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Kansas is a landlocked state.
It lies in the dead center of America - dead in orientation, dead in interest. When asked about Kansas, the average person would first mention The Wizard of Oz. In The Wizard of Oz, Kansas is only notable for its utter normalcy contrasted with the bright technicolor of fantasy. An average person asked to stretch their imagination might mention Tornado Alley, the song "Kansas City" from Oklahoma (a musical not even about the state of Kansas), and, if pressed, a vague mention of Bleeding Kansas as a brief paragraph before the chapter on the Civil War in their high school history textbook.
For approximately six years in the mid-1800s, Kansas was a fulcrum. Its normalcy was replaced by interest, its lands filled with carpetbaggers and border ruffians and brief outbursts of violence. John Brown fought there first, though his later raid on Harper's Ferry has replaced his former actions as an anti-slavery guerrilla in the American imagination. In the end, the scales tipped. After the Civil War, Kansas was proven to have voted in favor of the future normal.
That future in normal should be noted. It is the central point that first attracted a certain former employee of a shadowy Pentagon project.
You see, Kansas is the heartland. It is the absolute middle of Middle America, the bedrock that creates a baseline, the soul that will sway America and thus the world to its direction. Kansas is Normal. And approximately halfway between Lyons and Ellsworth is Smallville. Smallville is the dead center of the dead center, the central anchor that maintains that Normalcy.
Mr. Jones will see to it that Kansas stays that way.
"Gentlemen," Mr. Jones says from his beautiful house on beautiful Main Street, Smallville, Kansas, U.S.A., "we have a situation."
"New Odd Weirdness Hastens Ending Reality's Entropy," one of his Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E observes.
"Precisely my thought," Mr. Jones says, cutting into his steak with a knife. He doesn't seem to notice that the blood runs electric blue instead of red - to an overly structured mind, even the most obvious effects of Delirium are blanketed by the gentle assurance of his own Normalcy. Had he still been with the Pentagon, perhaps one of his less unhinged colleagues would have noticed the lack of logic, but his Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. were near-mindless drones and he was, frankly, quite mad.
"Nipper Off Worlder Holds Endurance," another Man points out.
"That isn't our greatest threat to Normal at the moment," Mr. Jones snaps. "We'll destroy the foreign brat just as soon as the Delirium Box finishes upgrading your Oblivion Guns. No, there is a much greater threat."
"Report Evil?"
"I felt him the moment he defiled this sacred Nexus of Normalcy," Mr. Jones says. "The moment his feet touched the ground all that is good and pure and Normal was thrown out of joint. He calls himself a hero, but we have the FBI files. We know that he is not."
"Normal Outstays Weirdos."
"Of course the Normal will persist, but this aberration is a poison. He will unbalance the Poles of Sanity and send the Earth - no, the universe - all a-wobble if he is allowed to remain in Kansas."
"How Elect Remove Excrescence?"
"There are two factors of abnormality to consider," Mr. Jones says. "First, there are his weird powers. They are alien in origin, magics sourced from an extraterrestrial metal fused into the shape of a lantern. You will have to find a way to overcome those powers. Second, there are his unnatural proclivities. Yes, gentlemen, this man is not only a deviant but a homosexual deviant. This complicates our plan considerably." The Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. hum as Mr. Jones taps the tips of his fingers together. "If it were only the alien magics, we might be able to destroy that damn lantern and be done with it. Normality would be restored and our attention could return to destroying the extraterrestrial child. But this new threat is not Abnormal through outside influence; he is intrinsically Abnormal. It is obvious, then, what you must do."
The Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. nod in eerie unison. They might be mindless creations designed for the single-minded destruction of America's and Normality's enemies, but they're smart enough to understand their mission.
12.3 miles from Smallville proper, a long dirt road leads to a short gravel driveway. The house at the end of that driveway is inconspicuous in every way, a standard-issue frame house of the type that would become rare within the next 30 years. Sprawling out around it is approximately 300 acres of farmland belonging to the Kents - primarily corn and wheat, though there is a smaller plot of greater variability near the house and a milkshed.
The inside of the house is less inconspicuous, if only because the primary obsession of the Kent matriarch is almost comically evident.
Step inside the farmhouse, and you will find a living room lined with bookshelves filled to bursting. The scent hits you almost immediately - the distinctive musty, almost sour scent of cheap pulp paper. These mass-market paperbacks might have been romance or thrillers in another household, but a quick glance would make their true nature undeniable. Behind the Flying Saucer, The Betty and Barney Hill Abduction, The Official Guide to UFOs, Chariots of the Gods? - any aspiring UFOlogist would give their right leg to get their hands on Martha Kent's collection of the esoteric. Issues of The Flying Saucer Review and The Roswell Monitor are piled on the coffee table alongside Good Housekeeping.
The other interior oddity is currently 7 years old, 4'2", and staring out his bedroom window as two strange men, one red-headed and one blond, park their car in the Kent driveway. If he concentrates on narrowing his incredibly enhanced hearing, he can hear their conversation as they exit the car.
"Our adversary has already noticed you, Alan," the red-head says. "We'll have to make this quick."
"I still don't understand why you would agree to this, Jim," the blond, Alan, says. "The feds already knew my identity, but you-"
"I'm dead," Jim says. The boy in the window blinks. If he didn't possess such acute hearing, he would have thought that he'd misheard. On the other hand, he does possess a few fantastical powers, powers he is only beginning to understand and control. He knows that seemingly impossible things happen every day - he is living proof. "Besides, I never retired. God wouldn't stand for it. You don't stop doing His work just because some short-sighted men in Washington decide it's a threat to national security."
"I should have called Jay instead," Alan grumbles. "He wouldn't give me lip over a completely reasonable decision."
"Reasonable or not," Jim says, his tone making it clear that he landed on the side of not, "you did call me, and I'm thankful for that."
"Thankful?" Alan says.
"Of course," says Jim. "Whoever saves a life saves the world entire. Literally rather than figuratively this time around."
"Excuse me?"
"Your pals at the Pentagon-"
"Not my pals."
"Your blackmailers at the Pentagon-"
"Shut up."
"Would you please let me finish my sentence?" Jim says. Alan gestures towards him with faux magnanimity. Jim turns to Alan, forcing both men to stop at the foot of the front steps. "The Pentagon doesn't know it, but their rogue agent is stepping into more dangerous territory than they know. I've seen the End of All Things, Alan, and that child is key to it."
"It doesn't matter what you think the future is, he's still-"
"Not like that!" Jim huffs. "It's like- There is/was/will be a Beginning and an End, right? That's inevitable."
"I suppose."
"The details are filled in by Free Will - some paths are more likely than others, but all lead to the End. There's a Heaven and a Hell and all that, but the walls between the two are, hmm, permeable until the End comes. God's a big fan of Free Will that leads to more souls going one way than the other."
"And which way might that be?" Alan says. Jim gives him an unimpressed look. "Alright, fine. Permeable walls, Free Will. And the kid's important."
"Yes," Jim says with an otherworldly confidence. "He's Good. Not in a... spectral way, but, y'know." He shrugs. "Free Will."
"So God's Vengeance has to save the kid."
"God's Vengeance will be brought down on your sinner," Jim corrects. "The Starheart's Champion will save the kid."
"I take it back. I'm glad I didn't ask Jay to come instead," Alan says.
"Oh?"
"I forgot how reassuring it is to have someone semi-omnipotent around." Jim snorts and knocks on the door. The boy disappears from the window and runs down the stairs. In three years, he'll be able to do this in a fraction of a second and a great deal of confusion would be avoided. In the present, it takes him almost 30 seconds, and 30 seconds is too long.
"Hello," Martha Kent says as she opens the door. "Who might you two be?"
"I'm Alan Scott, Mrs. Kent," Alan says, "and this is my friend, Detective Jim Corrigan." Martha Kent's friendly demeanor disappears, her gaze icing over into a glare.
"A detective," she says. "Well, I can't think of any reason why a detective would come out here."
"We aren't here for you," Jim says. "We're here for the evil that has set its sight on you."
"Well, I sure don't know what you mean."
"Perhaps not yet, but you will," Jim says. "It's coming."
"How long?" Alan says. Jim tilts his head.
"A few minutes, no longer. We've caught them off guard - their plans were not yet ready to come to full fruition."
"That's one bit of good news," Alan mumbles, turning to stare pensively at the corn fields across the dirt road.
"That does it," Martha Kent says. "I don't know what you two are jabbering on about, but I don't like it. Now get off my property this instant or I'll-"
"Ma!" the boy says. Martha half turns, shifting to stand more firmly in the doorway.
"Get back to your room, Clark," she says.
"They're not here for anything weird," Clark says. Alan lets out a huff of half-laughter.
"I wouldn't go that far," he says.
"Alright, they were talking weird, but they're not bad weird," Clark says. "I heard them. They're here to help." Martha glances back at Jim and Alan nervously, but neither man seems overly surprised to have been overheard from such a distance.
"What do you mean?" Martha says. "If this is about Clark-"
"It is about Clark, but not in the way you fear," Alan says. "A man - Darren Jones, formerly a scientist researching extra-normal phenomena for the Pentagon - has gone rogue. He discovered your son's, uh, abilities. We're here to apprehend him before he does any damage."
"We will be doing so presently," Jim says suddenly. The corn across the road had suddenly started rustling aggressively. "They're here."
Safe in his Normal house, Mr. Jones smiles at the television. As the Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. - half-insectoid, half-machine, all destruction - emerge from the cornfield, he presses the button in his hand and lets the laugh track play. Both his targets are in frame. The man will be destroyed and the child captured - a temporary capture, only until the Delirium Box can cook up a way to murder the alien. All threats to Normalcy will soon be gone forever and Kansas will be safe and Normal once again.
Mr. Jones is having a very good time in spite of the disgusting Abnormality present onscreen.
None of the four onscreen seem overly shocked by the Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E., unfortunately. He'd been hoping to catch them off their guard. The woman (Normal) grabs a pistol at the small of her back - nothing that can make a dent in his Men, but odd nonetheless. The blond man (Abnormal) slips a ring onto his finger. Expected. The red-headed man-
The red-headed man is no longer red-headed. A thick smoke blooms, and from its depths appears something Strange and Wrong and distinctly Not Normal. Silver skin, a dark green cloak, and eyes that glow with something - something Immoral.
"You Are The Primary Target, Green Lantern," the new freak intones. "I Will Deal With These Sinners As They Deserve. Protect The Child."
"New Oddities Will Halt-" one of the Men says, aiming his Oblivion Gun at this new threat to Normalcy.
"You Overestimate Your Power," the freak says. One hand comes upward, and the Oblivion Gun vanishes into nothingness.
"Explain Rapidly, Enemy!" the Man From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. says, staring uncomprehendingly at his now-empty hand.
The laugh track is unusually silent compared to Mr. Jones's usual operations.
"I Am The Spectre. I Am The Wrath Of God. You Think You Serve What Is Right And Proper? I Have Heard The Voice Of The One Who Ordered This And All Universes, And HIS POWER Will Destroy All That Perverts His Will."
"Get inside," Alan Scott mutters to Martha and Clark Kent. "Get inside and lock the door, now."
"Why the devil should I-" Martha says.
"Trust me, you do not want to be out here when the Spectre cuts loose," Alan says.
"This is bullshit!" Mr. Jones screams, throwing his laugh track button through the screen of the TV. He grabs his Delirium Box from the couch cushion beside him, manipulating its intricate carvings until reality tears open in front of him. "I'll deal with these freaks myself if I have to." He steps through reality and onto the Kent farmhouse's front porch, Box still in hand.
"Green Lantern, Behind You!" the Spectre says. Alan Scott whirls around, ring pointed protectively in front of him.
"And I shall shed my light over dark evil," he begins to say, "for the dark things cannot stand the light, the light of-"
"Look!" Mr. Jones says. The Delirium Box sits in his outstretched hand, hypnotic in its Normalcy. Green Lantern stares for a moment, awe-struck, before both he and Mr. Jones disappear and the Box falls to the porch with a too-heavy thud.
"Fight, My Friend," the Spectre says softly, hiding away the Box in the mystically endless folds of his cape. Then he turns his attention back to the Men From N.O.W.H.E.R.E. The Wrath of the Spectre makes the atoms of the universe tremble, and even the single-minded Men seem taken aback by this dark promise of vengeance.
"No Obstructions Will Halt Entropy's-" one Man tries to say. In an instant he is flung skyward before being contorted, his mechanical limbs ripped from their bearings, his insectoid casing burst open to reveal the empty nothingness within.
"Oh, Shut Up," the Spectre snaps.
Between one blink and the next, Alan Scott finds himself in the dark corner of a familiar bar. At a glance the room appears empty, but it feels full - full of men dancing and men flirting, full of cigarette smoke, full of life.
"Odd," he says, sipping at his watered-down beer. "Very odd."
"Where the hell-" Alan turns and sees Mr. Jones standing next to the door. Alan raises his glass in a mocking toast, and Mr. Jones gives him a hateful glare. "What is this place?"
"I would have thought that you would know better than I," Alan says.
"This isn't the Delirium Box," Mr. Jones says.
"Is that what that was?" Alan says.
"No! This - This is somewhere else."
"Maybe it is," Alan says. "I certainly recognize it."
"You-"
"1938. Gotham City. I know it can't be much later than that - these are the old chairs. The energy, though... that's more like the '60s. Different music, you know."
"What are you talking about?" Mr. Jones says. "What did you do?"
"What was the Delirium Box supposed to do?"
"It was supposed to entrap you, ensnare you in a fantasy so potent that I could kill you in your distraction. You freaks and perverts are all weak like that, weak to dreams."
"That explains a lot, then," Alan says. "Your little Box didn't fail, Mr. Jones. You were just on the wrong track, that's all."
"What do you mean?" Mr. Jones says. "This Box, my Men from N.O.W.H.E.R.E. - everything was designed to help enforce Normalcy. You shouldn't have been capable of creating-"
"I didn't create anything," Alan says. "The Box did exactly what you wanted. It gave me a fantasy of friendship, safety, and love, but of course a machine created in your image couldn't understand how fantasy and reality can intersect." He sips at his beer, grinning slightly into the glass as Mr. Jones absolutely gapes.
"What-"
"You know, it took me a while to understand the Starheart." Alan nods at the ring glowing green on his hand. "An alien creature of pure will, capable of anything - death and life and power - but what it wanted from me, more than anything else, was direction. I have a feeling your own forces operate in much the same fashion."
"I don't have your - your abnormalities."
"What do you call this, then? Normal?" The bar shifts around them, tables popping in and out of existence and a disco ball appearing overhead. "No, this is fantasy made truth, will made truth. You've been directing that will in one direction, but no more. I shall shed my light over dark evil, for dark things cannot stand the light. I shall demand from the universe a better reality than we currently inhabit, and until we reach that day..." The ring glows brighter, chasing the shadows away from the corners of the bar-room, blasting away the fantasy until all is green and gleaming. "I can see the truth, Mr. Jones. I can fight for what is good and decent even when evil claims to be Normal."
"You'll destroy everything!" Mr. Jones screams. "You'll destroy the Poles of Sanity! You'll make Kansas bleed with Abnormality!"
"Poles shift. Planets wobble. And Kansas has always been bleeding." With one last burst of light, the Delirium Box's casing tears open and both Alan and Mr. Jones are back in reality once again.
"You Succeeded," the Spectre says. "It Is As It Was Meant To Be."
"Well, I wouldn't say that," Alan says. "I don't think 'was' comes into it." The Spectre smiles a toothy, eerie smile.
"As It Is Meant To Be, Then," he says. "Normal Is No Longer This Sinner's Stagnation Here. Normal Is Growth And Change And The Will Of Life."