me.”

Phantom flipped him off again, which did nothing to convince Hal this wasn’t some version of himself.

“This is not what I was expecting when I asked for help,” Phantom mumbled.

“Help? With what? From who.”

“That's classified.”

“Great. Glad we’ve got that settled. Anything else you have to say?”

“Hm,” said Phantom. “Well, the thing is, I think you do know where the portal is.”

Hal sighed. “Christ, I told you—”

“No, no, hear me out. See, I'm like, pretty sure this is your scenario.”

Hal cranked a lug nut lefty-loosey.

“Do I dare ask what that means?”

“Well, it means you’re the crux to us getting out of here.”

“Out of where?”

The being gestured lazily to the desert around them.

“Well, the only way I can imagine getting out of here is if I fix this stupid plane—”

“It's not a plane.”

Hal paused, turning to the being. “Excuse me?”

“It's not a plane, it's a…hm. I don't think it has a vehicle class, actually. It's not meant for the roads.”

“No? And what is it meant for? Outer space?”

“It can withstand the pressure of the ocean, so if I found a way to escape the planet's atmosphere, sure. But no, it's meant for…it's hard to explain.”

“Well that clears it right up, thanks.” Hal managed to dislodge the covering over what he was hoping was the battery housing.

Instead, a mop fell out.

“I get how it sounds, but—look, it's only broken as part of the scenario, so you don't need to worry about fixing it.”

“What is this scenario you keep mentioning?”

“The situation we find ourselves in and how it pertains to you and your…core self, I suppose.”

“Dr.Phil Bullshit again,” Hal mumbled.

“Look, it's hard to explain, but until you let me help you, neither of us can go home.”

“I have shit to do in here, actually, and I don’t need the help of a—how old are you?”

Phantom scowled. “Sixteen.”

Hal hadn't been expecting an answer, exactly. Certainly not that one.

“Right. I don't need the help of a sixteen year old whatever you are to get said shit done.”

“Well, maybe I can help you get it done faster.”

Hal got to work on a new set of screws. “So far you've done nothing but distract me.”

“Just because you don’t think I'm helping you doesn't mean I'm not being helpful.” He frowned and added, “though if someone could give me a hint about what I'm supposed to do here, I'd love to move this show along.”

He aimed this complaint generally skyward. Maybe they'd both lost it.

[IT WAS AT THIS MOMENT THAT HAROLD “HAL” JORDAN REALIZED HE’D MADE A CRUCIAL ERROR.]

It came from both everywhere and nowhere, rattling Hal to his bones. A masculine voice, if he had to classify it, but his ears were ringing and his head felt stuffed full of cotton, so he wasn't really up to the task of classifying the gender of the disembodied voice in his head.

Christ.

“Uh,” said Hal, “what the hell was that?”

“What the hell was what?” Phantom said, lying on his back and clicking the strange lighting bolt boots together.

“The—voice!”

If Hal had been uncertain about whether he was hallucinating before, now he knew.

“You can hear the narrator now?” Phantom snarked. “Great. Awesome. Thanks for nothing, Ghostwriter!”

“Narrator?”

[IT WOULD NOT BE UNTIL MUCH LATER THAT HAL JORDAN UNDERSTOOD WHAT, EXACTLY, THAT MEANT.]

Before Hal could even begin to unpack what the fuck that meant, several things happened.

One, a huge crack of thunder roared across the cloudless sky.

Two, the temperature dropped about 60 degrees, going from scorching heat to bitter cold.

Three, the sand started to shift like a vacuum was sucking it down through a hole.

Four, Hal’s ears popped like a pressure change from dropping altitude too fast.

“I'm not sure I like this.”

Phantom glared at him, green eyes blazing.

“It does not get better with exposure.”

A giant, swirling green vortex opened up beneath them, negating gravity.

If Hal were a betting man, he’d say that was the portal Phantom had been looking for.

“This is not what I imagined when you said you'd help me!”

“Whoops,” said Phantom, sounding the opposite of sincere, “Sorry.”

And then they were sucked under.

Chapter Text

Hal landed in a wet pile of cardboard that was only getting wetter thanks to the rain positively pissing down on them.

Dark buildings loomed above them in a sickly green night sky lit up with neon light pollution.

For all the lights crawling up the buildings, he'd never felt such an oppressive darkness.

Their clothes had changed, somehow. Probably by the same mechanism as their location had changed. Magic, advanced tech, brain damage.

Where Phantom's leather jacket had transformed into a neon green cropped jacket (Akira-esque, but green) and the band around his head was a tech-like black, Hal found himself wearing a calf-length duster of some kind.

The. Well. Everything got a dash of Blade Runner chique applied to it. Including the fucking rain.

He'd say this much at least: they'd definitely left the desert behind them. Where they'd ended up, though, Hal couldn’t even begin to guess.

Actually, hey. There was a thought.

“Where the fuck did you take us?”

“I didn't take us here,” Phantom snapped. “We fell through a portal.”

“No shit. Why?”

Phantom pressed Hal back up against a wall, as some sort of helicopter drone passed overheard, searchlight cutting through the smoggy air. He was stronger than he looked, apparently. Hal couldn’t move an inch.

“It looks like some kind of cyber world,” Phantom explained once the drone was gone, which explained exactly nothing. At least he stepped back from pinning Hal to the wall. Hooray. “Probably Technus then. Fantastic.”

He squinted up at the sky.

“Maybe we're inside Axiom Labs? That does seem like his jam.”

Hal didn’t understand literally any or that.

[GIVING UP ON UNDERSTANDING WHY THINGS HAPPENED WAS A FEELING FOLKS GOT USED TO IN NU AMAZON. IT WAS A MATTER OF SURVIVAL IN A PLACE WHERE QUESTIONS WERE FOR PREMIUM USERS ONLY, MUCH LESS GETTING ANSWERS TO SAID QUESTIONS.]

“Seriously, what on God's green earth—”

“Shush. We're about to get some exposition. If we miss it, we'll be stuck here even longer.”

A booming crack of thunder echoed through the sky, somehow both distant and near. Lightning followed the thunder, neon-pink and advertising some kind of soft drink.

Hal didn’t need to have studied meteorology to know that wasn’t right.

[EVERYONE IN NU AMAZON KNEW THE RAIN WASN'T REAL ANYMORE,] said the voice all around.

The Narrator. That's what Phantom had called it.

[THEY USED TO BELIEVE IT WAS A NECESSITY. THAT'S WHAT THEY'D ALL BEEN TOLD, AFTER ALL, AND AT THE TIME MOST OF THEIR MINDS WERE FRESH ENOUGH (AND FLESH ENOUGH) TO STILL BELIEVE THAT SORT OF THING. UNVERIFIABLE FACTS, THAT IS.]

Another booming crack of thunder and advert-lighting, this time for new hair that could be recharged.

[BY THE TIME THEY REALIZED THAT THE ONLY PEOPLE IT RAINED ON WERE THE HAVE-NOTS, THAT THE HAVES LIVED IN A STATE OF CONSTANT, SUNNY BLISS, THE RAIN PURIFIERS HAD ALREADY FLATLINED.

THERE WERE NO EDDIES TO BE MADE FIXING IT, FOR CORPOS OR RUNNERS.

THE ONLY THING THEY COULD AGREE ON WAS THAT MEATSPACE WAS A LOSERS MARKET.]

“What the fuck,” Hal whispered.

[BEFORE TRUTH BECAME A HOARDED COMMODITY AND THE SCIENTISTS GOT BOUGHT OUT OR DE-REZZED, ONE LAST STUDY WAS PUBLISHED. IT ONLY CONFIRMED A LONG-HELD SUSPICION OF THOSE WHO HAD THE WHEREWITHAL TO PUT A FIREWALL UP IN THEIR MINDS AND KEEP THEIR PRIVATE THOUGHTS PRIVATE.

ALL THE TIME THE RAIN SPENT IN THE LENGTHS OF WEATHER-SIPHONING PIPES TURNED THE WATER—ALREADY FILTHY—INTO ACID.

BUT PEOPLE ADAPT, BECAUSE THERE'S NEVER BEEN ANY OTHER CHOICE. ADAPT OR DIE.]

“Real subtle, Ghostwriter,” Phantom mumbled.

[SOMETIMES THE ADS ALMOST FELT LIKE WEATHER OF THEIR OWN. NOT MANY REMEMBERED AUTHENTIC WEATHER WELL ENOUGH TO SAY OTHERWISE. THEY KNEW IT WAS SOME KIND OF SKY PHENOMENON, AND THE SKY HELD NOTHING BUT AN INESCAPABLE BILLBOARD, EMPTY PROMISES, BUY NOW BLUE, INVEST YESTERDAY INDIGO.

NO AD BLOCKERS WORKED AGAINST THEM—EVEN UMBRELLAS WOULD BE EATEN THROUGH BY ACID RAIN SOONER RATHER THAN LATER. BUT JUST LIKE THE REAL WEATHER OF YESTER-YEAR, IGNORING THE SKY HAD CONSEQUENCES. SO AS ANNOYING AS IT WAS, MORE OFTEN THAN NOT, PEOPLE OF NU-AMAZON LOOKED TO THE SKY FOR ANSWERS, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT. ANSWERS WERE TOO EXPENSIVE TO HOPE FOR, AFTER ALL, AND EDDIES WERE BETTER SPENT ON SOMETHING PRACTICAL. LIKE A ROBOT VACCUUM, OR A THIRD EYE.]

They both sat still, waiting for more, but that seemed to be it, for now.

“Hey, so, are you gonna explain why there's a narrator whose voice I can hear and slso what the hell is going on here?”

Phantom glanced at him sideways.

“You shouldn't be able to hear him,” he said after just a moment of (a bit too much) consideration. “You shouldn't be here at all.”

“Well, I can, and I am, so unless you want me to do something drastic like get myself arrested—”

[WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?] asked the Narrator, apparetly content to break the fourth wall now that Hal was aware of its non-existence.

“Yeah, Hal, why would you do that?” Asked Phantom.

Hal crossed his arms.

“Start talking, or I walk.”

[OH? YOU'D WALK? WHERE WOULD YOU GO IF YOU LEFT? IT'S LIKE CONTEXT CLUES MEAN NOTHING TO YOU PEOPLE, I HATE A DISTRACTED AUDIENCE. UNGRATEFUL, NO READING COMPREHENSION, NO WILLINGNESS TO SUSPEND DISBELIEF—]

"Does he ever stop talking?" Hal interrupted.

"Only when you wish he wouldn't." Phantom looked up at the sky, shaking his head. “Well. I guess I have to tell you, huh. Since you're a part of this.”

“I will remind you I was literally dragged here. Against my will—”

“You think I’m happy about this?” Phantom snapped. “Fine. So try not to freak out, but some idiots tried to blow up another dimension and it backfired, literally. Parts of that dimension got fused with parts of your world, and this” —Phantom gestured to the hell world around them— “is the result. One of the results, anyway.”

“...excuse me?” Hal ran his hands through his hair. “what do you mean ‘alternate dimension’?”

Phantom frowned at him. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of alternate dimensions?”

“I'm unfamiliar with the part where they're real!”

“You don't need to worry about the specifics—”

“I beg to differ,” Hal interrupted.

“The point is,” Phantom pressed on, “I'm here to fix it. With Ghost Writer's help. And yours, I guess.”

Hal wished he could sit down somewhere to think for a goddamn second, but the only place to sit was a pile of acid-rain soaked cardboard.

He’d been told about the bomb. He'd been told there was some kind of energy perpetuating the shield.

This wasn’t what he imagined.

Another flying machine passed over them, filling the air with the sound of whirling fans.

“How? How are we supposed to fix this?”

Phantom watched the sky some more, ads washing his pale face and white hair in neon colors. Hal wondered whether it was dyed or natural.

Phantom’s eyebrows were black, after all.

“You ever fold your own laundry?” He asked.

“How old do you think I am? Of course I've folded my own laundry."

“Well, what we have to do is like laundry. Taking shirts that're inside-out and right side outing ‘em. And also separating the laundry so the colors don't bleed.”

Hal hummed. “I don't think speaking in metaphor is your thing, kid.”

Phantom glared at him, eyes glowing acid green.

“Sorry, I'm trying to describe something that's never been done before and make it easy for your sand-addled peabrain to process, next time I won't bother.”

Hal hated teenagers.

“This peabrain can be as helpful or unhelpful as I feel like being,” Hal replied in turn. “Explain it to me plain.”

Two more booming ads flashed through the sky before Phantom made a decision.

“We have to take the parts from your reality that have been enmeshed with the alternate dimension and we have to separate them. Like laundry,” he added, just to be petulant, probably.

It's what Hal would do if some asshole told him to explain something twice.

Hal sucked on his teeth. “See, you said more words, but you didn't actually explain anything. What does this alternate dimension even look like?”

“It's called the Infinite Realms. Explaining it is hard, but…it's an endless space full of floating worlds, full of possibilities. Those worlds got dragged into your world, where they went from possible to real. To put them back where they belong, we have to let the people from your world live out a story.”

“A story?”

“That was Ghost Writer's condition. They have to prove they're worth saving.”

Hal swallowed. “How do they do that?”

“By finishing the story.”

“Like, characters in a fairy tale?”

Phantom glanced over at him, acid green eyes burning. “Does this look like a fairy tale to you?”

[NO, THOUGHT HAL, IT DID NOT.]

“Stop reading my thoughts before I have them!” Hal spat at the sky.

[ONE MIGHT THINK HAL JORDAN DID NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT IT WAS A NARRATOR DID IN A STORY.]

“That means no,” Phantom said. Like an asshole.

“Okay, okay. Let's say I believe this—”

[HAL JORDAN DID NOT BELIEVE THIS.]

“Shut up!”

[HAL JORDAN DID NOT BELIEVE THIS, NO. NOT YET. BUT HE WOULD.]

“You get used to it,” Phantom offered.

Hal took a deep breath.

“Okay, fine. For argument's sake, this is a story, and real people are somehow wrapped up in it and have to prove they're worth saving by finishing the story—”

“You're smarter than you look.”

Yeah, Hal was just gonna. Ignore that. For now.

“What," he continued, "are we supposed to do in this scenario?”

“Mostly? Help them finish whatever storyline they're wrapped up in.” Phantom paused, expression troubled. “The thing is, they're not characters. They have free will; can't be forced to do anything. We have to help create whatever circumstances will get the story to do. You know. Story things.”

He wiggled his fingers in a way that a more generous person than Hal might be willing to interpret as “story things”.

“This seems like an inefficient method to save reality.”

“Well, sorry, I didn't have a long list of people to ask for help.” Phantom huffed. “The Narrator has a lot of power. He can change reality without breaking space-time, but only within the parameters of a story.”

“What will happen if this doesn't work?”

[NOTHING GOOD. I WOULDN’T MIND SEEING IT THOUGH, BAD ENDINGS CAN BE SO COMPELLING—]

“We can't let that happen,” Phantom interrupted. “Do you like your world, Hal?”

Hal scrunched his nose. “Most of the time, I guess. Could do with some changes, but I don't want it to blow up or anything.”

Phantom sighed. “I'm so glad you're my assistant in this. Thrilled.”

“I'm pretty sure you're my assistant, actually, but nice try. Can't imagine the imaginer, after all.”

Phantom sighed again.

A motorcycle sped past them, spraying water (acid water, according to the Narrator) up at them.

Phantom's reflexes proved to be quick, at least; he made a shield of green energy, blocking most of the water from hitting them.

The sizzling fabric of Hal’s left sleeve was an unfortunate casualty.

“What are we supposed to do now?”

“Wander around until something attacks us, in one form or another,” Phantom mumbled, popping his collar. "That's what I've done so far, anyway."

"Youve done this before? How many times?"

"Not enough to feel confident about it. Ghost Writer? Some direction, please?”

Whatever method the narrator was using to communicate with them did not seem able to convey anything like tone or ticks like a sigh or a hum, be regardless, Hal felt the dismay radiating through the air.

A breeze that could have been a sigh ruffled some wrappers on the ground, sending them swirling down a drain and through a grate.

[WITH THEIR WITS GATHERED AND AN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THEM REACHED, THE TWO INTREPID HEROES—]

“Who are you calling intrepid?” Phantom interrupted.

[...THE TWO WAYWARD HEROES TREKKED THROUGH THE SMOG AND THE ACID RAIN, CERTAIN THAT ANSWERS LAY AT THE PULSING HEART OF NU AMAZON, THE CORPORATE CAPITAL OF THE CYBER WORLD.]

“I hate Cyberpunk,” Hal said. Before now, he didn't have much of an opinion on it, but living through it was really giving him some unwanted and unneeded perspective.

“It's weirdly quiet out,” Phantom mumbled. “Where is everyone?”

“Not getting rained on, probably. Meatspace is a losers market, after all.”

Phantom shot him an annoyed look, then dragged them under an awning.

“Something is about to happen.”

“How do you know?”

Phantom pointed at the sky. “The ads stopped.”

As if waiting for someone to notice (Hal wouldn't put it past the narrator, honestly), the sky lit up with arrows, pointing the way to a tall building which seemed to literally be scraping the sky.

Plastered across the front of it was a cybernetic face (Hal hated himself for even coming up with that description). It was lit in neon pixels, laughing in an animated loop.

“Well, if there were any doubts about whose world this is, there they go.” Phantom jerked his thumb at the screen-tower. “That's Technus.”

[WHEN IT CAME TO MEATSPACE, CORPOS AND RUNNERS ALIKE AGREED IT WAS A LOSING MARKET. BUT THERE WAS ONE EXCEPTION TO THIS IRONCLAD RULE.

MAYBE IT WAS AN INSTINCT BORNE OF A LIZARD HINDBRAIN THAT COULDN'T BE DE-REZZED. MAYBE IT WAS JUST BECAUSE IT WAS FUN TO PRETEND UNCERTAINTY STILL HAD A PLACE IN THIS WORLD.

BUT WHATEVER THE REASON, THERE WAS ONE PLACE IN THE MEATSPACE WHERE THE POPULACE OF NU AMAZON WAS STILL WILLING TO JACK OUT OF THE NET TO WATCH IN PERSON. IF NOT WITH THEIR OWN EYES, THEN WITH THE TECH ONES THEY'D HAD A RIPPER INSTALL:

THE ARENA.

EVERY WEEK—OR EVERY HOUR, DEPENDING ON THE SPONSORS—CHAMPIONS COMPETED FOR THE RIGHT TO CHALLENGE THE ARENA MASTER.

MOST FELL TO PIECES BEFORE THEY COULD EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, BUT THE VIEWERSHIP HARDLY CARED. WORST CASE SCENARIO, THE NIGHT MARKET WOULD BE FLOODED WITH NEW CYBERWARE TO UPGRADE WITH.

BEST CASE SCENARIO? SOMEONE WOULD WIN.

THE LAST ONE TO WIN WAS VENDETTA. LEGEND SAYS SHE ASKED FOR THE RIGHT TO SEND HER DAD TO THE LAND OF SUN AND THOSE WHO HAD. NO DIGITAL ARCHIVES STILL CONTAINEX RECORDS OF HER WINNING BATTLE. NOT EVEN HEAVILY EDITED ONES.

AS FOR THOSE WHO HAD SEEN IT IN PERSON, WELL. IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME AGO, RELATIVELY SPEAKING, AND ACCIDENTS HAPPEN ALL THE TIME.]

Christ, this was dark.

[IN ANY CASE, NO ONE WHO MADE IT TO VENDETTA GOT PAST HER. BUT THAT HAD BEEN TRUE OF THE CHAMPION BEFORE HER, AND NU AMAZON WAS ALWAYS HUNGRY.]

Well. At least they knew where to go now.

“I guess a new tournament is starting soon,” Phantom said, watching the sky flash with arrows.

“How are we supposed to get all the way over there?”

Phantom tilted his head. “You don't mind flying, right?”

“I'm literally a pilot—”

“Good.”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Phantom picked Hal up under his arms like a wet cat and flew through the air.

Hal was back to thinking this was maybe a new circle of hell.

[SOME PEOPLE ARE VERY GOOD AT LYING TO THEMSELVES, WHICH CAN BE HELPFUL AT TIMES. OTHER TIMES, LESS SO.]

Great, everyone had an opinion here.

“Put me down!”

“Can't. It's raining acid and we're late already. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in acid rain world with thunder ads?”

[HAL JORDAN MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT WANT TO STAY IN ACID RAIN WORLD WITH THUNDER ADS FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE, EVEN IF HE WAS RELUCTANT TO ADMIT IT ALOUD TO SOMEONE HE STILL WAS NOT FULLY CONVINCED ACTUALLY EXISTED.]

“Dude,” said Phantom, having the audacity to look offended. “I'm literally carrying you and you doubt my existence?”

“I doubt everything, you're not special.”

If anyone should be offended, it was Hal, having his private thoughts broadcast like that.

This would all be very embarrassing if it were real. He wasn’t sure whether or not to hope it was.

“Let's keep moving,” he mumbled. At least there was a very good chance that no one would ever have to remember this but him.

The Arena was exactly as imposing up close as it had been far away. It was clear now why there hadn't been anyone on the streets; everyone in Kingdom Come seemed to be here, jockeying to get to the ticket booth and inside the arena.

Hal was just starting to wonder if their benevolent narrator had given them anything in the way of currency in this world, and if so how much a two tickets to what appeared to be some kind of techno-gladiator fight would cost when Phantom invisibly and intangibly phased them right through the wall into an abandoned corridor.

Hal sagged against the wall—definitely solid again—and caught his breath.

“How did you do that?”

“You've seen me stick my head through stuff,” Phantom replied. “Surely you remember how we met.”

He looked left and right, as if checking whether anyone had noticed them.

“That was different—you flew me through a wall!”

“Yeah, I made you intangible when I picked you up.”

Hal sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“Did you want acid rain on your skin?” Phantom quipped.

No, Hal did not, but that wasn’t really the point.

[WHAT THE POINT WAS, NO ONE COULD HAVE SAID. HAL HIMSELF WASN'T EVEN SURE. OTHER THAN THE PARTICULARS OF THIS SITUATION, HE'D YET TO FIND A WAY TO FLY HE DIDN'T ENJOY.]

Phantom didn't say anything to that revelation, but there was a pointedness to his silence that Hal didn't appreciate.

“What are you looking for?” Hal asked, hoping to avoid another Narrator Thought Revelation.

“A familiar face, someone who stands out, I'll know it when I see it.”

“You think the hero is just gonna show up and in an obvious way?”

“They might if you stop doubting so loudly.”

A tall figure cut through the crowd, seeming to command space even when there was none to be ceded.

The crowd did not part so much as flow around as they approached a booth labeled COMPETITORS.

They were dressed like a gladiator crossed with a BMX racer. Complete with a golden whip, gladius, and helmet crested with laurel leaves.

They stopped at the counter and removed their helmet, long black hair cascading down their back.

Or, her back. Probably her.

“My name is Diana Prince. I hereby challenge the Master of this arena for a duel.”

“Bingo,” said Phantom.

He was gonna be insufferable about this, Hal just had a feeling.

“I see you’re back again, Ms. Prince,” said a bored attendant. “Like I told you yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the hundreds of days before that, you can't join the games unless you have either a sponsor, or some kind of cybernetic upgrade to show off . And since you're a total brickie without so much as bITfIT—” she held up her wrist, upon which was attached a digital watch — “there's no space for you in today's bracket.”

“I have no need for any upgrades to fight—”

“Do you have a sponsor?” asked the bored attendant.

“I'm sponsored by the gods themselves.”

The attendant blew a big bubble with her gum, smacking her lips as the bubble popped. “Not familiar. What do they sell?”

“Sell?”

Phantom apparently took that as their opportunity to step in.

“VR fights,” he said. “We're selling the thrill with none of the risk.”

“Risk is what makes it interesting,” she said. “No one likes a fight with no risks.”

“You misunderstand,” Phantom explained. “Our champion here is a hologram avatar. Everything she sees, I see. I experience. With none of the risk.”

He demonstrated by passing his hand through her arm.

She looked five seconds away from behanding him for the offense.

Hal decided to do something stupid and help.

“Except, she can be solid, too. To fight. See?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s called Hard Light.”

He wasn’t sure where the name came from, but holograms were made of light, right? Hal was gonna go with 'yes, definitely, that sounds right'.

“We control her remotely with this,” said Phantom, pointing to the crown-like diadem on his head.

The attendant looked skeptical. Which was fair, since this was all total bullshit.

“Why didn't you show up as an escort before now?”

It was a good question. Unfortunately, the truth wouldn't help them here.

"We were still calibrating the code," Phantom bullshitted smoothly. "We're ready now to make our debut."

"I’ve still never heard of you, and I've heard of everyone. You won't get a good time slot if no one knows your sponsor."

“We want to use their champion here to kick-start sales.” Phantom smiled. “By the end of today, everyone will know the gods' names.”

“Don’t tell me…” she looked both ways and leaned over the counter. “You're Crowdfunded?”

[IT WAS AN OPEN SECRET THAT CROWDFUNDED SPONSORS WERE AS HARD TO COME BY AS THEY WERE VALUABLE. TECHNICALLY SPEAKING—TECHNOLOGICALLY SPEAKING, TOO—THEY WERE ILLEGAL.

BUT EVERYONE LIKED AN UNDERDOG STORY. THE ARENA OWNERS LIKED THE SALES SUCH FIGHTERS BROUGHT IN.

AS LONG AS THEY DIDN'T WIN, ANYWAY, ALL WAS WELL. AND IF THEY DID WIN, WELL. IT WAS EASY TO SET UP A POST-HOC COMPANY WHEN YOU OWNED EVERYTHING. SUCH WAS THE VALUE OF INFINITE SHELL COMPANIES.]

“God, he's pretentious,” Phantom mumbled.

[PRETENSION IS THE PRICE OF AD-HOC WORLD BUILDING, PHANTOM.]

It occurred to Hal in that moment that Phantom was, for all intents and purposes, making this up as he went along.

Two could play at that game.

“Anyway, what do you say?” Hal leaned forward, elbow a fulcrum to loom over the counter. “We'll even let you get in on a little pre-fight stock hedging. Even if you don't believe in our champion like we do, surely you believe in whatever the things she'll lose in the fight will go for at the Night Market.”

That seemed to get her interest.

“You'd give me early access to the scraps?”

“If there are any,” Phantom agreed.

“There's always something,” Hal tacked on.

The attendant seemed to debate with herself for a long time. Integrity versus greed, maybe. Or opportunity versus risk, more likely.

“The sign up period for today is over—” on the screen behind her, two competitors slammed together and knocked each other out, a red MUTUAL DISQUALIFICATION flashing like a poor bowling alley animation. “But it looks like a spot just opened up. Congrats.” She slid three passes over. “You can use the champion access door. What's your handle?”

“Diana of Themyscira,” said Diana, presumably of Themyscira.

“That's too long. How about DIE-N/a—”

“Wonder Woman,” Diana cut in. “Will that work?”

“It’s a bit meaty, but sure. It'll flick. Now it's time for you to ghost, and if anyone asks, we never met.”

With that, she pulled down the rolling window cover and turned off the lights.

Hal turned to Phantom, reluctantly impressed.

“You little hellion. Did you just bullshit your way through that?”

Phantom smiled, pleased. "We did, actually. Maybe you're a decent accidental accomplice after all."

The smile dropped when the point of the gladius was pointed at them.

“Who are you?”

Hal held up his hands, attempting to be placating.

“We're your sponsors, lady!”

“I do not know you. I don't take kindly to liars. Especially ones who negotiate on my behalf without asking my permission.” She narrowed her eyes. “I speak for myself.”

“Didn’t sound like it was getting you very far,” said Phantom. “We only want to help you.”

“Why?”

“Do we need a reason?”

She tilted the blade up towards Hal’s throat. “In this world, you do.”

I'm dead for real, thought Hal.

[HAL JORDAN HAD BEEN PREPARED TO DIE FOR A LONG TIME. IT HAD SEEMED MORE LIKELY THAN NOT FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE, FOR ONE REASON OR ANOTHER.

HAL JORDAN, HOWEVER, WAS NOT PREPARED FOR WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.]

Diana sheathed her sword. “I'd like to believe, though, that some people still do the right thing simply because it is right.”

“That's us,” said Phantom. “Do-righters just because-ers.”

“Did you mean what you said? You'll sponsor me?”

Hal took a step back. She was unbelievably gorgeous. Tall. Powerful. And she still had that sword, sheathed or not.

“We meant it,” Hal said, “but it's not exactly real. We don't have a company.”

She eyed him coolly.

“Nothing in this world is real. Food is simply a nutrient gruel, and though you can pay extra for better flavors, it's all the same underneath. Besides,” she added, “I am not a hologram.”

“Yeah, we know, but if we get through this then we can all get out of here and back to the real—ouch. What gives?”

Phantom had elbowed him in the stomach. “Later,” he hissed.

Hal took back anything positive he'd ever felt about this brat.

Diana, at least, didn't seem to notice their little tiff.

She tilted her head, observing Phantom like he was a puzzle to solve.

“You,” she said. “I know you. You're one of the eidolon.”

Phantom froze up in real time, shoulders scrunched up around his ears. Served him right.

“No, I'm not. I don't think so, anyway. Maybe. What's an eidolon?”

She smiled at him, gentle. Kind.

“A spirit of the living or the dead. A phantom.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that is me.”

Hal frowned. That was news to him. Unless Phantom was just going along with whatever fiction she believed?

She appraised him, gaze steady. “The gods are not often so literal in sending aid.”

“Well, I'm not heaven sent or whatever. I just…I have dual citizenship in the lands of living and dead. Getting across customs is harder for others than for me.”

“Indeed,” she said. “That circlet on your brow, where did you get it?”

Phantom touch it gently. “Do you recognize it?”

“It's a symbol of rank that must be won to be worn. Earned.”

“Then I definitely should not have it,” Phantom said, pulling it off.

Diana held her hand flat, pushing it back into his hands.

“Please hold onto it for me until I earn the right to wear it again.” She turned away from them. “Come with me. The competitor preparation chambers are this way.”

For all that she apparently had never competed before, clearly Diana knew her way through the arena hallways.

Hal suspected she'd tried to sneak in. Or attempted to brute force her way inside.

“I do not require anything from you ask sponsors," she explained, striding through the halls in a way that was difficult to keep pace with, "I do not want merchandise or ads. I just want to end the corruption here and if possible…save everyone. After that...”

She hesitated.

[DIANA OF THEMYSCIRA WAS NOT ONE TO HESITATE. NEITHER DID SHE RUSH IN. SHE KNEW WHEN SHE WANTED TO ACT, AND HOW SHE WANTED TO ACT, AND SHE DID SO.

THESE UNKNOWN HELPERS—IF THEY WERE, INDEED, WHAT THEY CLAIMED TO BE—DID NOT HAVE ALL THE INFORMATION. TO SHARE IT, HOWEVER, WOULD BE A CERTAIN KIND OF BETRAYAL.

TO NOT SHARE IT WOULD MAKE HER GOAL IMPOSSIBLE.]

“I will explain, but I need you to do something for me first.” She held out her lariat to them. “Grab hold of the Golden Perfect and swear to me your intentions are good.”

Phantom grabbed it without hesitation. “I only want to help you accomplish your goals, whatever they may be. I am a friend of Pandora, a light, a son, a brother, a gh—”

He let go of the gold whip.

“Uh—”

“Do not speak until your friend has sworn his oath.”

They both turned to him.

Hal hadn't been worried, but now he was.

[SOMETIMES ONE MUST DO UNPLEASANT THINGS TO MOVE THE PLOT ALONG. HAL JORDAN WOULD DO WELL TO REMEMBER SHE IS A HERO.]

Real subtle.

Hal grabbed the stupid lariat.

“I swear my intentions are good—uh, maybe a little selfish but I don't want to hurt anyone I'm just not convinced about all this but I mean well at least I think I do also my name is Hal and I'm a pilot and I'm b—”

He let go of the stupid lariat, shaking his hand.

“It compels truth,” she said, looking pleased. “Come, I will tell you everything now. What My goals here are, how I came to be here...”

She opened a door with her pass, and led them inside.

“People will try to kill you for this. I hope you are prepared.”

Hal choked on air. “Excuse me?”

“There is a reason I did not seek sponsorship before this. No one likes losing money, and my participation guarantees they will lose. But you have granted me a way in. For that, I thank you.”

She walked to the window, where they could see the bracket fights taking place.

As far as Hal could tell, it was an ‘anything goes’ sort of fight. A dirty one.

“Truthfully, this was never meant to be my cause,” she began. “My home has largely been protected from this.”

“Largely?” Asked Hal.

“It is an island protected by the gods. Untouchable by outside forces—those from outside cannot even find it. But find it they did.”

“How?”

She turned at Phantom’s question. “With enough technology, even the gods’ blessing can be circumvented. Every other point in the world has been mapped and accounted for. As such, they know where it is, even if they cannot access it.

“My sisters were content to leave it be. Long have we removed ourselves from the world of men. But I could not abide it. What was the point of being the best warriors of all time, the point of being an Amazon, if we did not use our gifts to help others?”

“Amazon? Like the name of this world?”

“Nu-Amazon,” she said coolly. “A cruel taunt. I believe these fights are not merely to entertain the masses. I believe Technus intends to invade.”

“Why?”

“Why does anyone? There is no point to total domination unless it is total.” She squeezed her hand into a fist. “Regardless of whether it is his plan or not, he must be defeated. No one deserves to live this way. This is not living.”

“You don't have to convince us,” said Phantom. “We're with you.”

“You said you're a friend of Pandora,” she replied, curious.

Hal was curious, too.

“She guards the Well of Souls.”

“She guards a lot of stuff,” said Phantom. “I wouldn't say we're close, exactly. I just got her box—her pithos back for her.”

Diana nodded, like that was a normal thing to say. Hal knew what Pandora's Box was, sure, but he didn't see where Greek myths intersected with Cyberpunk.

Whatever. Not his problem.

“Has anyone ever tried to take down Technus before?” asked Hal.

“One came close. They call her Vendetta. She was the people's champion, undefeated, and finally won the right to challenge Technus himself. But when the time came, she bent the knee.”

The fight below concluded in a mess of limbs and shattered tech, a claxon bell signaling the end.

“I will not.”

Diana pulled out her sword and whip.

“I will make them pay for the integrity they sold. Your lives will not be in vain.”

“We're not gonna die,” said Phantom. “We're heaven sent, remember?”

“You do seem to be warriors. Hopefully that will be enough.”

With that, she strode out of the preparation chamber and into the arena.

“You know, I'm not sure I like her.”

“She's wonderful,” Phantom countered.

“Sure. So. Why did you elbow me?”

Phantom shot him an annoyed look. “You were gonna tell her about all this being a story.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You can't tell them. It'll only confuse them until after they’re out of it. These aren't the worlds they belong in, but to them, in this moment, it's real. It is their reality.”

“She deserves to know it isn't real.”

“And She will. Later. Once we're out of here.”

Hal didn't like it, but he supposed he would just have to test the theory later. Just because Phantom didn't want to tell her didn't mean Hal wasn't gonna try.

Phantom had been right about one thing: Diana was wonderful. She just kept winning. She worked her way through every competitor, and she didn't even kill them.

It took skill not to kill. Control and finesse.

When she said she would win, it hadn’t been a bluff. She was just that good.

In less time than it seemed like it should have taken, the moment they'd all been waiting for arrived: Wonder Woman vs Vendetta.

The animated banners hanging around the arena showed her face next to the next competitor. A motorcycle rider dressed in all black and red.

“Her next competitor is tricky,” Phantom warned. “It might present a challenge.”

“Why?”

“Because that's Valerie Gray, and she doesn't quit. She's also…not from this world.”

“What world is she from, then?”

Danny clenched his fist, once. Twice. “Mine.”

[HAL DIDN'T HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO WONDER WHAT THAT MEANT, EXACTLY, NOR DID HE HAVE TIME TO WONDER AT PHANTOM'S COMPLICATED IF UNEXPECTED RELATIONSHIP WITH VENDETTA.

ONE DOES NOT SAY MINE IN THAT TONE OF VOICE ABOUT A MERE STRANGER.]

“Wow,” said Hal. “Good to see I'm not the only one the Narrator throws under the bus. She your ex or something?”

“Or something,” Danny agreed, disagreeably.

Whatever. Hal had more important things to worry about, like this sick ass fight.

Vendetta and Wonder Woman both seemed to feel the gravity of the situation; they stepped out onto the stage, eyeing each other up with distaste and respect.

“If you think I'll go down easy like the others, you're wrong.”

“Likewise,” Diana said calmly. “If you believe I'll go easy on you because of your relative youth, you are mistaken.”

“I wouldn't want it any other way.”

They didn’t wait for a starting bell—or perhaps they had, and Hal was simply too locked in to notice.

Diana whipped out her lasso, but Val dodged and sent a blast of energy at Diana, who deflected with her arm bands, swinging around her sword and lunging at Val in the same movement, no momentum lost or wasted.

Val, not to be undone, formed a shield on her arm, blocking the gladius.

Back and forth they traded blows, almost equal.

Almost.

[THOUGH INCREDIBLY SKILLED, VENDETTA WAS NOT QUITE AT WONDER WOMAN'S LEVEL. IT WOULD BE HARD FOR ANYONE TO FIGHT A GOD.]

“Wondy's a God?” Hal muttered. “Huh.”

[THE ONLY THING IN VENDETTA'S FAVOR WAS THAT WONDER WOMAN DID NOT WANT HER DEAD.]

Like that, it was over before Hal knew what to say, Diana's rope tied around Val.

“Why do you fight, noble warrior?” Asked Diana.

“For my family.”

“Indeed? You are not the first to do so. How have you lasted so long?”

“Nanobots in my bloodstream,” Valerie gritted out. "They protect me and control me."

“I see. Would you like me to rid you of them?”

“Only if you can save my dad.”

“I can save him. I can save us all. You have my word.”

“Then do it.”

Valerie passed out in Wonder woman's arms, a swarm of black leaving her body like a fog.

She certainly looked dead, lying there on the stage, but Diana didn't seem like the type to lie.

Diana raised her sword to the platform where Technus sat. “Technus. I challenge you to a fight.”

“You, a mere fighter, challenge me, the god of this world? Master of all technology? Foolish.”

“I know what gods are like,” she said. “You are no god. You certainly possess their ego, but none of their grace.”

“It's my world, you're all just living in it!” he cackled. “Who are you to deny me my rightful place?”

“I am Diana Prince, daughter of Zeus, champion of the Amazons. In the name of truth and justice, I challenge you, Technus.”

“You can't beat me, princess—”

“I can.”

With that, she leapt into the air, stabbing Technus through the heart.

“What do you think this is? You destroy this body, so what? I am this world—”

“This is no mere sword. It was crafted by hephaestus. A true God of technology.” She tilted her head. “Also, the nanobots of the champion you forced to fight for you. This is your end.”

“What? No! I am the master of all technology!”

“I've seen the wheel invented three times. I saw the air turned into poison for profit. I've seen humanity make it to the moon, and civilizations pass us by for cruelty.” She twisted her sword slightly in his chassis, gaze piercing. “Technology is only ever as good as the people it serves. I do not need your technology, Technus. I have faith in my own abilities.”

“You—”

Whatever he was about to say was lost to the ages, as he burst into a ring of static, light after light in the arena exploding in his wake.

Silence hung over the auditorium before applause broke out.

[THE MONSTER HAD BEEN DEFEATED. NOT THE ONLY ONE IN THIS WORLD, NO. BUT FROM THIS DAY FORWARD IT WOULD BE KNOWN: THE ARENA MASTERS WERE NOT UNTOUCHABLE.]

Hal watched Phantom approach Diana, pulling the crown off his head. “I believe this belongs to you.”

She kneeled down and bowed her head.

Phantom shot him a panicked look.

“Put it on her head,” Hal whispered, gesturing.

He gave it a good shot. Hal didn't think anyone was gonna be calling him up anytime soon to crown new royalty.

The black faded away as she adjusted it, a bright gold shining through.

“Thank you Phantom and Hal Jordan. Thank the Lantern Corp as well.”

“The…Lantern Corps?” Hal blinked. “Wait. You know our names?”

He didn't remember introducing himself by name—

“Some things are clearer to the heart than the mind,” she said mysteriously. “If ever you require my aid, you need but ask.”

“We didn't do much,” Hal pointed out. “But you're welcome.”

She nodded once.

“There is still much to do, but Justice lives here again.”

[WITH A BRIGHT FLASH OF BLUE—THE FIRST CLEAR SKY THIS WORLD HAD SEEN IN AGES—THE STORY CAME TO AN END.

THE INTREPID HEROES KNEW THEIR WORK HERE WAS DONE, THOUGH THEIR OWN STORY WAS FAR FROM OVER…]

Once the blue beam of light died down and Hal could see again, he found they were exactly where they'd been before being sucked into a portal.

The same endless green desert. The same broken ship. The same hopeless prospects.

Or, not exactly the same. Where before there had been nothing but sand, now there was a large factory-like building.

There was also a glowing purple marble, sitting innocently on the sand in front of said building. Humming.

Lots to unpack here, unfortunately.

“That's—”

“The core of Technus' world, yes.”

“Where's Diana?”

Phantom squatted down, squinting at the marble.

Hal's stomach sank. “She's not in that thing, is she?”

“No. She wouldn't fit. She's probably in a portal, about to be deposited back in her proper time and place.”

“But—”

“She'll be fine.”

Hal was not reassured. The opposite, really.

He hadn’t even had an opportunity to tell her none of it was real.

“She knew me.” Hal wasn't sure what he was asking, exactly. “Knew both of us.”

“It seemed that way,” Phantom agreed. “Maybe the story leaked into her brain or something.”

Hal squatted down next to Phantom. “Are you sure I'm not, you know. Dead.”

“I don't know what you are, but you seem alive to me.”

Hal didn't know what to say to that. There was nothing to say, really. Usually condolences were for those the dead left behind.

“So…is that it?” Hal tapped on the glowing marble that had, up until a moment ago, been a whole world. A slice of broken reality.

Phantom plucked the marble out of the sand and stuck it in a thermos, the sound of glass on metal louder than it should have been in the (mostly) empty desert.

“That's the first of many.”

"Kind of anticlimactic, to be honest."

"Ghost Writer doesn't have the budget for a Michael Bay ending."

Hal looked around at the green sand, swirling in little eddies thanks to a playful wind.

“What is this place, really?”

“Now he asks,” Phantom mumbled. “This is what's left of the small corner of your world where reality folded in on itself. The seam where the two dimensions got merged together.”

He gestured to the vast expanse of green sand before them.

“This is what your whole world will turn into if we take down the shield. It might not stop with this planet, even.”

“Would it take the moon, too?” Hal half joked.

“It would take everything.” Phantom tugged on his jacket, blue and leather again. “Infinity is a hungry concept.”

“But we'll stop it, right?”

“That's the plan.” Phantom stood up, stretching his arms over this head. “Once we get all the escaped cores gathered, and reality looks normal again, we can take down the shield, voila. Reality saved, humanity none the wiser to how close they got to living in someone else's idea of what the world should look like.”

I'll know, though, thought Hal.

“How is the shield keeping a whole dimension from eating the rest of the universe?”

“It's like shooting a laser at a mirror. All the energy is being reflected back. That's why it's so hot. Well, that and the greenhouse effect.”

He glared up at the sun, as if he could chill the sky through willpower alone.

If willpower could do anything, Hal wouldn't be here.

“How many more times do we have to do that?”

Phantom’s shoulders sagged with a little breathless sigh. “I don't actually know.”

“It sure would be useful if the Narrator could tell us,” Hal said, mostly toward the sky.

The Narrator was silent. Spitefully so, in Hal’s opinion.

“He's doing his best. This isn't his normal purview.”

“What's his normal purview?”

“Poetry.” Phantom tossed the thermos up in the air once, then caught it, clipping it to his belt of many pockets.

Now that Hal thought about it, that Thermos looked incredibly familiar. Had Phantom stolen it from him? Why would he?

Also, was it really stealing if Phantom knew what to do with it where Hal had no clue?

He'd have to sesrch the ship first before lobbing any accusations. Getting abandoned in the apocalyptic desert for false claims of theft was the last thing Hal needed.

“You'd best get some sleep," said Phantom, interrupting Hal’s thoughts. "Who knows how long we'll have before we get stuck in another scenario. It's actually night for once, and hopefully Nocturne is busy.”

It wasn’t particularly dark, but it was hard to judge what time of day it was when the sky was green. Hal didn’t know who Nocturne was, but he was too tired to ask more questions.

It was also getting cold again, unfortunately. Desert climates were the worst.

“Wake me up if something happens,” Hal said, settling down in the pilot seat, feet up on the dash.

“I won't,” said Phantom, “but thanks for the offer.”

“I'm the adult here,” Hal grumbled, eyes shutting.

Phantom said something else, maybe, but Hal was already falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Where lesser pilots might have given up in the face of all the EVERYTHING that had happened since the start of this mission, Hal was a test pilot, which meant that as long as he was still conscious, there were still things to try. It was his job (or, well, had been his job) to push dangerous, volatile situations to the edge of functionality and then push a little more. That said, he still wasn’t sure what his role in this “situation” actually was, and more importantly, what Phantom was still doing hanging around. Hal might have expected him to go running off to do something like find more portals, or save more people, or whatever it was Phantom was trying to do.

Was that what they did, though? no. Of course not, that would be too cliche, you see. Meeting expectations was sophomoric or something.

What Phantom actually did was sit on top of a sand dune and read a map. Or look at one, anyway.

When Hal asked what he was looking at on the map, and whether Hal could take a peek, Phantom just said “I'm waiting for a new location to bloom, and you looking at it won't make any difference.”

Whatever. It wasn’t like Hal really wanted to look at the stupid map anyway. Besides, new locations blooming wasn’t how maps were supposed to work, except for in video games, but Hal had bigger problems.

Namely, fixing the stupid plane.

Unfortunately, it had not spontaneously started working again in the time they’d been away, so. Hal got to work. Again.

He half-expected to hear the Narrator offer commentary at some point, but for whatever reason, the Narrator was silent. Maybe because there was no one here but Hal and Phantom? That didn't seem entirely correct somehow, but Hal didn't have enough experience or evidence to come up with a better theory. He wasn’t much of a detective, and the only clue he had (though he hesitated to call it that) was that the soup thermos he’d been given was still on the plane, separate from the one clipped to Phantom’s belt.

For reasons Hal couldn’t quite explain to himself, he felt compelled to hide the thermos. Which was stupid if Phantom were a hallucination. But on the off chance he wasn’t…

Better safe than sorry. Even if Hal was still leaning towards ‘this isn’t really real’.

Hopefully.

Three days passed in this way before anything changed—or what felt like three days, anyway. Phantom told him time was unreliable at the moment, and to just sleep when it got dark and/or cold, if he felt like it.

I don't need you dictating what I can do, Hal had said.

Phantom just shrugged.

Despite everything, Hal was still not convinced this wasn't all some elaborate coma vision. Even when he slept, he didn't dream. He didn't get hungry, either. He still ate and drank and slept because he wasn't an idiot, but it felt…odd. Like he was just going through the motions.

Phantom, as far as Hal could tell, neither slept nor ate. He just studied the map, and looked at the sky, and told Hal useless things like “that wrench won't work with that screw” (it didn't), or “There's nothing in there for you to fix” (it was empty) or, on one notable occasion, “you definitely don’t want to open that panel” (to put it plainly: portable septic tank valve).

The day the sandstorm came was the one Hal realized that maybe Phantom wasn’t a hallucination after all.

“I just don't understand what you need the map for,” said Hal, not for the first time, as he tried (yet again) to get the third panel off the dashboard.

“The map, theoretically, shows where the next portal will open. Generally speaking.”

“How can it do that?”

“Technomancy, probably.”

That sounded like as much bullshit as the last time Hal had asked. Mostly, Hal suspected, because Phantom didn't know but didn't want to say that for some reason.

“In the name of magnanimity and cooperation, I'm gonna ignore how loud you're thinking over there," said Phantom, definitely not magnanimous.

“Well, when something happens with your stupid, useless” —Hal grunted, banging his head for the nth time on the underside of the control panel he was attempting to crack open— “map, let me know. Or don't. I couldn't care less, honestly.”

“You sure are curious for someone who doesn't care.”

“Oh, I can talk for hours about things I don't care about—”

“You should care about this. It's your ticket out of here, not to mention the key to un-fucking the world.”

“Heard that one before,” Hal replied, not bothering to stop his tinkering. It was pointless, but the only thing worse than dying of dehydration would be dying of boredom. “Also, my actual ticket home is this plane—”

“Speeder.”

“Sure, sure, the point is, I'm gonna focus on fixing my sure shot and not chasing some technomantic wormhole or whatever into Wonderland.”

It wasn’t worth mentioning that fixed speeder/plane or not, Hal still had a mission here. One he wasn’t sure he could complete without said speeder/plane.

Phantom was quiet for a long time after that(or what felt like a long time to Hal, anyway).

It was almost worrying.

“You're not planning on going with me to the next story?”

He said it real quiet like. Hal almost felt bad about it.

“Uh, no? Last time, you didn't even want me there." He hadn't really needed Hal, either, but Hal wasn't gonna bring that up now. It was bad for the development of a teen's ego, after all, to mention things like that.

Hal had gotten involved in the military after someone praised his independence, after all. It hadn't been the deciding factor, but maybe if he'd understood how much he needed his mom—

Well. No point regretting it now.

“Anyway, the point is, I'm pretty sure I only got involved because I happened to be close to the portal last time.”

Phantom once again didn't say anything. Maybe he was ignoring Hal. Or maybe his feelings were hurt or something.

Maybe Hal could have phrased everything better.

“Listen, Phantom—”

“Shut up.”

So much for sympathy.

“Excuse me?”

Hal glanced through the windshield at Phantom, trying to gauge his mood.

Phantom wasn’t even facing Hal—he was staring off into the horizon, back ramrod straight. He was poised like a rabbit about to run.

That couldn't be good.

“Get out of the speeder,” Phantom said, voice going staticy.

“Why?”

“Get out the speeder, now.” Phantom floated in the air, eyes aglow. “There’s a storm coming, we need to go.”

The hairs on Hal’s arms stood on end, and not just because of the tone of Phantom’s voice.

“A storm? Like a sandstorm?”

“Yes. Darude style.”

“You're da rude,” Hal mumbled.

He looked at the horizon where, sure enough, a dark cloud gathered.

He glanced around at his stuff. He couldn't let his tools and all the loose screws and bolts fly away. Despite Phantom’s insistence that it was pointless to try, Hal had managed to get a few plates off the hull. He didn’t want all that hard work to be for naught; despite what some would think, you really did need every bolt on a flying vehicle—

“You don’t have time to gather any stuff! We need to go now, Hal!”

Hal went, not even complaining as Phantom scooped him up and flew off like they had in Nu-Amazon.

Unfortunately, there was no outflying a storm that was everywhere in a green desert where time didn't matter.

“Phantom—” Hal coughed, sand filling his mouth.

At least he didn't need to say more; Phantom understood, landing behind a largish dune with less grace than Hal appreciated.

Not two minutes later, the storm was upon them. Well, it was around them, but somehow it wasn’t touching them at all.

With a pop of air pressure change, they were surrounded by a green, domed force field of some kind.

Not unlike the Geodesic dome around this desert, Hal noted. He'd probably feel some sort of way about that when he wasn't trying not to shit himself.

It was exactly like the storm that had crashed Hal’s plane in the first place. But this time, the storm had a face.

Phantom had his feet planted in the ground, arms held aloft like he was lifting something heavy.

Little indentations formed around the top, like fingers pressing into a balloon in an attempt to pop it.

Hal was not a fan of the mental imagery, or the physical imagery, or the implications of either.

“Phantom—”

Hal wasn’t sure what he’d been about to ask. The thought left his mind due to the next interruption.

“Ghost Boy,” said interruption, i.e. The Storm, interrupted, demonstrating that not only did the storm have a face (and hands), it could talk, “why do you fight me? We're the same!”

Phantom grimaced. “We're really not—”

The Storm lashed against the shield Phantom was holding up, the pressure enough to make Phantom’s arms bow and Hal’s ears pop.

“Deny your nature if you want, but don't deny me mine!”

“Hard pass.”

The Storm howled in rage. “Let down the shield, allow me to escape this weatherless nightmare, and I'll leave you alone!”

“It's not actually about you this time, Vortex,” Phantom grit out. “Couldn’t let you out even if I wanted to.”

Hal felt them lift up into the air, much like a child carelessly picking up a hamster ball.

He had a feeling he was about to understand much more about hamsters than he cared to.

“You may not embrace the storm, but the storm embraced you. Perhaps some time in her arms will remind you why it's better not to be subject to the whims of fate.”

Much to Hal’s un-surprise, they were dropped and went hurtling through the air. FOD-style.

To his credit, Phantom maintained the sphere that was keeping them together and relatively unharmed. Unfortunately, there were no seatbelts inside the stupid green ball.

Awesome. Just, stellar news all around.

Eventually they dropped and rolled, coming to a stop at the bottom of a particularly tall hill, wind blowing them firmly up against it.

“Phantom—”

“Can't talk now. Gotta lock in.”

It only lasted fifteen minutes or so before it passed them over completely, but it was enough to completely cover them in a thick layer of sand. Neither of them said a peep for the duration—it was the longest 15 minutes of Hal’s life.

Phantom vibrated the shield they’d made, somehow, shaking off about half a foot of sand, before collapsing in a tired heap.

Hal would have suffocated if he’d been alone. He would have been buried alive.

Maybe it was time to rethink the hallucination theory.

“What was that?” Hal demanded. “You said we were alone in here!”

Phantom lifted an arm wearily and let it fall to the sand. “Vortex is a force of nature. He's kind of stuck as a storm right now. He doesn't count.”

“The point is you lied! Or kept it from me!” Hal ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the sand. What else hadn't Phantom told him? What else was being kept a secret?

We believe ground zero is being perpetuated by a rogue experiment. That's what those dumbfuck agents had told him.

They'd also told him the energy in the experiment was self-perpetuating, that it was powering the shield, and that Hal’s job was to contain it with a soup thermos (that he'd left in the now buried vehicle) and a wrist weapon that was supposed to self-deploy in case of hostiles (surprise-surprise, it hadn’t).

He was actively hoping now this was some kind of coma dream, because if it wasn't, he was more fucked than he'd thought. Especially since his sort of ally, maybe hallucination-cum-manifestation of his Inner Child was maybe keeping secrets from him.

Hal needed to know.

“Are there any other forces of nature you want to tell me about?”

“Not really.” Phantom stood slowly, rolling to his knees, patting himself down as if to check he had all his stuff. Jacket, belt, ring, boots, map, check.

“Are there any other dangerous entities hiding here waiting to kill us, then?”

Phantom squinted at the sky. “Nothing you need to worry about. You don't think this is real, anyway.”

“Great. Lovely conversation we're having,” Hal snapped.

“I don't much like talking to you, either,” Phantom snapped back.

“I don't like talking to myself,” Hal corrected. “Or indulging in a hallucination.”

Phantom floated up into the air, sand falling off him in cascades.

“For the last time, I am not you! We don't even look alike!”

“That sounds like hallucination logic to me.”

The thunder crack, pressure drop, cold snap, sand shift that had preceded their last adventure rang through the air again.

Phantom looked down at the ground, up at the sky, and then pulled out the map. “Huh.”

Hal didn’t like the sound of that. “What now?”

“Well, the good news is the new location bloomed on the map. The better news is we don't have to go very far.”

[FOR ALL HIS ARROGANCE AND COCK-SURE ATTITUDE,] said the Narrator, who was apparently ready to speak to Hal again.[SOMETIMES HAL JORDAN HATED BEING RIGHT].

“Fuck,” said Hal, gravity losing its grip on him and pulling him and Phantom sideways into a portal that opened to his left.

Time to pull chocks and go to another world, or something. Hooah.

Festive medieval music greeted them upon arrival in their new world.

Music, and the smell of mud.

Hal groaned, opening his eyes slowly. He could still feel the grit from the sand in the corners of his eyes, peppering his hair, getting into cracks where it had no business being.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Oh no. The worst of it was that Hal was dressed like a jester, with one of those bell-hats and a mask with a long nose. Possibly a beak.

He resented it immediately.

Phantom, for his part, looked like some sort of clown with white face paint and pumpkin pants, so at least Hal wasn’t alone in looking like a fool.

Then again, Phantom's jacket had been transformed into a cloak covered with blue-black iridescent feathers, which wasn’t not cool.

Together, they looked like two halves of a bird. Hal was gonna blame that particularly purple prose shaded thought on the fact that he was quite literally stuck in a story.

Speaking of which: time to take in their surroundings.

The buildings certainly looked like something out of a fairy tale, what with all the wood, stone, and whimsical banners flying in the wind. That, and the lack of anything modern (or, indeed, cyberpunky, which Hal decided was a good thing) sold the idea that this truly was a different world. Yay.

“It looks like we’re at Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament,” said Hal.

“I have no idea what that means,” was Phantom’s reply. “Because, again, I’m not you, I’m my own person with my own experiences and memories and whatever crisis you’re going through is not my problem—”

“So I guess you’re a little mad about my very reasonable doubts about how seriously to take all this.”

Phantom made a face at him. Definitely still mad.

This was one of many reasons he was never having kids.

[ONCE UPON A TIME,] the narrator began, [THERE WAS A LAND WITH NO ADULTS.

AT LEAST, THAT WAS WHAT THEY WANTED YOU TO THINK. IT WASN'T PRECISELY THAT THEY DIDN'T EXIST THERE.

THEY SIMPLY DIDN'T STAY ADULTS . NOT ANYMORE.]

Another ominous beginning from the Narrator. Lovely.

“Psst,” said a voice behind them. “Hey you! Old guy!”

Hiding in an alley was a black kid wearing a red feather hat, looking nervous.

“Tucker?” asked Phantom.

The kid—Tucker, maybe—frowned. “Friar Tuck is my name, actually—”

“You don't look like a Friar,” Hal interrupted, because the kid didn't. “You're not even tonsured.”

Tuck grimaced. “Well, our illustrious leader liked the name, so I took it, despite…everything. But that’s not important. You need to hide your old friend.”

Hal would have ignored that recommendation, but he was not old, thank you very much.

“Excuse me? Old? I’m not even thirty—”

“He is not my friend, old or otherwise,” said Phantom. Rudely.

“But—” Tuck began.

The sound of trumpets cut him off.

With the way he hunched up his shoulders and winced, those trumpets meant something to him.

“It’s your loss, I’m not gonna get caught trying to help you.”

With that, he turned tail and ran.

Teenagers, honestly.

“I can’t believe that little twerp, calling me old—”

“I think we should listen to him,” said Phantom, pulling Hal back into the alley where Tuck had disappeared. “We don’t know the rules of this world yet.”

“You know him,” Hal accused, brain catching up to the situation. “You called him Tucker. Is he like, what's her face. Vendetta?”

“Not really.”

[HAL WAITED LESS THAN THREE SECONDS FOR AN ELABORATION THAT CERTAINLY WAS NOT COMING AT THIS JUNCTURE. ELABORATIONS WERE FOR THOSE WHO WERE WILLING TO BELIEVE WHAT THEY WERE TOLD.]

Well, that was nice.

“Okay, fine. I'll start guessing. He's not like Vendetta, but he is from your world.”

Phantom rolled his eyes, but he didn't deny it.

“Does it matter? He's not the one we need to focus on here. We need to find the protagonist of this story. Given the little intro Ghost Writer gave us, they'll probably be an adult. Should stick out.”

Now that Hal looked around, he noticed that there were indeed a lot of children.

Only children, in fact.

God he hoped he wasn't the adultiest adult around.

As if waiting for that observation, the Narrator continued, [YOUNGBLOOD’S REALM WAS LARGELY ONE OF FUN. A LAND OF ENDLESS PLAYTIME, EATING ONLY WHAT YOU WANTED WHEN YOU WANTED IT, NO BEDTIME, NO HOMEWORK.

NO DRAGONS ANYMORE, EITHER, THANKS TO THE MERRY MEN, BUT THEY WEREN’T SO MERRY OR SO MANLY ANYMORE. THANKFULLY, THAT HAPPENED POST-DRAGON DEFEAT. THOUGH PERHAPS IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER NOT TO DEFEAT THE DRAGONS, BECAUSE THAT WAS HOW THEY FOUND THE FOUNTAIN.

[BUT I’M GETTING AHEAD OF MYSELF, AREN’T I?] The Narrator paused. For dramatic effect, probably, but Hal wasn’t in the mood for drama.

Neither, apparently, was Phantom.

“Oh fuck no,” he whispered.

[THERE WAS, IN FACT, ONLY ONE RULE IN THIS LAND: NO ADULTS ALLOWED.]

The doors to the castle behind them burst open, revealing a very small knight on a very large, somewhat strange-looking horse. The horse and knight were flanked by a girl with short dark hair and a mace, Tuck (now holding a lute), and someone who seemed to be chained to the horse, not that Hal could see them well behind the aforementioned large, strange horse.

Hal didn’t have time to devote to evaluating the horse right now, though, or the coterie of medieval characters stumbling onto the scene.

“Hear ye, hear ye! I am Sir Youngblood, knight of the realm! By decree of Me, you must bring forth all your grown-ups! For today, we make our pilgrimage to the fountain of youth!”

[THAT’S RIGHT,] the Narrator continued, tone somewhat gleeful and sadistic, in Hal’s opinion. [THE FOUNTAIN THE DRAGONS HAD BEEN GUARDING JEALOUSLY, AS DRAGONS ARE WONT TO DO, WAS NONE OTHER THAN THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. HEBE’S FOUNTAIN. PONCE DE LEON’S FOLLY. THE—]

“We get it,” Phantom interrupted.

“None shall be spared the mercy of my gift!” Youngblood continued. “I hereby order all those present to bring forth their adults!”

The gathered children scuttled away, some in fear, some with eagerness. Doors burst open, adults being dragged into the streets and thrown in front of the Child King.

“If you bring them now, I will be merciful!” Youngblood cried, voice cracking. “If you hide them…well, you better not!”

“He’s not very threatening, is he?” Hal noted. “He's only 3 apples tall.”

“You can see him?” asked Phantom. “Only kids can see him.”

Ha! Take that, Tuck. Hal could see someone only kids could see.

“What can I say? I’m young at heart.”

“Maybe it’s because of Ghost Writer's influence,” Phantom mumbled, ignoring Hal. “If this is Youngblood’s world, he’s the one we—or rather, the hero needs to defeat.”

“And where is our hero?”

“Probably one of the adults currently being chained together over there.”

Yeah, that seemed likely.

Hal glanced uneasily at the adults being chained together over there by children half their size, gleefully stringing them up to a cart fully of what, as far as Hal could tell, was candy apples.

[THEY WERE IN FACT CANDY APPLES, MADE BY THE CONFECTIONER SHORTLY BEFORE HE WAS DOUSED IN THE FOUNTAIN AND BECAME A CHILD AGAIN.]

Not all of them, strictly speaking, looked like adults. Some of them didn’t look a day over twenty.

They looked scared.

“This isn’t right.”

“No, really?” Phantom bit out. “I might be able to get close, find out some intel, but I’m not sure how I’ll break them out, especially if you have to stay hidden…”

“Or,” said Hal, mind thinking faster than his common sense, “hear me out. I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

Hal smiled. “You turn me in.”

Phantom shook his head. “That’s a terrible plan.”

“It’s not like you won’t be able to break me out. We need to get close, you need to ingratiate yourself, I need to find the hero. Three birds with one stone.”

[PHANTOM PUT UP AT LEAST THE ILLUSION OF RESISTANCE, BUT HE HAD NEITHER A BETTER IDEA NOR THE TIME TO COME UP WITH ONE. IT WAS ONLY A BAD IDEA IN SO FAR AS IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT TO COORDINATE, AFTER ALL, BUT IT WASN'T AS THOUGH THEY WERE WORKING WELL TOGETHER, ANYWAY…]

“Nice railroading, Ghost Writer,” Phantom mumbled.

“Is he wrong though?”

“Fine. We turn you in. But I want it stated, for the record, that I think this plan sucks and it’s gonna backfire horribly.”

“Noted.”

[SECONDED], said the Narrator, like the jerk he was.

Phantom placed a hand on Hal’s back and yanked him forward. “Hey! Sir Youngblood! I have an adult to turn over! This one was trying to run!”

Youngblood turned to them, eyes bright with excitement. “A runner! I love it when they run! Manson, put this one at the back of the line.” He paused, as if a new idea were occurring to him. “Take the witch back there, too! Don’t want her getting any ideas about tricking us.”

“Manson?” said Phantom.

“Witch?” said Hal.

The girl with short dark hair and a mace stepped forward. “As you wish, Youngblood.”

She slapped manacles on Hal’s wrist and dragged him to the back of the line, along with the one who had been previously chained to the horse.

She was a blonde woman, he now saw, wearing a blindfold over her eyes, a tie around her jaw, and had cotton stuffed in her ears. A fact Hal only noticed because it had been done badly, with fluffy bits protruding visibly past the shell of her ears.

She didn't react as Hal was shackled to her and they were dragged to the end of the line, but perhaps she was unaware of what was happening. Or pretending to be, at least.

Phantom watched with a sick look on his face. Maybe he really did care about Hal, on some level.

[PHANTOM HAD ALWAYS STRUGGLED WITH CARING TOO MUCH AND NOT CARING ENOUGH. RARELY DID HE FIND OUT IN A TIMELY MANNER WHICH END OF THE SPECTRUM WOULD CAUSE HIM MORE TROUBLE.]

“Learning a lot today about him,” Hal said, mostly to himself.

“Is that everyone?” asked Youngblood, loud enough for Hal to hear even at the back of the line.

“Yeah, that’s everyone,” said Tuck, reappearing next to Youngblood. He now had a clipboard of sorts, and was trying to poorly juggle between holding it and the lute. “The last adults in the land.”

“Oh, it is?” said Youngblood, sounding unsure. “That's…good! In that case…play us a song, Friar Tuck, to launch us off on our quest!”

“If I may, Sir Youngblood,” Mason cut in, “Perhaps it might be better to pass song duties off to someone else.”

She glanced meaningfully at Phantom, who did not seem pleased with this suggestion.

Tuck, on the other hand, swelled with relief. “That’s a great idea! Here, take this!”

Youngblood didn’t seem to have much in the way of leadership, watching helplessly as his “bard” transferred duties to Phantom.

“But I don’t know if he can play the lute,” Youngblood mumbled.

“Uh, I can’t,” said Phantom. “But, uh, it’s a good thing it’s a magic lute? That will play itself as long as someone holds it?”

Hal suspected that was more ad-hoc worldbuilding from Phantom, and sure enough, the Narrator had something to say about it.

[PROMOTING SENTIENCE AND MAGIC ABILITIES TO MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS ON A WHIM RARELY ENDS WELL, BUT FORTUNATELY FOR ALL, THIS IS NOT A GERMAN FAIRY TALE AND IS THEREFORE MORE FORGIVING.]

“Oh. Okay, then. Tally ho, on to destiny!”

With another sounding of the trumpets and the strumming of a lute, the whole caravan of adults and children took off.

“Do you know where we’re going?” asked Hal, grimacing at the mud underfoot. He was asking the Narrator, but that wasn’t who answered.

“You haven’t heard?” asked a small boy with dark hair and olive skin. “We’re going to receive Youngblood’s blessing.”

“Blessing?”

Manson smiled at him, hefting her morning star on her shoulder.

“We're taking you to the Fountain of Youth.”

“Oh,” said Hal. “That’s not so bad.”

[WHAT MOST DID NOT KNOW ABOUT THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH WAS THAT IT WAS CERTAINLY NO BLESSING.

AN OFFSHOOT OF THE RIVER LETHE, IT TURNED HALF THE PEOPLE WHO TOUCHED IT INTO A PILLAR OF STONE.

THE OTHER HALF, IT DID INDEED GRANT ETERNAL YOUTH. AT THE COST OF ALL THEIR MEMORIES ALONG WITH THEIR AGE.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH WAS HEBE'S, THOUGH MORE ACCURATELY IT BELONGED TO ZEUS AND THE OTHER OLYMPIANS. GODS DID NOT LIKE WHEN MORTALS TOOK WHAT DID NOT BELONG TO THEM—ONE COULD ASK PROMETHEUS IF ONE FELT NEED TO DOUBT THIS.]

“What is it with you and Greek things,” Hal mumbled.

The Narrator, of course, ignored him.

[IN ANY CASE, THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH WAS A CURSE, AND ONLY A FOOL WOULD THINK OTHERWISE.

A FOOL, OR A DESPERATE CHILD.

UNFORTUNATELY FOR ALL, SIR YOUNGBLOOD WAS BOTH.

FORTUNATELY FOR ALL, THERE WAS SOMEONE HERE WHO HAD A PLAN.

THEY COULD COVER HER EYES, KEEP HER FROM SPEAKING, AND PLUG HER EARS, BUT A WITCH WAS NOT A WITCH SIMPLY BECAUSE OF THE THINGS THEY COULD SEE, OR SAY, OR HEAR.

A WITCH WAS A WITCH BECAUSE OF THE THINGS THAT THEY KNEW.

AND DINAH THE CANARY KNEW MANY THINGS, BUT THIS MOST OF ALL: THE WORLD WAS A DANGEROUS PLACE, AND IGNORANCE MAY BE BLISSFUL, BUT IT WOULD NOT KEEP YOU SAFE.

BUT CHILDREN WITH CONVICTION WERE AS PRECIOUS AS THEY WERE IMPOSSIBLE TO CONVINCE OF ANYTHING THEY DID NOT WANT TO BELIEVE.

DINAH KNEW ADULTS CURSED WITH THE SAME AFFLICTION. STUBBORNNESS.

CHILDREN WERE BETTER IN THIS REGARD, STILL WILLING TO LEARN. THEY HAD NOT YET INTERNALIZED THE LESSON THAT THERE WAS NOTHING WORSE THAN BEING WRONG.

SHE HAD A PLAN AND PLENTY OF TRICKS UP HER SLEEVE. SHE'D DONE WHAT NO BAND OF UNSUPERVISED CHILDREN WITH A CHILD-KING COULD DO.

SHE PLANNED AHEAD.

THESE ROADS WERE RATHER DANGEROUS, AFTER ALL. SHE KNEW FROM HER OWN EXPERIENCE.

ALL SHE HAD TO DO WAS WAIT.]

Hal looked skyward at the place he imagined the Narrator to sit and watch things unfold.

At the very least, it seemed they’d found their hero, ominous as that introduction had been.

He stumbled forward as the cart they were hitched to lurched.

Their journey had begun.

Phantom had been right. This plan…was not so good.

Hal spent the first few hours of his time in Medieval Bad Times World doing his best not to trip in the mud. It was, quite literally, everywhere. Kicked up on his legs, in his hair, seeping through the soles of his period-accurate shoes—

The point was, he didn’t get a chance to tell Phantom much of anything for most of the day. Not that he'd learned much, other than overheard children's gossip about the merry men and their fearless leader who was said to roam the woods that hugged the road they traveled along.

These must be the same Merry Men who got rid of the dragons, Hal reasoned. The name “merry men” rang a bell, but he couldn't quite place what it meant. The children couldn't seem to make up their minds about whether the band was good, bad, or existed at all.

The Narrator’s silence on the issue led Hal to believe it was probably not relevant to the plot. It was hard to say what the plot actually was here, though; unlike Nu-Amazon, things were unfolding slowly, which was to say, not at all. It reminded Hal of a bedtime story, almost, the way the Narrator would point out seemingly irrelevant things, like [YES THESE TREES DID LOSE THEIR LEAVES IN THE AUTUMN, IN SHADES OF GOLD AND RED AND YELLOW AND—NO, NOT PURPLE], and [THERE WERE LIKELY BERRIES THAT COULD BE EATEN SOMEWHERE IN THE WOODS, BUT ONLY BY THOSE WHO COULD ACCURATELY IDENTIFY FRIENDLY BERRIES FROM UNFRIENDLY ONES. JUST LIKE MUSHROOMS, YES.]

Hal wasn't paying too much attention to it, in all honesty. It hardly counted as world-building, though the bit about [WE CALL THEM THE FAIR FOLK IN THIS HOUSE AND THEY ARE VERY REAL] was mildly interesting.

He’d tried to catch Phantom’s eye, but his so-called partner in crime was distracted talking to Manson and Tuck and fake strumming his magic lute that seemed to have the unfortunate side-effect of inducing rhyming when played.

Probably the Narrator’s revenge for ad-hoc worldbuilding.

It wasn’t until lunch came and went that the Narrator actually got to anything that felt like a real plot.

[THE FIRST PROBLEM CAME SOONER THAN ANYONE COULD HAVE PREDICTED—

SAVE FOR DINAH, WHO KNEW EXACTLY WHEN IT WOULD HAPPEN, BECAUSE SHE KNEW THIS ROAD LIKE THE BACK OF HER HAND, AND HAD PREPARED THE FIRST PROBLEM HERSELF.

THE BRIDGE WAS OUT.]

Hal had never been so excited about a broken bridge. Especially because it meant their parade stopped, and thus so too did having to walk in the mud, at least temporarily.

It was all fun and games until he noticed the children gathered on the edge of the riverbank, watching the rapids rush by.

“Hey,” he said, stomach twisting. “Maybe don't get so close?”

“Ignore him!” Youngblood declared. “The words of adults are worth nothing!”

“I just don't want anyone to fall in,” he mumbled. The other adults just looked at him with pity, which wasn’t very encouraging. He’d been holding out a small amount of hope that the adults who remained could band together and overthrow the children, but clearly these so-called adults lacked the will. Shame.

The problem with the bridge being out quickly made its way through the ranks of children until it reached Hal at the back of the caravan.

No one knew another way across the river, much less to the Fountain of Youth.

They couldn’t remember anymore, if they'd ever known.

“Let's ask the clown,” suggested Tuck, pointing at Phantom.

“The clown's from out of town, he doesn't know the way,” countered Manson.

Phantom smiled weakly. “True, I don't know how to reach the Fountain, but there's someone else to ask, if the notion is one we can entertain.”

For a moment, Hal was worried Phantom would point to him.

Fortunately, he gestured to the Witch. Who was the hero of this story, not Hal. So that made sense.

“We can't trust her!” said one small girl. “Besides, we'd have to let her speak. She might cast a spell!”

“But if she can fix the bridge, or tell us another way, isn't it worth the risk?” offered Hal.

He was summarily ignored.

Youngblood deliberated with his pet dog skeleton, who could talk. Which was fine as long as Hal didn’t think about it too much. The dog made the horse look almost normal.

“We ask the Black Canary Witch,” he declared. “Keep her blindfold on, but remove the tie from her jaw and the cotton from one ear.”

Black Canary Witch? That was new. Fancy, too.

She stood very still while Tuck and Manson complied. She cocked her head while they explained the problem, and nodded when they asked if she could help.

“If I may,” she began, demure, “there's another bridge just up yonder.”

She gestured with her chain-bound hands northward.

“It will add another day to our journey, but as the ferryman is stone now, and the bridge builder is only now learning how to talk, it seems to be our best bet.”

She had a nice voice. Smoky. A little hoarse, though perhaps that was simply because she hadn't spoken in a while.

[SIR YOUNGBLOOD AND HIS SQUIRES CONFERRED; FRIAR TUCK FAVORED MAKING CAMP. KNIGHT MANSON FAVORED CARRYING ON.

THE BEST COOK AMONG THEM FALLING IN THE RIVER DECIDED IT: THEY'D MAKE THEIR WAY DOWNSTREAM TO THE NORTHERN CROSSING, IF FOR NOTHING ELSE THAN TO FISH THE COOK OUT OF THE WATER.

HE WAS AN EXCELLENT SWIMMER AND VERY BUOYANT, BUT EVEN HE COULD NOT CLIMB THE SLIPPERY SLOPES.]

“I did warn them,” Hal mumbled, mostly to himself.

“Patience,” said the Witch. Dinah. It was the first thing she’d said to him—he hadn’t thought she’d be able to hear him.

The caravan carried on, and through either forgetfulness or false confidence, the children did not replace the Witch's gag.

Which meant Hal could talk to her.

“So they call you a witch,” Hal said, which was maybe not the best conversation starter, but it was what it was. “Any truth to that?”

“I've been called worse,” she said, amused. “In some places they call me a banshee, in others an angel.”

“What do you like to be called?”

“I prefer to be called a healer, but my name is Dinah.”

That, Hal had already known. The healer bit was a surprise, though.

“You’re a doctor?”

She frowned, as though the word were unfamiliar.

“I work with plants, but more importantly I help people heal their minds. With song, with talk, by connecting with nature.”

“Ah, I understand the ‘witch’ thing now,” Hal joked.

“There are worse things to be called.”

Hal observed her carefully. Profiling wasn’t really his purview, but he knew a thing or two about people. How they reacted in the face of, if not death, then doom, said a lot about them.

“You don’t seem very nervous,” he noted. “You don’t think you’ll die in the fountain of youth?”

“If you worry, you suffer twice.” She smiled, like she knew something Hal didn’t. She probably did. Most women seemed to. “You don’t seem very nervous, either, despite talking to a witch.”

[HAL JORDAN WAS INDEED, AS THE YOUTHS SAY, ‘NOT NERVOUS’. FOR IN THIS CASE, HE KNEW SOMETHING DINAH DID NOT: SHE WAS NOT AND NEVER HAD BEEN A MERE SONGBIRD FOR WHICH SHE WAS NAMED. SHE WAS A BIRD OF PREY.]

Well. He certainly knew that now.

“The way I see it, we're in this together.”

She inclined her head. “I suppose we are.”

“You're not gonna hex me are you?”

“Only if you give me a reason.”

Hal looked over at Dinah, who had a small, knowing smile on her face.

With the newly provided context, it felt less like a relaxed smile. That was a scheming face.

Hal was glad she was on his side. Assuming she was. He hoped.

“Besides, the thing they fear the most from me, I can no longer do. Not since I lost my mantle.”

“Oh,” said Hal, unsure how to respond to that. “I'm sorry for your loss?”

“That's alright. I'll find it someday.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so they walked along in silence.

So much for an adult conversation.

[THE SECOND PROBLEM CAME SHORTLY AFTER THE FIRST, RELATIVELY SPEAKING, BUT NOT SOONER THAN THE BLACK CANARY WITCH EXPECTED.]

Hal blinked, wondering whether he’d zoned out or if time could pass in a flash on the narrator’s whim. He wasn’t sure he enjoyed being a self-aware character stuck inside a story, even if he wasn’t exactly a character. Or was he? Neither Phantom nor the Narrator had explained it very thoroughly, and it was occurring to him now that perhaps he should have asked.

[THE TRIP TO THE NEXT BRIDGE TOOK FAR LONGER THAN YOUNGBLOOD AND HIS TROUPE HAD PREPARED FOR, AND BY THE TIME THEY'D ARRIVED AND FISHED OUT THE WATERLOGGED CHEF, EVERYONE WAS QUITE HUNGRY.

UNFORTUNATELY, THE CANDIED APPLES WERE GONE, AND SO WERE THE DRIED FRUITS AND JERKY.

ACCUSATIONS FLEW LEFT AND RIGHT, BUT THE WITCH LISTENED WITH SUBDUED AMUSEMENT.]

Hal glanced over at her, where sure enough, that knowing smirk was back.

“You know what happened to the food, don't you?”

“I know we sat in front of that broken bridge for a very long time,” she said. “I know when children get bored, they look for things to do, and sneaking away food from the wagon to get a snack is an excellent source of enrichment.”

“Ah,” said Hal. “You knew they'd run out?”

He'd never spent much time around kids—by design.

It seemed she knew even without her sight what was happening.

“They did not pack much food. If we'd taken the first bridge, we'd have arrived at The Fountain by now, and it wouldn't be a problem.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Around the fountain are a Grove of trees, eternally flowering, producing fruit. It's cruel, but plentiful in harvest.”

“Cruel?”

Dinah nodded. “Even trees deserve to rest.”

The screaming rose to another notch of noise. There was nothing quite as loud as a hungry child.

“Stop crying!” Youngblood commanded the hungry mouths around him. “We’re supposed to be having fun!”

[UNSURPRISINGLY, THIS DID NOT WORK. THE ONLY RULE WAS NO ADULTS, AND THE HUNGRY RECOGNIZED NO KING.]

“If I may,” Dinah began, “I might be able to help.”

“You’ll use your magic to feed us?” asked a small brunette girl with wide green eyes.

Dinah smiled. “Something like that.”

Hal doubted that teaching children how to fish was Youngblood’s idea of magic, but it certainly seemed like magic to Hal.

She had them eating out of the palm of her hand, metaphorically, desperate for her to tell them ‘good job’.

And she did.

“Fresh fish should be eaten grilled over a fire,” said Dinah, once everyone was sitting by the river.

“But,” said a little boy with curly dark hair, “there is no fire.”

“Those who don't wish to fish could spark a fire or two…” Phantom sang, expression pained as the lute forced him to rhyme.

“We don't have time for that,” Manson insisted.

“We're going to be here anyway,” said Tuck. “It'll be nightfall soon.”

“I wouldn't mind resting my feet,” said Youngblood.

“I'll supervise the fire, so that you three can retire,” said Phantom.

[AND THUS THE SECOND PROBLEM CAME TO AN END, WITH EVERYONE HAPPY, FED, AND READY TO NAP. NOTHING INDUCES SLEEPINESS LIKE HUNGER.

THIS, TOO, DINAH KNEW. ALL ACCORDING TO PLAN.]

Once again, Hal was glad the Witch was on their side. Even if the framing of her plan did not make her sound like much of a hero.

Hal finally got a chance to talk to Phantom when the whole caravan stopped fishing, making fires, and grilling their food to set up camp for the night, which took a long time on account of no one knew how to set up a tent except for Phantom, Manson, Hal, and Dinah.

Considering that they were unwilling to uncuff the witch, even though they'd already removed both pieces of cotton from her ears and her jaw tie, that meant Phantom and Hal had to do the lionshare of the work.

It almost seemed too convenient, except for the fact that nothing could be too convenient when one literally had the narrator talking in one's ear.

“How’s that plan of yours working?” asked Phantom, handing over a tent pole.

“Well, I found our hero, by the by, so I’d say it’s going well. What do you have to show for yourself? Getting cozy with the locals?”

Phantom narrowed his eyes. “I found out not all these kids are on board with the whole ‘get rid of the adults by turning them into kids’ plan.”

“Tucker?” Hal guessed.

Phantom nodded.

“What about Manson? What’s her damage?”

“From what I can guess? A negative reaction to internalized guilt. She turned her parents in early because they were trying to force her to—well, it doesn’t matter, I guess, but they wouldn’t let her be herself. She didn’t realize they’d forget everything about her and turn into a pillar of stone, respectively.”

Hal grimaced.

“They’re gonna be okay though, right? Once we get through this whole scenario?”

“I hope so.”

Phantom twisted his ring around his finger, currently set to look like an enormous emerald to fit the setting of this world.

Hal hadn’t really asked more questions about the whole ‘what the hell is going on here’ since Phantom had given him a brief overview in Cyberpunk world.

He hadn’t really understood what, exactly, Phantom had meant by it all until they came here, to an entirely different world, with different rules, different people…

Part of your reality got fused with part of the alternate dimension, he’d said. We have to get the people from your world out of here by letting the story play out.

Phantom hadn’t talked about himself much; Hal hadn’t wanted to hear any of it, either, if he were being honest with himself. But it was obvious that Phantom must be from somewhere, and by the way he talked about it, that ‘somewhere’ wasn’t Hal’s world.

Where, then, was he from? Were people he cared about missing? Were one of these stories, one of these worlds, his? And what about the people from his world that had ended up in these stories? How would they get back to their own world if they weren’t the hero?

What Hal knew was this: Phantom had recognized Tucker. Tucker hadn’t recognized him back, but he had wanted to help…

Too much to think about. There was no easy way to ask ‘hey so are any of these people like, your friends’. Definitely not now; Hal hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself to Phantom.

Later, though. Once Hal did something to make Phantom not think Hal was a waste of time.

“What’s the plan, here?” Hal prompted. “Because I don't want to forget everything or turn into a pillar of stone.”

“You said you found the hero?”

Hal nodded. “The Witch, though she’s really just an herbalist. She said she's missing her mantle.”

“What's a mantle?”

Hal was hoping Phantom would know. “It’s a thing that goes over a fireplace, right?”

He’d certainly never had a house old enough or fancy enough to have a mantle. Or a fireplace. Not that his mom would ever have let them light one, even if they’d had one, on account of they lived in highly flammable California and also fire was something of a traumatic thing when you’d watched your own dad go up in a fiery explosion—

Anyway. Hal didn’t want to think about this anymore.

Phantom frowned. “I don't think so. It has to be something she can wear.”

“Why do you say that?”

Someone at the front of the caravan cried that they'd knocked over their tent, and everything was ruined.

Hal sighed. Playing babysitter to fifty kids and being held prisoner by fifty kids was really not so different.

“Well, Dinah definitely is planning something of her own, so. Whatever it is…I guess we’ll be ready to support her?”

Phantom handed the pole back with a nod, then went off to fix the broken tent and play the magic lute some more, probably.

The sun started to set sooner than Hal might have expected. He was beginning to suspect that time was fucky here like it was in the green desert, but it was possible that it just seemed darker sooner because there were no cities or thunder advertisements or sentient magical sand storms to light up the night sky.

All the prisoners were unshackled from the wagon for the evening, but then hitched together in a circle around a bonfire, which wasn’t a huge improvement unless they all worked together to run away. Which wasn’t the plan, but surely ten adults could overpower fifty children?

Then again…Based on the way they were already bickering amongst each other, passing the blame around, perhaps cohesion was too lofty a goal.

Whatever. Hal wasn’t the hero of this story, and he wasn’t gonna try to organize that. He’d just…sit here. And wait.

His least favorite thing.

“You know,” Dinah began,"you remind me of someone I used to know.”

Hal hadn’t really expected her to speak to him again, unprompted. She’d seemed content to let silence fall between them, and hadn’t tried striking up a conversation since he’d last attempted to ask her anything (like “are you hungry” or “do you want to move closer to the fire” or “what’s a mantle”).

But he could be conversational when he wanted to be. And he definitely wanted out of this story, so conversational he would be.

“Oh yeah? Was he also doomed? Or was he just devastatingly handsome like yours truly?”

“I can't see your face, so I suppose I'll have to believe you.”

Hal almost laughed; he hadn’t expected a witch from a medieval fairy tale land to be so…normal sounding.

Then again, if Hal understood everything correctly, she wasn’t from here.

“I suppose you will, but trust me, I'm a babe. Straight up California hottie. Smart, too.”

She didn't take the bait, but she did smile.

“The one I know…He was a herald of arms. A diplomat. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would be good at peacekeeping, but…he was.”

“‘Was’, huh. What happened to him, then? Someone not get the memo about not shooting the messenger?”

“He disappeared trying to save someone.” She turned away, flames reflecting in her eyes. “I used to think he'd come back to us someday.”

For some reason, Hal felt compelled to apologize. Or sympathize, maybe. He knew what it was like for people to leave too soon.

“Tell me more about him. What would he say if he were here?”

She burst out laughing.

“Honestly? I have no idea. He was unpredictable. Knowing him, he'd just as soon think a fountain of youth was a great idea as he would be pissed at someone else trying to make choices for him. It's my God given right to get old and wrinkly, you little punk. Actually, he'd probably say ‘asshole’. He had a mouth on him.”

“I like him already. Smart fella.”

Her laughter faded, replaced by melancholy. “They took my husband a month ago, you know. When he came back from the fountain, he didn't remember me at all.”

“Oh.” He didn't know witches got married. They always seemed to be alone in stories, unless they were eating kids. “did someone turn him in? Your…children?”

“We don't have children. I didn't want any, and he accepted that. He did have protégés, though. We both did, in a sense.”

“You're good with kids but you don't want any of your own,” Hal said, surprised.

“I don't dislike children. I just don't want to raise any.”

Silence fell between them, the fire crackling merrily.

Across the camp, he could hear the sounds of children laughing, crying, playing, fighting, snoring. He wondered how long they'd been operating with fewer and fewer adults around.

“What happened to your husband?”

“He went to try talking sense into Youngblood, only to get to the castle and realize he couldn't hear or see him.”

“Ah.”

“I watched them take him all the way to the fountain of youth. I almost intervened, but—then I saw the statues.”

“Statues?”

“People turned to stone by the waters.”

“Ah.”

She turned her face toward the fire, hair lit up orange in the dying light. “I almost shattered them. The statues.” She let the statement stand for a moment, though whether it was an invitation or a dare for Hal to comment, he couldn't say.

“Why?”

“To stop Ollie from drinking the water.”

[THE WITCH DID NOT SHY AWAY FROM WHAT SHE HAD ALMOST DONE. THE CHOICE SHE HAD MADE BEFORE THE CHOICE LEFT HER. SHE WAS NOT PROUD OF IT, BUT SHE WOULD NOT HIDE FROM IT EITHER.]

“It’s not that I wanted them to break, but they stood between me and Olly, so in that moment it didn’t matter what they had been or could be again. I only saw them as obstacles.” She smiled again, rueful. Sad. “I'm not sure if it would have killed them or set them free, but…that's how I lost my mantle.”

“They took it?”

“It flew away.”

Now Hal understood even less. According to what Phantom had said, he'd thought a mantle was some kind of. Clothing or something.

“It flew…away?” Hal said, uncertain. “Do you, uh. Know why?”

“Because despite not knowing what might happen to the petrified statues, I was going to do it anyway. Shatter them.” She smiled sadly. “I don't want to forget. Either what I've done, or the life I've lived up until now.”

“You won't. I'll make sure.”

Hal wasn't sure if he could promise she would remember this world once reality was fixed. But if she did, and if they met again…

He'd remind her.

[THAT IS A HEFTY PROMISE], The Narrator warned. [ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN KEEP IT?]

He hadn't gotten the chance to tell Diana her situation wasn't real; he wouldn't let the opportunity pass him by a second time.

“Dinah,” Hal began, “what if I told you this is all just a story? Not your real life, but a fake one imposed over reality?”

“We all have internal narratives that drive us,” she said, missing the point.

“No, I mean—none of this is real. It's like the Matrix or something.”

“How do you know?”

She didn't sound like she believed him; she sounded like she was humoring him.

“Someone told me and showed me compelling evidence.”

“Do you have compelling evidence for me?”

Hal…did not.

“I'm sorry, you seem disappointed. Whether it's objectively real or not…this is my reality. Would you believe it if a relative stranger told you everything you knew was a lie? That your memories of your whole life were fake?”

“Well, someone told me this whole thing is a story, and I believed them both. Eventually.”

He waited for the Narrator to give some dry commentary about how Hal was still somewhat convinced this was all a hallucination, but for once, the Narrator kept his opinions to himself. Maybe that was the better punishment in his mind: letting Hal wonder what the Narrator was thinking.

“Are you alright?” asked Dinah, pulling Hal’s attention to her.

“What? Yes. Sorry. You were saying?”

She stared at him, though she couldn't see him. “I've met people like you before. People who listen for the voices of angels.”

Hal grimaced. “Look, that's not—”

“Do you think I'd judge you? They call me a witch when I'm inconvenient and a healer when they need me,” said Dinah. “I'm good at listening. Good at seeing, too, hence the blindfold. The things people don't say, the things they try not to show, those are the things that speak volumes.”

“Oh yeah?” Hal grinned, nervous. “What am I hiding?”

“Lots, based on all your silences. Or maybe you're just listening, too.”

Hal didn’t know how to respond to that. It was true, after all.

Fortunately for Hal, it didn't seem Dinah needed or expected a response from him.

“I heard you tell Phantom you have a plan.”

“What? When?” then her words caught up. “Wait. You know Phantom?”

“The name is familiar, though I can't say whether we've met. Ghosts wear many faces, after all.”

“Huh.” that would make Dinah the second protagonist to recognize Phantom in some way.

“I heard the two of you attempting to conspire earlier today,” she hinted. She must have incredible hearing. “If you've got something solid, I want in. Better that we work together than foil each other's plans.”

Hal blinked. He knew, grace a la Narrator, that Dinah was working on something. He hadn’t expected to be told outright by the main character herself.

As long as they were sharing, though…

He looked around, making sure no one was listening.

[IT WAS HARD TO TELL IN THE ENCROACHING DARKNESS WHO MIGHT BE CLOSE; THE SUN HADN'T FULLY SET, AND THE NIGHT SKY WASN'T AWAKE YET EITHER.

BUT YOUNGBLOOD HAD SAID IT HIMSELF: THE WORDS OF ADULTS WEREN'T WORTH MUCH.

HAL HAD AGREED WITH IT AT THE TIME. HE COULD MAKE USE OF IT NOW.]

What a roundabout way of answering the question. If there were anything good about the green desert, it was that Hal didn’t need to listen to a narrator annotate his own thoughts.

“Phantom and I are working together,” he confirmed.

Hal jerked his head to where Phantom was talking to Sam, Tucker, and most importantly, Youngblood, before realizing she couldn't see him.

“He's working on an angle with Youngblood's helpers.”

Dinah pursed her lips.

“I don't know how fruitful that will be, those two have worked closely with Youngblood from the start.”

“Phantom tells me they aren't happy. They're trapped here, too.”

“So you and Phantom have a plan,” she said. “What is it?”

“We're still working that out,” said Hal, which was the closest thing he could say to the truth, since apparently Phantom was being honest when he said it was pointless to explain to the hero that they were, in fact, a hero.

We need you to do something heroic was unlikely to yield anything actionable.

“Do you have anything solid?” Hal asked. It was her job as the hero to come up with the plan, probably.

“I have a loose outline. Get my mantle back, destroy the fountain.”

“That's not a plan, that's two bullet points.”

“Keeping it vague gives me flexibility,” she defended. “My problem the first time was I had the angle wrong. This time, I'll get it right.”

Hal wasn't one to catastrophize, but in a few words: they were doomed.

“You're either fearless or reckless.”

She smirked. “Why not both? In any case, we will reach the Fountain of Youth tomorrow afternoon. If you want to come up with a more robust plan, that is your time limit.”

“Good to know,” Hal mumbled.

“You trust Phantom? He did turn you in.”

Hal snorted.

“He couldn’t betray me if he tried. Besides, turning me in was my idea.”

“He's strange. Familiar, almost.”

This, if anything, confirmed that Dinah was this world’s hero. Heroes recognized Phantom. Two points of reference wasn’t much to work with, but surely it meant something.

“Does he remind you of someone you used to know, too?”

“Not exactly.” She picked at the shackles on her wrists; they looked uncomfortable on her wrists. “He sounds tired.”

“Youngblood?”

“Phantom.”

“You can hear him?”

“I have good ears.” She leaned forward, tilting her head, almost birdlike. “He's hiding something. A heavy burden.”

More than you know, Lady, thought Hal.

[MORE THAN ANYONE KNEW, PERHAPS. PHANTOM RARELY SHARED MUCH ABOUT HIMSELF, CHANGING THE SUBJECT WHEN THE QUESTIONS GOT TOO CLOSE TO AN UNCOMFORTABLE TOPIC.

HE WAS PRACTICED ENOUGH AT IT THAT ONE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE IT HAPPENING.]

“You're right,” Hal said, to both Dinah and the Narrator.

How hadn't he noticed that?

He wondered how Danny felt about his secrets being aired out like that.

[PHANTOM CAN ONLY HEAR ME IF I WISH.]

So the Narrator could talk to them individually? Had he shared things with Phantom he hadn't told Hal?

Phantom glanced over at Hal, brow furrowed, before looking up at the sky in confusion and returning to his new friends.

Hal got the impression that yes, the Narrator could and did talk to Phantom about things he did not tell Hal.

[DON'T BE SO SOUR; I DON'T DO IT OFTEN. IT'S A WONDER YOU CAN HEAR ME AT ALL. THIS IS CERTAINLY NOT WHAT I HAD PLANNED, BUT THAT'S ALRIGHT. THIS IS BETTER.

[SOMETIMES STORIES HAVE A MIND OF THEIR OWN.]

“What do you know about him?”

Hal shrugged, mostly to give himself a moment to process the two conversations he was carrying in right now. “Not much. We ended up together through strange circumstances, and sticking together just made more sense.”

More like they didn’t have a choice, or so Hal assumed. Surely Phantom would have abandoned Hal by now if he could have.

Something else to ask Phantom about once they were done with this scenario.

“I'd think his goals would align with Youngblood's,” Dinah said quietly.

“Why?”

“They’re the same, in a way. Both frozen in time. Phantom is a spirit, isn't he?”

“You can tell?”

“His name is Phantom,” she deadpanned. “And he doesn't breathe. Doesn't make a sound when he moves. And he's…sad. Lost.”

She pierced him with a knowing gaze. Hal had the impression that the blindfold wasn't doing anything at all to impede her vision.

“Neither of you are from this world, are you?”

“Uh,” Hal said.

ABORT, thought Hal.

[GOOD LUCK WITH THAT], said the Narrator.

“Are you returned changelings? Or fae yourself? You won't be satisfied if you take these children. They're already magicked beyond your ken.”

Hal didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe.

“I've been called a fairy before, and it didn't end well. We're not here to steal children.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“To right a wrong with the world?” Hal said.

“You don't sound certain.”

[THE WITCH IS CORRECT. YOU DON'T.]

Where was a convenient excuse to leave a conversation when you needed one?

“I'm just trying to get home, and maybe do a good thing along the way.”

“And where is home?”

Hal sighed. “Honestly? I don't know anymore.”

She didn't offer any platitudes, which Hal was mostly grateful for.

Another part of him thought that if anyone could think of something pithy and wise to say that would make all his problems both apparent and easily fixed, it would be a witch from a fairy tale.

Hal slept uneasily that night, dreamless as always. He didn’t think he’d ever miss the desert, but at least there he knew someone was watching his back.

The next day, they made it to the so-called Fountain of Youth.

Honestly, it was underwhelming. Just a crack in a sheer wall of rock, trickling down into a crevasse.

The more impressive things about it were all the things around it.

The trees, overflowing with fruit, perfectly ripe. The sky, a perfect sunny day only in the clearing.

And most impressive and haunting of all: the garden of stone statues, frozen in time.

Those were people who were either luckier than the forever children or cursed in an equally bad but different way.

Hal wondered if any of the water from the fountain of youth had made it into the water cycle and rained down on them during their journey. Or maybe it lost its powers once it left the rocks. Or perhaps the powers only activated under certain parameters.

Youngblood started ranting about his benevolence, what a gift eternal youth truly was.

[SO DISTRACTED WAS HE THAT HE DIDN'T NOTICE PHANTOM SNEAKING BEHIND HIM AND APPROACHING HAL.]

“Tell me you've got something for me,” Hal said quietly.

“Tucker told me the magic is tied to the fountain itself,” Phantom whispered. “Destroy the fountain, end the spell.”

“I knew it,” Dinah said quietly.

“Good for you,” said Hal, “but unless your mantle is some kind of bomb, I don't see how you're going to destroy a whole cliff.”

“Well, I was going to try to piss off Sam, so she'd attack me with Lucifer—”

[LUCIFER IS WHAT SHE NAMED HER MORNING STAR], the Narrator informed them.

“And then I'd freeze the water and hope the expansion of ice breaks the wall…It's not a great plan, but…”

He trailed off, looking meaningfully at Dinah.

The problem wasn't the plan. The problem was that it didn't offer Dinah the opportunity to be the hero.

“Will Sam play along? She looks strong, but strong enough to shatter a wall of rock? And how are you going to freeze the fountain?”

“You can't,” said Dinah. “It's magic water.”

Phantom actually looked relieved. “Do you have a better plan?”

She clicked her tongue, annoyed. “If I had my mantle, I could destroy it with my voice.”

“Your mantle that abandoned you because it didn't agree with your choices,” Hal pointed out. “A real turncoat if you ask me.”

“A…coat?” asked Phantom. He had a thinking face on. “Your voice, you say…”

“If I could see it, I could call it back to me,” she whispered.

“What does it look like? Some kind of bird?”

Phantom made a slashing motion as his throat, as if to say SHUT UP.

[THAT IS WHAT HE WANTS], said the Narrator. [BUT IT'S FUNNY WATCHING YOU DIG A HOLE FOR BOTH OF YOU.]

Hal sighed. He almost wished he were a storybook character so he didn't have to hear the Narrator taunt him.

“Okay, I have something,” said Phantom. “I'm gonna do something, and it's not going to make sense, but once I do it, remove her blindfold.”

“How? My hands are chained.”

Phantom smirked. “Not for long.”

“Can't you just remove it now—”

“Trust the process Hal!” Phantom interrupted.

With that, he slinked off.

“Your name is Hal?” asked Dinah, amused for some reason.

“Yeah.”

Phantom got into position behind Manson and Tuck, giving Hal a very pointed look before gasping loudly and falling to his knees.

“Oh no!” He gurgled. “The power of the Canary is overtaking me! I…CAN'T…”

He threw his head back and yelled at the sky.

Well, yelled wasn’t the right word. It was a screech, really. A wail. A cry.

Painful on the ears.

Then Phantom passed out on the ground, shooting Hal a thumbs-up.

Hal hoped this was part of the plan.

[IT IS.]

“That sound,” said Dinah. “It can't be…”

With that, she brought the shackles down on her knee, breaking them in two, and ripped off her blindfold.

She grinned wide. “That's my mantle.”

Three things happened then:

She put her fingers to her lips and whistled.

The cloak Phantom was wearing flew off of him.

It returned to Dinah.

And the fourth thing: Hal remembered what a mantle was.

“The Witch!” Youngblood cried. “She's free!”

With another smirk, she broke Hal’s chains, and with a flip and a nimbleness that, frankly, surprised Hal, she ran towards the wall of rock.

[THIS WAS THE THIRD PROBLEM FOR YOUNGBLOOD, AND THE THIRD PART OF THE WITCH'S PLAN.

WELL, THE ASSISTANCE HAD BEEN A SURPRISE. BUT SHE WAS NOTHING IF NOT ADAPTABLE.]

“Thank you, Phantom, for keeping my gift safe,” she said. “Now plug your ears.”

Phantom didn’t need to be told twice; apparently, he understood what she was about to do.

What she was about to do, it seemed, was scream at the wall. Hal understood the sentiment. He’d yelled at plenty of walls in his life.

His wall-yelling didn’t result in the whole thing coming crumbling down, however.

It took a moment for the effect of what she'd done to, well. Take effect.

[LIKE YEARS OF UNTOLD SEASONS PASSING ALL AT ONCE, THE TREES CYCLED THROUGH SPRING SUMMER AUTUMN WINTER IN A FLASH, FRUIT ROTTING AND FALLING, LEAVES FORMING, FALLING, BUDDING, FLOWERING;

A DOWNPOUR OF RAIN, SNOW, WIND, FILLED THE AIR IN A WHIRL;

MOST IMPRESSIVE OF ALL WERE THE STATUES SLOWLY RETURNING TO LIFE, WITH PAINED SOBS, LAUGHTER, AND IN ONE NOTABLE CASE: A SNEEZE.

LESS IMPRESSIVE BUT NO LESS NOTABLE WERE THE CHILDREN, GROWING UP WITH A FAINT POP!

YOUNGBLOOD WATCHED HIS COURT AGE PAST HIM, SAVE FOR A FEW.

FRIAR TUCK, WHO WAS ALREADY RUNNING TO HIS PARENTS.

SAM MANSON, WHO STUCK CLOSE TO YOUNGBLOOD.

AND PHANTOM, NO LONGER FEIGNING SLEEP, WHO SEEMED TORN BETWEEN SAM, DINAH AND, TO EVERYONE'S SURPRISE, HAL.]

“Legionnaires! Attack!” yelled Youngblood.

They did nothing.

[HALF OF THEM WERE ADULTS NOW, AFTER ALL, AND YOUNGBLOOD WAS A BEING FOR CHILDREN AND CHILDREN ALONE.]

“They can’t hear him anymore,” Hal realized. Honestly, he felt a little bad for Youngblood. To be so abruptly abandoned by everyone…ouch.

But not all of the court members grew up, it seemed; some of them were still children. The ones who’d turned in their adults to Youngblood.

Some of them rushed over to their parents.

Others hung back in groups, uncertain about what to do. Probably fearing the repercussions of turning their parents in to be de-aged or turned into stone.

“It’s over, Sir Youngblood,” said Dinah, standing tall. “The Fountain is gone.”

“NO!” Youngblood cried. “It isn't supposed to be like this! We were all going to be blessed forever! Young forever!”

“Some of us want to grow up,” said Phantom.

“I thought I could trust you, of all people!” Youngblood cried.

Phantom did actually look upset. “Sorry, Youngblood.”

Youngblood ignored him, turning his sights on Dinah.

“Witch! You will fix this!”

“I can't,” said Dinah. “Not without your help.”

“Not without my—wait, you can hear me?”

Dinah smiled. “I have always heard you.”

“But you're an adult!”

“I have good ears.”

“You still can't see me though,” he said miserably.

She didn't deny the claim, though she looked right at him.

“You spoke of gifts before. The gift of eternal youth. Aging is a gift too. The gift of change.”

She gestured to the trees around her, now firmly settled in autumn red.

“There is beauty in allowing things to take their course.” She crouched down, holding out a hand. “Let me help you.”

“Help me? You ruined everything!”

“Children need adults,” she countered.

“Adults are useless. They can’t help you, they just make rules, try to control you—forget you!”

“Not all adults are good,” Dinah agreed. “But not all are bad, either.”

“Why bother with the risk?” he shrieked.

She considered that, cloak billowing around her, feathered and resplendent.

“I’m sorry adults have let you down, but you can’t steal these people’s parents from them. Their lives, their experiences. To grow old is a gift.”

“A gift I’ll never have!”

She didn’t say anything, just held her arms open for him. He ran forward and hugged her.

[AND SO THE TALE OF THE CANARY WITCH CAME TO AN END—]

“That's how you're ending it?” Hal interrupted. “But it's so sudden! What about her husband! What about the people here? What about the goddamn Merry Men and the dragons—”

[ENDINGS ARE…NOT MY STRENGTH], the Narrator admitted.

“A little more wrap up is needed here.”

The trees shook with the force of the Narrator’s sigh.

[IN THE DISTANCE, A MAN WITH BLONDE HAIR AND A GOATEE WHO ISN'T TECHNICALLY IN THIS WORLD EXCEPT AS BACKSTORY RUSHED FORWARD TO HUG THE WITCH.

IF WE COULD HEAR HIM, WHICH WE CAN'T, BECAUSE HE ISN'T HERE, HE'D PROBABLY SAY “YOU FOUND YOUR COAT!” AND SHE'D REPLY “THE POWER WAS WITHIN ME ALL ALONG, NOW LET'S GO MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME” OR SOMETHING.]

The Narrator was right. He was bad at this.

While he continued with his bad epilogue, Hal went to find Phantom. He was apparently saying goodbye to Sam and Tucker.

“You're better than you think you are,” Dinah said, appearing behind him.

Youngblood was asleep, hanging on her neck.

Hal ignored her statement, because frankly she didn't know him well enough to know how wrong she was.

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I'm not sure yet. Maybe we'll find a fairy mound for him. He belongs with other spirits.”

She looked over at Phantom.

“I'm sorry he didn't return your mantle sooner,” Hal offered. “We didn't know it was yours.”

“It chose to stay with him until I found it. It is interesting, though,” she said, expression curious. “The mantle doesn't grant the wearer the ability to use the Canary Cry.”

Hal frowned. “But you said—”

“It is my ability. The mantle only helps me use it. I was cursed by a wizard, you see.”

Hal didn’t.

“The world is a mysterious place.”

“Indeed.”

“Your Herald friend,” Hal began. “What would he say to that?”

“Probably something cutting about me being nosy.”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

“Well. Some of my favorite people are assholes. His name was also Ha—”

[AND WITH THAT THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.]

The world burst into a kaleidoscope of color, and as promised, the story ended.

The Narrator was definitely bad at endings.