Author's Note: I actually wrote this last summer (written June 2021, posted March 2022). I'd originally planed on writing a Sir Justin/ Greg Saunders longfic/ slowburn but I realized I didn't really have it in me to do the idea justice at the moment. So, I took the introduction and edited it to work as a oneshot. I may one day continue it, I have a bit more written, but currently no plans to write more. If I do, it will be posted on Ao3, not here. On FFN, it will remain a oneshot. Hope you enjoy!


He was wearing boots when the attack began.

Later on, Greg Saunders would be exasperated with himself for focusing on such a tiny thing in such a critical moment. Winged men and women were raining down from the sky, flowing from their spaceships like a swarm of angry bees pouring out of their hive, and all he could think about was his boots? Ridiculous.

But how could he not? They were uncomfortable. He came to town dressed as a cowboy expecting to spend the afternoon ordered around by some director for the latest motion picture. Not fighting hawks. If he knew, he definitely would've picked something more functional, or at least some boots that were actually designed to run in. Not these fake, stiff… He didn't even know what they were. They were made from a dirt cheap material and designed purely for show. He doubted they even had a name.

They pinched his feet in all the wrong places, making running uncomfortable as hell. But this was the desert and Greg couldn't afford to lose the protection. Especially not when the situation was so dire.

Greg wasn't the political type. He was never up to date on current events. He had no idea what was happening. He'd heard snippets of the news, newscasters claiming winged aliens had come down from the sky to save their world, but Greg's bosses were on a schedule. Go out to the California desert, they said. We still have a show to film, they said.

But they were wrong weren't they? And they weren't even here. Greg sort of wished they were so he could rub it in their faces but at the same time, he didn't. It was a good thing his bosses weren't here. One less person meant one less person he had to shovel into the back of a truck and order to drive, drive far, and not look back.

Greg was suddenly grateful for all the lessons his relatives had given him as a kid. Gunslinging, how to throw a punch, all of it. He hated it as a kid but as he braced himself, watching the hawks dive toward the town, his brain hummed with uncovered memories. He wasn't a fish out of water. He could fight if he had to.

Still, he wished he hadn't given his car away. That he hadn't remained behind to check the evacuated down for stragglers. Selfish, maybe, but Greg didn't think anyone could blame him. There were aliens invading for Christ's sake! He was allowed to be in a bad mood.

He hid in a shop that sold guns. He was a bit surprised to find one, especially considering how small this town was and the fact it was California, but he didn't complain. He armed himself quickly, swapping out his fake holders for real ones and stuffing his pockets to the brim with cartridges. He'd be ready when the hawks came for him. But they didn't seem like hunters.

The hawks that landed merely strolled the streets like they owned the place, the arrogant bastards. They didn't even look around. They scattered, planting some sort of device Greg didn't understand around the town. It was difficult to tell exactly what was happening, only having the limited view of the shop's window to go off of, but it turned out he didn't need a full view of the town to figure out what was happening.

"Level the town," the head hawk barked, ruffling his wings like he was preparing to take off again. "And find some humans. Grab them by force if you have to. The gate's not going to build itself."

Fuck. That didn't sound good. Greg's muscles tensed, fingers curling around the edge of the counter he was hiding behind. His heart pounding against his chest, screaming for him to do something, but his legs were locked and his mind was buzzing with indecision. He was screwed either way. If they were going to level the place, they'd do it whether or not he was there. If he made a break for it, he'd be risking capture.

He figured if he was going down, the least he could do was take a few hawks down with him.

Readying his guns, he leaped over the counter and ran out of the shop, guns firing like his life depended on it. It probably did.

He managed to take them by surprise. Quick shots, several in succession, struck the head hawk and his deputies. Greg wasn't sure if they were killing shots- they probably weren't- but they did the job for now. They were down but the noise of the guns had still drawn more. If he was going to escape, he still had a long fight ahead of him.

His feet hurt as he ran, those stupid boots rubbing in a way he knew would result in blisters. It nipped at the back of his mind, a constant distraction, but he tried to focus on the battle above. Hawks were rushing towards him, ranged weapons preparing to fire. At least he didn't have to worry about stray bullets hitting civilian innocents. Normally he couldn't dare shooting into the sky but today, he could as much as he wanted. The only person he was risking hitting was himself.

He aimed for the wings. A low blow, perhaps. He didn't know what kind of meaning those things held for the Thanagarians. They were probably pretty valuable, he imagined. Humans revered flight. Even if it was common for these guys, it was probably a pride point for them. And they were thin, he doubted they'd heal fast. But he didn't care. He wanted those things out of the sky and this was the quickest and easiest way to do it. One shot to the wing and the hawk was forced to land.

Greg managed to mow down a decent number of them by the time the hawks' lasers were prepped. After that… Well, it was hard to shoot something behind you when it was shooting back. His shots became rarer and more precise. He couldn't afford to be generous with them now.

He was nearing the edge of the town. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. On one hand, he was getting farther from the hawks' center. On the other, he lost any potential cover. It was all open land out there, for miles and miles. Why hadn't his bosses picked a more urban place to film? It wasn't hard to build a set in the city!

He'd be a dead man if he tried running now. Opting for cover, he ducked into an alleyway and waited for his attackers to descend upon him. He still fired like hell's end, of course, but he had no idea if the shots were landing or not. There were just so many of them and it was hard to look and keep his head down at the same time.

He threw his gun at the first one that landed. He could afford it, he had plenty more, and it gave him the chance to jump him. He boxed him in the jaw, so hard the hawk nearly fell over, and grappled for the straps of his armor. Maybe if he managed to flip around, he'd have a decent shield.

The effort proved to be a mistake. The hawks were more resilient than Greg expected. The hawk was upright in a heartbeat and retaliating with viciousness Greg didn't think he'd ever be able to find in himself. And the punch hurt a hell of a lot more than anything that could've come from a human. What were they feeding these things? They were practically pure muscle! If the blow landed any lower on his face, Greg was sure his jaw would be blown out right now. But it wasn't like his cheek fared much better.

Metal tore through the soft skin below his cheekbone and a pained noise escaped his lips. A hand went to the wound and he found red dripping down his pale fingers. What the hell was that? The hawk smirked and Greg saw them. There were claws embedded into the back of his gloves! Like brass knuckles, only worse. Just his luck. Hoping to beat the hawks in hand to hand was a gamble and it seemed that wasn't going to work out.

Greg shoved past the hawk, managing to take him by surprise and make it past him. He couldn't really afford to be cornered right now, especially not with more hawks on the way. He fired again, once behind him and a few more rounds to the sky. Any hawks that were closing in were plucked off rather quickly but there were just too many to secure an exit.

A dozen or so hawks landed around him, glowering. Greg primed his guns. The Thanagarians didn't have their weapons drawn, it was too close for anything long range, but the only thing that had gotten him this far was the speed and deadliness of a bullet. He wasn't about to give it up quite yet, not if he could help it.

"You're turning into a real thorn in our side," one of the hawks growled.

"I could say the same about you," Greg shot back and raised his gun. The hawks were already moving by the time he fired. On the ground, they had more control, more freedom to dodge. They weaved around each other, crossing the ground between them in seconds, and suddenly there were more fists flying towards his face.

He ducked but the hawks were better than that. Lower punches quickly followed, now paired with kicks. He felt the blows reverberate through his bones the moment an armor knee slammed into his ribs. Clawed gloves tore at his shoulders. Elbows slammed down on his back, nearly forcing him to drop. He wasn't one to give up that easily. He may have lost the advantage that guns gave him but humans had one thing on hawks: they were wily.

He started flailing, making sure each motion had the full force of his strength behind it in case a limb came into contact with a hawk. His forearm slammed against a hawk's face, dislodging her helmet, and a foot found its way to another's stomach. The beating ceased for a moment, the hawks too confused to get their bearings and keep it up. Greg pressed his feet into the ground, building up a leap, and barreled into the nearest hawk. He didn't have enough power to knock him off his feet, he was too study and wide-stanced for that, but a gap opened up in his ring of attackers. He squeezed through it, more than thrilled to finally have some breathing room.

A hawk reached for him, talons scoring a long trail down his arm as he yanked himself away. His sleeve tore, not that he was very concerned about that at the moment, and he stumbled a few steps. He tried to get a grip on the gun in his holster when he looked up and saw him.

Black eyes met his and Greg was graced with the sight of shaggy blond hair and brilliant golden armor. His heart leaped at the sight of him. Finally! An ally. Risky to bring someone else into this, maybe, but the guy had armor and a sword. Maybe he knew how to use it. Maybe he was another actor but even so, he was armed and that was better than nothing.

"Hey!" Greg hollered, making a beeline for the newcomer. "Hey, give me a hand here."

The newcomer didn't react. His head snapped up, like he was confused, but he gave no indication he planned on moving. Confusion crept up on Greg's mind but he didn't stop. Hawks still close on his tail, he crossed the street cleanly and skidded to a stop beside him.

"That sword real metal or just plastic?" Greg asked, earning nothing more than a stare in response. He frowned. "What the hell's wrong with you? The hawks are going to level this place. We gotta do something!"

The man just stared at him. Greg wondered if he was in shock. He shook his head, unable to dwell on it at the moment and began firing at the hawks again. On the ground and wings folded, they were harder to hit but guns were brutal weapons. He didn't need a clean shot for it to be an effective one. But they were armored and there were too many of them and soon, they were swarming him.

"Get behind me," Greg snapped, positioning himself in front of the armored man behind him. To the Thanagarians, he spat, "Don't you dare think about laying a hand on this one."

The Thanagarians looked at him like he'd grown two heads. One of them snorted. "I heard that humans were feeble minded but I didn't expect them to break this easily."

"Feeble as their minds are, their bodies are not," another pointed out. "The commander says they're as good as any animal. Try not to rough him up too much."

Greg lashed out wildly when they neared, jab one on the neck but getting tackled by another in the process. He hit the ground roughly, his whole body jostling upon impact, and he was quickly pinned down by two more. "No!"

The hawks surrounded him. Greg craned his neck, trying to see what happened to the armored man. He was standing over him, eyes wide and curious. Greg wanted to yell at him for just standing there. What in the world was going through this guy's head? He was surrounded by aliens and he wasn't doing anything. Even if he was shocked still, even the most cowardly of men would be fighting by now. Except this guy apparently.

But the hawks were ignoring him. They only had eyes for Greg, it seemed. He felt them latch something around his wrists and he was forced to his feet. Roughly, they began pushing him down the street. One of them growled something in his ear but Greg didn't hear it. He was too busy watching the still man behind him who hadn't lifted a finger to help.


He hated these damn shoes.

Even if he'd just spent the day acting, Greg probably would've given up on them already. Fighting and running in them made his feet hurt like hell and he hadn't even gotten the chance to check if they'd blistered or started peeling yet. He just knew he'd kill for some sneakers.

He thought about asking one of the other captives to trade. Afterall, he was probably the most fit person here. He was pulling more than his fair share of labor, dragging and lifting the massive metal bricks that lined the ring from the ship to wherever they needed to be faster than anyone else. They were massive things, easily taller than Greg himself and far, far wider. Moving them was more than a battle. It'd benefit them all if he had some good shoes while he was doing it. But that wasn't something he could ask.

He recognized a few of them. The other prisoners, that is. Some of them were the townsfolk he'd helped escape. It looked like after he was caught, the hawks scoured the countryside like… well, hawks. The sight of them made his body feel heavy with guilt but by the time they showed up, he'd already gotten enough blasts to the back to tell him that he couldn't stop working. Logically, he knew it wasn't his fault but he was too tired from pushing blocks around and too upset from everything that happened today to really be thinking clearly. It'd shatter him if he asked anything of them, especially for something as valuable as a good pair of sneakers.

So Greg put up with the soreness and rawness without complaint. One of the Thanagarian overseers commented on it but didn't seem inclined to help so Greg kept quiet about it. But when nightfall came and the captives were herded into the ship. It came with prison cells, it seemed. They were planning on enslaving them like this from the start.

It was demeaning but Greg was too exhausted to resist when the Thangarians shoved him into a box and erected energy bars to separate him from the outside world. The push was far rougher than it needed to be and he stumbled, knees and hands hitting the ground. He let himself fall, muscles savoring the respite from overuse.

Sleep was tugging at his eyelids but he forced himself to sit up. He needed the sleep but there was something more important that he had to do first. He groaned as he slipped the pseudo leather boots off his feet. He winced, feeling vulnerable skin tear, and frowned at the sight of the shape his feet were in. They were a bit discolored from a day spent trapped in something so tight, his heel and edges of his toes were blistering, and the bottom and sides of his feet were peeling. And on top of that, they throbbed like he'd walked across the desert and back.

Greg tried to keep quiet as he took his right foot in one hand, wrapping his fingers around the back and pressing his thumbs into the sensitive underside of the foot. Closing his eyes, he started rubbing out the pain before switching to the other. He didn't spend nearly enough time as he would've liked but he could tolerate it a bit longer if it meant he wouldn't have to do this tomorrow.

Taking his boots, he started tearing them. He wasn't exactly the most, uh, artistically inclined when it came to fashion but he was fairly confident he could figure out how to modify these things. Anything would be better than the torture his feet went through today. The only problem was this material didn't want to tear.

It bent under his grip but he couldn't penetrate the material. Even a tiny hole, he could go off that. The material was stubborn though, or his fingers just weren't strong enough. Either way, his hands weren't cutting it.

It was too bad the hawks had searched him for any potential weapons before putting him to work. They'd even removed the metal buttons from his jeans. Even that could be useful right now, even if it wasn't sharp.

He'd already resorted to using his teeth when he realized someone else was in his cell with him.

Greg looked up, lowering the boot from his mouth slowly to gape. The blond man was back, still decked out in his golden armor, still armed with his sword. Greg blinked a few times, not quite believing what he was seeing. When had he gotten here? And why hadn't the hawks taken his gear? Even if he'd proved useless in battle, they'd stripped Greg of any potential weapon. Surely they'd take this guy's sword, even if it was fake.

"Got a problem, pardner?" Greg asked, cocking an eyebrow at the newcomer. Like before, he said nothing. Greg frowned. It was obvious the guy could hear him and they weren't in the middle of a fight anymore so there was no reason not to be talking. Greg ran his fingertips over his cheek, feeling the gashes and wounds littered across his face. They were bad but he didn't think they were anything horrifying. What was this guy's deal? "You going to say anything?"

The man just blinked owlishly but then finally, he spoke. "You can see me?"

That wasn't the response Greg was expecting. "Um… yeah? Why wouldn't I be able to?"

The man took a step back, into the laser grate walling off the cell. Greg lurched forward to stop him but was too slow and the man walked clean into it. Only… he wasn't sliced to smithereens. Greg's brain went blank, unable to process what he was seeing. The man then stepped back in and spread his arms, reaching as if to touch a wall, but his hands passed right through the metal like he wasn't even there.

"What the…?"

The man gave him a humorless smile. "I believe I am dead."

Greg did a double take. Dead? Like, deceased? His mind struggled to process what that meant. He understood the words he was hearing but his brain refused to let it click. But at the same time, everything was starting to make sense. Not actually but some of his questions were answered. Why the man didn't move to help him, the Thanagarians confusion at his hollering… But now that he had some answers, he only had more questions. "I didn't think ghosts were real."

"I did not either. Nor did I think aliens were real but here we are."

"Why can I see you?"

The man shrugged. "I do not know. No one has been able to see me so far."

"Any chance you can help me get out of here?"

The man paused for a moment, thinking, before shaking his head. "I do not think so. But if you do not have a knife, try using your surroundings to cut your shoes."

Greg didn't understand what he meant by that. The ghost gestured to the crackling energy bars behind him and suddenly Greg understood. Shuffling forward on his knees, he eased one of his boots through the bars and yanked it back. The shaft of the boot fell off like it'd been sliced by a blade. Greg broke into a grin. This would make his job a lot easier.

He turned to thank the strange man but by the time he did, he was already gone.


His new shoes weren't great but they did the job. He kept the soles and a bit of the part that surrounded his feet, fashioning them into sandals so his feet weren't suffocated by the stiff material while he worked. The gaps between the straps were nice, they let his feet breathe a bit while he worked. Unfortunately, it also meant he got sand in his socks.

It was uncomfortable, sand mixing with sweat, but he didn't dare stop. Stifling a groan, Greg pushed a large metal brick up a ramp to its place alongside the dozens of others he'd already stacked along the wall. It was starting to get some height. Greg had no idea what it was for. As far as he knew, these bricks he was pushing around were just big pieces of metal, no inner workings inside. There were a few special pieces here and there that needed more fineworking but he was never tasked with moving those. The hawks just saw him as dumb muscle and kept him moving materials to move the wall.

He still caught glimpses of the other parts though. There was some kind of machinery in the center of the ring and there were a few security stations set up around the outermost part of the gate. Greg couldn't recall what he'd heard on the news about this thing but the Thanagarians ruled with an iron fist. He'd been the victim of his fair share of outbursts and punishments but others received the same for even less. Whatever the hawks had told the world, he suspected it was a lie. But what their true intentions were, Greg didn't have any hope of guessing. He was just some nobody in the background. Didn't matter much if he figured it out or not.

At night, he sometimes thought about it but his mind was too busy fighting the lull of sleep and the rest of him was occupied trying to soothe his aching muscles. The ghost came by once in awhile, watching and not saying much. Sometimes, Greg talked to him.

"Y'know, when I came out here, I was hoping for big things. Being the prized mule at an alien labor camp wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Greg chuckled through grit teeth as he tried to get a feel for the burn along his ribcage. Or was it a scrape? He wasn't really sure how he'd gotten it, by falling or by a hawk's weapon most likely, but he knew it hurt and he'd gotten sand in it. He didn't want it getting infected but it was hard giving up his water rations to clean it. His throat was just so dry.

"Try putting the water in your mouth then spit it out to clean the wound," the ghost instructed. "It is not ideal but you may trick your mind into thinking your thirst is quenched."

"Thanks," Greg told him and did as he was told. Taking some water, he swished it around in his mouth, enjoying the solace, before spitting it into his hands and splashing it against his injury. It stung and just made him want to drink more but the ghost was right about it being effective. "Contrary to popular belief, living in the city doesn't do much for your street smarts."

"I do not know what that means," the ghost told him, sitting down on the other side of the cell, "but from what I have observed, you are very intelligent. You did well staving off the hawks, you fixed your shoes so you could work without pain, you have made great achievements in your life before now…"

"You trying to cheer me up?" Greg questioned, glancing up. "Because it's not working. This is a lousy situation, complimenting me won't change that, pardner."

The ghost chuckled. "My apologies. I am… Well, I have never been imprisoned but on the battlefield, keeping the troops' spirits high was key in ensuring survival."

Greg leaned forward, interested. "Can you tell me more? I mean, I've already told you about my acting career and childhood and whatnot. Maybe a story'll be a nice distraction."

The ghost paused. "Have you ever heard of King Arthur?"

Greg nodded. "Don't know him well but it's impossible to have not heard of him. Lots of real famous stories about that guy."

An unreadable expression passed along the ghost's face but he nodded along. "I was a knight on his court."

"Neat," Greg responded, not knowing what else to say. He was past the point of disbelief, he supposed. He was a captive in an alien camp talking to a ghost. The ghost's age seemed like a weird spot to get hung up on. "So how did you die?"

The ghost looked away and Greg felt a stab of guilt. Maybe that was something he shouldn't have asked. But the ghost resumed talking a moment later like nothing happened. "I am unsure. My memory is… hazy. Especially the time right before I discovered I became a ghost. But, I remember that I was gifted by the wizard Merlin so I imagine I died confronting some sort of magical threat. Or at least I hope. If I had to die, I'd hope it was something glorious."

Greg couldn't tell if he was trying to joke or not. "How long have you been a ghost?"

The ghost shrugged. "I do not know. I moved around a lot after I realized no one could see me so it has been difficult to tell how much time has passed. Perhaps a couple of years?"

Greg frowned. A couple of years was a long time, especially if you couldn't talk to anyone. "That sounds lonely."

"...It was.

"Do you think-?"

"Get some rest, my friend," the ghost instructed, rising to his feet with a sense of finality. "It is getting late and you have a long day tomorrow."

"Right," Greg responded, trying not to sound disappointed, as the ghost faded away.


"What's your name?"

"What?"

A week had passed, Greg was pretty sure, since he was captured. A week of labor under the hawks' sharp gaze, a week of tending to wounds his overseers gave him when they thought he was slacking or getting rebellious… a week of nights talking to the ghost, the only friend he had in this horrid place.

"I just realized I don't know what to call you," Greg told him. "I've just been calling you my ghost buddy."

The ghost snorted in amusement. "You can continue to do so, if you wish, but my name is Sir Justin. Sir Justin Arthur."

"Nice to meet you, Sir Justin." If he still had his hat, Greg would've tipped it. Sir Justin would probably think that was funny. He had a good sense of humor, for a ghost from the six century at least. "My name's Greg Saunders."

"It is nice to meet you, Greg Saunders."

Greg shot his new friend a lopsided grin, oddly comforted now that he knew his name. It felt like progress. Something small, maybe, but after a week breaking his back in the desert, he'd take whatever he could get. Sir Justin. That had a nice ring to it.

"Can you tell me more about these… motion pictures that you work with?" Sir Justin asked, almost like a young child begging for a story before bedtime. And Greg was always happy to indulge.

"Did I ever tell you about my college films?"

"No."

"They were awful. You'd love them."


Greg wasn't sure what happened but punches were thrown and there were weapons fired and now he was locked in his cell halfway through the workday nursing more than a few new wounds. He let himself go limp when he hit the metal floor, enjoying the coolness against his face, and was about to let the darkness take him but Sir Justin wasn't having that.

"Greg!" Sir Justin hovered around him like an annoying little nat. If he had the energy, Greg would have swatted at him. "Greg!"

"Go away," he groaned, wrapping an arm around his abdomen. "Let me be."

Sir Justin tried shaking him but his hands passed right through Greg's shoulder. Greg made a displeased noise and shivered. He didn't like how that felt. But Sir Justin just kept doing it. "I know you are tired but you are hurt. You need to stop the bleeding. If you go to sleep now, you might not wake up."

"What if I don't want to wake up? When I wake up, there's just more work and more hawks making me do it."

Sir Justin frowned. "You do not mean that."

Greg's mind was too hazy to really be sure if he did that but something about Sir Justin's voice made him sit up. He shook his head and leaned against the wall. "What… What should I do? I'm not thinking clearly here, pardner. Tell me what I need to do."

Sir Justin hesitated, fear visible in his eyes. "Take off your jacket. You still need that. Tear your undershirt and try to wrap it around your wounds. Keep some so you have something to press against that wound under your ribs. I believe it reopened."

"I don't think I have enough hands."

"You must because I cannot do anything to help," Sir Justin told him, sounding upset. What was that about? "Please, Greg, just try."

Greg's fingers fumbled. He was struggling to stay awake and he could barely see anything around him but his fingers found the strength to tear up his undershirt. Sir Justin's words constantly guided him, he managed to patch himself up. He didn't have any water, let alone enough to clean his wounds properly, but he tried his best.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Greg finished. He could hear the Thanagarians dragging the other captives back to their cells when he leaned his head against the silver wall behind him. He'd missed nearly half a day of work. He needed the rest but some inkling in his mind was telling him he should've been out there. Greg tried to ignore it.

"You need to get out of here," Sir Justin murmured quietly, eyes round with worry as they roamed up and down Greg's weakened form.

"Don't I know it." Greg shifted slightly, getting his least injured leg under him to sit a bit more comfortably. He didn't like the thought of lying down right now. He wasn't sure why but sitting up felt safer. Easier to jump up in case a hawk attacked, maybe. "But there's not much we can do."

"Maybe not," Sir Justin whispered as Greg closed his eyes, missing the determination in his eyes as Sir Justin floated off deeper into the ship.


Greg slept well past the start of his usual work shift.

At dawn, a couple Thanagarians came in to check on him. He tried to get up but his body wasn't exactly feeling cooperative today, it seemed. He ended up bracing for the blows but they never came. After a few prods, the hawks deemed him unfit for work today and let him be. Afterall, he was their most useful slave. They could afford to lose him but it'd still be costly.

Greg appreciated the day to rest but his cell was boring and he was worried about the other prisoners. He'd been trying to keep his head down lately but he still took the brunt of the hawks' anger. They had it out for him after their initial fight. What would they do now that he was gone? Would they redirect their rage at the other prisoners? Or would they let them be? He suspected it wasn't the latter.

There was nothing he could do though. His cell had a window but not a view of the labor field. He could see the edges of the structure they were building- the gate, as the hawks called it- but that did nothing to soothe his anxieties. All he could see was energy bars keeping him inside, the taunting desert, and the bronze walls of the hawks' machine. No sign of life, save the occasional hawk that flew by or brick appearing on top of the gate.

Greg gave up trying to see what was happening eventually. A hawk brought him his water and food for the day. He portioned off a section of the water to rinse out his injuries. He had no idea if it did anything but he didn't want to risk it. And besides, the coolness felt nice. These things hurt. Water was far from a painkiller but whatever bit of relief he could get went a long way.

But once he'd done all the self-care he could, there wasn't much else left for him to do. By the time Sir Justin showed up, he was halfway through tapping out the tune of this old album his dad would play for him as a kid on the smooth metal floor of the Thanagarian ship. He brightened at the sight of his friend but it seemed Sir Justin wasn't here for a song today.

"I am getting you out of here," Sir Justin announced, stepping through the glowing energy bars into the cell.

Greg stopped his humming. "What?"

"There is an untrained guard watching you today. The rest are out by the gate. He would not be difficult to trick."

Greg stared at him a moment, mind struggling to catch up. "What are you saying?"

Sir Justin grinned. "I am helping you break out."


It was a rather straightforward plan. Trick the guard into opening the cell, break out, steal a ship before the other Thanagarians caught wind of what was happening, and then… Well, Greg didn't know that part. Sir Justin told him that he'd know when they got there and to trust him until then. It was a big gamble but Greg didn't argue. He wanted out of there and he'd take whatever chance he got. Still, he had one problem.

"What about all the other prisoners?" Greg asked as he and Sir Justin hashed out the final details of the plan. "We can't just leave them."

Sir Justin hesitated. "It will be difficult enough to get one person out. It would be near impossible to get out… How many would you say there are?"

"Uh… Maybe a hundred? Give or take a couple dozen."

"I do not think you would be able to free them all," Sir Justin told him, sounding unhappy. "But it would be cruel to abandon the defenseless."

Greg ran his hands over his face and groaned. "I'm no hero. Where's Superman when you need him?"

"Who?"

"Uh, he's a superhero. Real strong. And he can fly and… stuff."

"Sounds like a useful ally."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't help guys like me," Greg responded. "Now, hush. I think I can hear someone coming. What should I do? Play possum? Or just go for it and try to grab the guy?"

"What do you think is most convincing? You are the actor, not me."

"Oh. Right." Greg dropped to his knees, clutching his injured side, and started yelling. "Guard! Guard! Help! There's something in my cell! Some kind of monster!"

"A monster?" Sir Justin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Really? That is the best you can think of?"

"Hey, I'm an actor, not a writer," Greg hissed under his breath before continuing. "Guard, come quickly! I need help!"

Greg heard the footsteps speed up, soles of boots pattering softly against the metal flood. He glanced at his own makeshift sandals. Damn, he should've tried stealing one of the hawks' boots. He doubted he'd get away with it but he'd literally care for some better footwear. After he got out of here, he wasn't buying anything less than the best. His feet deserved it.

The guard skidded slightly as he stopped in front of the cell. Sir Justin was right, this guy did look on the greener side. Young, clumsy. No wonder the Thanagarians had this one stay on the ship while the rest were supervising the construction outside. He didn't seem all that intimidating.

Cranking up the desperation in his voice, he stuck his arm through the bars and reached for the guard like a man with the Sahara in his throat lunging for a water bottle. "Please you gotta help me! It'll kill us all!"

The hawk glanced at him then the empty cell behind him. In the corner of his eye, Greg could see Sir Justin shaking his head but Greg knew what he was doing. He yelped, as if bitten, and started kicking at an invisible foe. Confusion rippled across the hawk's face, quickly replaced by alarm. He hurried to the control panel on the outside of his cell.

"No! What are you doing?" Greg yelled, ignoring the distressed look Sir Justin was giving him. He took a step back from the bars, careful not to nick his arm on the energy field, and shook his head as if crazed. "If you open it up, it'll eat us all!"

"I think you are overdoing it, Greg," Sir Justin said just as the hawk hit the release button. Greg threw himself out faster than the hawk could react and rammed into him with the full weight of his body before grabbing the hawk's face and slamming his head against the wall as hard as he could, effectively knocking him out.

The unconscious body slid to the ground and Greg let himself slump over. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he grinned at his friend. "Sometimes drama sells. Even the corny stuff."

"I have learned not to doubt you, Greg Saunders," Sir Justin responded, sounding impressed. "Now take his weapons and lock him in the cell. I do not know how much time you have until the shift ends."

Greg nodded and tossed the hawk in his cell, throwing his old shoes in right behind him. Good riddance to them, he'd say. Let them terrorize someone else, even if it was just with their stench for now. He was moving up in the world. Thanagarian boots and a blaster were far better than anything he had on him when he was captured and he had to say they looked better too.

Despite all the work he'd been getting, Greg hadn't really run much since he was captured and his body didn't appreciate the sudden change in activity. His injuries and sore muscles ached but he was pretty sure he didn't reopen anything. Still, it was distracting and he had to be careful not to make anything worse. If he was going to escape, he needed to be in the best condition he could if he dared hope that he'd survive.

Sir Justin guided him toward the hangar where the ships were kept. Greg was halfway through guessing the code to open the lock when the alarm went off.

"Forget this." Greg grabbed his weapon and fired a couple shots at the panel on the door. He had no idea if that would do anything or if he was sealing his fate but to his luck, the doors slid open. Major design flaw in his book. It was like these birds were inviting him to escape.

But he was running on luck until this point. Now came the part that required actual skill.

"Do you know how to fly one of these machines?" Sir Justin asked as Greg sat into the pilot's seat, fingers wiggling as they hovered over the dozens of buttons and levers.

"Um, no." But he'd played a handful of video games and seen plenty of movies, even been in a couple. He could make a pretty good guess, right? Even with the hawks entering the hangar. And likely even more waiting outside. No pressure. He could totally do this.

The first button he hit caused the ship to fire its weapons. Both Greg and Sir Justin winced. They were lucky the ship was isolated against sound or they'd likely be deafened by the sound of the hangar door ripping off its hinges. Useful control to know, not the one he needed at the moment.

The next button he hit came with a soft, satisfying hum. That had to mean the engines were powering up, right? Or whatever equivalent this thing had. Greg put a hand on the lever, shifting it forward, and the ship began to slide across the floor of the hangar. And soon, it was in the air.

Greg whooped as the ship jetted past the Thanagarians hovering just outside the door of the main ship. All the buttons and levers of the control panel were still staring at him, taunting and confusing him, but he felt like he had the gist of it now that he was in the air. Now all he had to do was steer. It wasn't too different from driving and he'd played those plane games at the arcade enough to have a vague idea of how to drive in three dimensions.

"Head West. In the fields, there is- What are you doing?" Sir Justin cut himself off as Greg looped around, steering the stolen ship back towards the Thanagarian base. "You are going to get yourself recaptured!"

"Not without giving them some hell first," Greg replied and jammed his finger down on the keys he knew controlled the weapons. Lasers battered the main ship a bit, bouncing off with little damage left behind, but that wasn't his target. Angling the ship towards the gate, he dipped the ship as low as he dared, and let loose a flurry of blasts on the structure he'd spent the past week working on. "Alright! Take that, you damn birds! That'll teach you not to keep 'ol Greg Saunders prisoner!"

"Aim for that bit right there." Sir Justin leaned over him, pointing at the one part of the gate that Greg never worked on. "That is a vulnerable point and it faces the fields. If you break it, your fellow prisoners may have the opportunity to sneak out in the chaos."

"Good idea," Greg praised and did as instructed. It was hard, aiming for something rather than just letting the ships' guns fire at whatever they wanted, but after a few tries, a good fifth of the ring was missing and he could see the tiny little ants below rushing towards the opening. "Now what were you saying about heading West?"

"I believe there is someone there who will be able to help you."

"How far?"

"Not far. Assuming she was not spooked by your fire."

"Good." Greg eyed the airspace behind him, watching the other ships from the hangar launch from the base and join the hawks flying after him. "Because I think I need all the help I can get."

Just as he said that, the ship lurched. They'd been hit. Greg grunted and he struggled to get control of the ship again but gravity had taken hold and they were going down. Adrenaline pumped through his system as his body willed him to do something but there wasn't much he could do other than hope it was a decent crash landing.

"Tilt the ship to the left," Sir Justin instructed. Greg didn't know what he was thinking but he'd been full of good ideas so far so why not? Gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, Greg veered the ship off its course and drove it toward whatever Sir Justin saw ahead.

The landing was far from pleasant. The ship lurched far worse than it had when it'd been hit and Greg's head slammed against the back of his seat, making his ears ring and his eyes see stars. Not quite as bad as some of the treatment he'd gotten from the Thanagarians but still not good for his general health.

"What next, Sir Justin?" Greg asked as he unbuckled himself and got to his feet. He heard no response. "Sir Justin?"

He looked around but saw no golden armor or messy blond hair. Greg frowned. Where did he go? And at such a critical moment. He hit a panel, opening up the door, and prepared to call out for his friend one more time when he saw her.

He'd landed in a field of horses. Not unusual, considering where he was on the map, but it was still a sight to see. Beautiful beasts, untamed and wild in their natural habitat. He had to freeze for a moment but it wasn't the horses that did it for him. Most of the creatures had been spooked when the ship hit the ground. All except one. And she was a stunning thing.

Tall and broad, pure muscle to match a pure white coat, she was radiant in a way other horses weren't. Greg could see the fierceness in her eyes as her gaze fell on him yet she had a deep calmness to her. She was no ordinary horse, as if the wings on her back weren't enough to tell him that.

A pegasus. A real pegasus. It was jaw dropping. Sure, he'd spent the past week talking to a ghost in an internment camp built by aliens but this was something else entirely. This was… this was… He didn't have words.

Winged Victory. Those were the words that came to mind, creeping up like some force put them there. That was her name, he realized. Winged Victory. Powerful name for what he hoped was a powerful ally.

"Any chance you know someone named Sir Justin?" Greg asked. The horse's ears pricked at the sound of his friend's name. "You do?"

The horse whinnied and tossed her head. She turned slightly, showing him her flank, and gave him an expectant look. Greg grinned and hopped up on her back, grateful there was already a saddle in place. And then, with a powerful beat of her wings, Winged Victory was in the sky.

The hawks seemed surprised. Odd, considering they themselves were winged, but they had a stronger reaction than Greg. That was probably telling but he didn't dwell on it. Winged Victory was a cunning thing and she knew exactly how to take advantage of their surprise.

She was a savage fighter, more savage than Greg thought a horse could be. She dived at the hawks, battering them with her wings and hooves, and bit whoever dared get close enough. Greg helped when he could, firing his stolen weapon at the oncoming hawks, but he was just a visitor in their element. He couldn't contribute much in a battle of the sky.

If he thought driving without the limitations of gravity was hard, fighting was infinitely more complex but Winged Victory was a master of it. She dodged the projectiles that came her way and dominated the closer-combat battles she put herself in. Greg almost couldn't believe these were the same guys he'd struggled to fight for so long. She was mowing through them like it was nothing.

But she was just one horse and they were an army. She couldn't take all of them on. She knew when to quit. As another group flew toward them, ready to back up their fallen armsmen, Winged Victory turned tail and headed toward the horizon.

"Good girl," Greg praised, running his fingers through her mane and letting himself slump forward. Below, he could see humans escaping into the tall grass. Above, he saw something else. He wasn't sure what but he could swear it was Superman. Perhaps Wonder Woman or the Green Lantern. Whatever it was, the Thanagarians were in their hands. He was done here.


He tried to return to his job. He really did. But how could he after everything that happened?

"I'm telling you, Mitch," Greg raved over the phone, "they're slave drivers. And I've worked under actual slave drivers!"

A month had passed since Greg's escape. As he predicted, the Justice League had shown up shortly after his departure. He was left in the grasslands, then on the streets for a bit, so he missed the news on whatever happened to the Thanagarians but he knew they were gone. Good riddance. If he ever saw another, it'd be too soon.

The victory was hollow though. He didn't have anywhere to go and he now had a horse but not her owner. Sir Justin hadn't come back and Greg felt suddenly naked without his presence and guidance. Sure, he had Winged Victory for company but she was no Sir Justin. He missed the ghost who'd been a friend when he needed it most.

At the moment, Greg and Winged Victory were sitting on the street next to a pay phone, a blanket tossed over Winged Victory to hide her wings from nosy passerbys. Greg had wanted to keep looking for Sir Justin but somehow his old employers had gotten ahold of him and demanded he return to the set. He couldn't just walk out on a contract, even if he wanted to more than anything.

"They shouldn't be allowed to push you like this. Especially after what you've been through." Greg could hear the frown on Mitch's face through the phone. "I mean, we were all affected by the Thanagarians but you were right in the heat of it. People get time off for less extreme trauma. You should be in the hospital, for Christ's sake! Not on your feet working."

His feet were still displeased with him, even after all this time, and Greg would've liked some time for them to heal but a hospital? No way was he getting cooped up now, not when he had Winged Victory to take care of and Sir Justin to find. But Mitch had a point. "I signed a contract for this movie. If I leave now, I'll get blacklisted and my career's done for. I can suck it up for a bit longer, Mitch."

"Well, you don't have to," Mitch responded. Greg leaned back against Winged Victory, slightly confused by Mitch's victorious tone. "You don't got a lawyer of a brother for no reason!"


Yeah, he told his family that he'd been captured by the Thanagarians. How could he not? The planet had been invaded by aliens. The whole world saw it. It was no secret. And he'd been near one of their bases. His family was right to worry and his silence didn't help. He couldn't lie to them about this, he couldn't lie to anyone about what the Thanagarians did to him. He still had the scratches leftover from that first blow to the face and the lingering unsteadiness on his feet didn't help. It was clear as day to anyone who looked at him.

But Greg hadn't told anyone about Sir Justin. Was there any way to bring that up? Aliens were one thing but ghosts? Everyone would think he went mad in the labor camp. If not for Winged Victory's presence, Greg probably would've thought the same. Still, he kind of wished he'd said something because this was becoming a very difficult situation.

"You have a horse in your trailer," Mitch stated slowly, wide-eyed, when he arrived.

"Yup." Greg tried not to cringe.

"And it has wings."

"Uh-huh."

Mitch pinched his brow and muttered something about feeling a headache coming on. Greg could sympathize. Everything had happened so quickly that he'd just sort of accepted this as his life now but there were still those brief moments where he realized just how much he was dealing with.

"So…" Greg coughed awkwardly. "You think you can get me out of this contract?"


Mitch was about as good of a lawyer as Greg. And considering how many big gigs Greg had scored over the years, that was, to say, a pretty damn good lawyer. He got Greg out of his contract within the week. Greg didn't understand any of that legal mumbo jumbo but walking away from it, he had to say he was surprised he didn't speak up sooner. Mitch was right, he had gone through something big. Life changing. And it was his former employers fault he'd ended up there. No way should he have let them walk all over him like that when he really deserved some time to recover.

"You should see a doctor," Mitch commented as he and Greg walked out of the courtroom, walking on the high of victory. "And a therapist."

"Pass." It wasn't that Greg thought he wouldn't benefit from either. Really, he knew it'd probably do him some good. He just didn't think- It seemed like an ill-fitted end to his story. Get some stitches on his already healing injuries, talk to a shrink about the things he'd nearly come to terms with himself, and then what? Return to acting? Pick up his guitar and write another album? Once, the idea might've seemed exciting but now…

"You're going to get scars," Mitch told him, gesturing loosely to his face.

"Not like a doctor can do much about it at this point," Greg responded. He pulled a red cloth from his pocket. "I'll just wear a bandana."

"You're an actor. You can't wear a bandana in every film you're in."

"I want to get hired because I'm a good fit for the job, not because I'm a pretty face. And if it really matters, any half-decent job will have some half-decent make-up artists." Greg paused, knowing he was avoiding the real answers. He let out a long sigh and came to a stop, facing his brother once they reached the bottom of the stairs leading away from the venue. "I think I need some time off. I mean, I've got enough cash from the case to last me awhile- thanks for helping me, by the way- so I think I can afford it."

"I understand. I'd really feel better if you spent that time off getting medical attention and talking to a professional but I guess I can't make you."

"... I'll go to the emergency room if it'll make you happy."

"It would. Let's go."

"Right now?"

"Do you have something better to do?"

"My horse…?"

"Your horse can survive a couple of hours without you. We're going."


All things considered, Greg would say he walked away from the Thanagarians in pretty good condition. Of course, his brother and the guy at the emergency room didn't really feel the same way.

He sort of tuned out the doctor's verdict when it came. It was his body. He knew what was wrong with it. His side bled when he stretched, his feet got angry with him if he wore shoes for too long, the bruises on his shoulders needed ice when they hurt, his face was fine but it'd never look the same… He didn't need a doctor to tell him that. He didn't really see what the big deal was. He wondered if he was still in shock. Or maybe denial. They were similar, right?

What he did hear was that he needed to eat more and drink more water. Logically, he knew that his body needed the extra food and hydration to heal and recover from the prison meals he'd eaten but it just never occurred to him. He felt bad all the time and he'd gotten used to it. When he voiced the thought to Mitch, his brother had freaked out and made him chug an entire water bottle right in front of him. Greg kind of regretted saying anything but it was nice to know someone cared.

"You really shouldn't be riding a horse," Mitch commented as Greg swung his leg over Winged Victory's back.

"She's more than just a horse," Greg responded, patting, Winged Victory's neck. She made a pleased noise and shot Mitch a judgemental look. She didn't like the guy. Greg was grateful Sir Justin taught her to be civil before dumping her on his lap. He imagined she would've been a lot worse if he hadn't. "She'll take good care of me."

"I'd feel a lot better if she was taking care of you at my ranch."

"Nuh-uh. You already used the I'd-feel-better trick. I already let you take me to the emergency room."

"And I should've done a lot more. Come on, Greg. Do you really have something better to do?"

"Actually, I think I do."


"Guys, guys, look!"

"It's the Vigilante!"

"He's back!"

Greg wasn't expecting such an enthusiastic welcome when he returned to the town but he really should know better than to have any kind of expectations at this point.

This was the same spot he'd fought the Thanagarians for the first time. God, that felt like a lifetime ago. Especially since the terrain changed so much. The hawks, as they promised, had leveled the town. The townspeople built the hyperspace gate over it and then the League had destroyed that too. Now there were only the remains of two once great things fallen.

"Howdy," he greeted, tipping his hat, slightly off put, as Winged Victory strolled into the town. He adjusted the bandana around his face, eyes skimming the oncomers. His garb protected him somewhat, though everyone here had already seen his face so there wasn't much sense in hiding it, but he couldn't exactly hide Winged Victory's wings. She had them tucked in but they were still fairly obvious to anyone who looked her way. He hoped these people didn't have any resentment towards winged, uh, things. "What are y'all doing back here? The hawks didn't leave much left to salvage."

A few kids ran up to him, gaping in awe at Winged Victory. Greg wondered where they came from. He couldn't recall seeing any kids working on the gate. The hawks were cruel and ruthless but they didn't do anything to kids, at least.

"We came to rebuild," one of the townsfolk, an older gentleman, told him.

"But there's nothing left."

"Does it matter?" he asked. "This is our home."

Greg thought it did matter but he didn't comment. He could understand loyalty to one's roots, even if he didn't think that lifestyle was for himself. He admired these people's devotion to their home. He didn't think he'd be able to do it. To him, a place was a place. If there was nothing worth sticking around for, he wouldn't stay long. But these people, these people were another kind of people entirely and he found he could respect that.

He felt a tug at his pant leg. He looked down to see a little girl staring up at him. She smiled. "Thanks for saving everyone, Mr. Vigilante! What's your horsey's name?"

"Winged Victory," Greg responded reflexively, mind still hung up on the vigilante thing. He was pretty sure someone here knew his name. Why were these people calling him that? He was no vigilante. Just a guy who had the power to help and decided to do something in a situation that called for it.

The little girl seemed oblivious to his internal confusion. "Can I sit on her back?"

Greg gave Winged Victory a questioning look then glanced out at the onlookers, searching for a parent's approval. A woman, presumably the girl's mother, gave him a nod. Greg grinned under his bandana and turned back to the little girl. "Sure thing, little lady! Need a boost?"

The kid giggled and nodded. Greg slid off Winged Victory's back and hoisted her up. A few other kids joined her, begging to get the chance to sit on the pegasus's back. Greg entertained them gladly, and he was pretty sure Winged Victory enjoyed it too. Who knew such a ferocious horse had a soft spot for kids?

The man Greg had been speaking to approached. Greg assumed he was some kind of authority here, judging by his confident gait and the way he seemed to take charge so easily. Maybe the town's mayor, or maybe just a respected member of the community. It didn't really matter. Trusting Winged Victory to be careful with the children, he turned to the man to see what he wanted.

"I wanted to thank you personally, Vigilante," the man told him, taking Greg's hand to shake. "What you did to help us, we can never repay you."

"You don't have to, friend. I was just trying to survive and make sure the rest of y'all survived," Greg answered, returning the shake. "Though I do have one question. Why does everyone keep calling me Vigilante? I'm not a vigilante."

"You're not. You're a hero," the man told him, lips spreading into a smile. Greg felt like he'd been struck over the head with a new perspective. A hero? That didn't sound right. "When the hawks attacked, you did everything you could to help our town, even staying behind and risking yourself to make sure everyone got out."

"But the hawks still got you."

"That couldn't be helped. You gave us the chance to hide the children and the elderly. They wouldn't have survived if not for you." Huh. So the hawks weren't as merciful as he thought. Another labor camp, were there children there? And the old? It was a terrible thought. "And after we were captured, you kept the hawks' eyes off the rest of us and picked up any slack we were leaving. And then when you escaped, you came back and distracted the hawks long enough for us to get to safety."

Hearing his deeds all laid out like that, it did sound pretty heroic. But Greg didn't feel any kind of pride or warmth from the words. "You still haven't explained the Vigilante thing."

"People need heroes to look up to," the man told him, "and heroes have recognizable names. The people called you the Vigilante and that's what stuck."

"Huh."

"If you don't like it-"

"Nah. It's fine." Vigilante. A vigilante was an enforcer but he was also a protector. Someone who stepped up for the better of the community. That did kind of sound like him. And it had a nice ring to it. "I kind of like it."

The man looked pleased. "I'm glad. Now, may I ask why you came back? I didn't think you'd want to see this place again."

Greg shot a sidelong glance at Winged Victory. "I came back looking for a friend but I don't think I'm going to find him here."

"Maybe we could-"

"No, no. You don't need to help me. Focus on rebuilding your town," Greg responded, facing the man once again. "This is something the Vigilante has to do on his own."


It was dawn when he saddled up again. Winged Victory, he learned, wasn't particularly fond of mornings but she moved without complaint.

He didn't really know where he was going. He didn't think Winged Victory did either. What they did know, however, was that they wanted to find Sir Justin. Greg was still a bit unnerved from his sudden disappearance. He'd hoped that he'd see him again in the desert or that coming back would give him some idea as to where the ghost went but there was nothing. No sign of the ghost, no sign that anyone there had seen him either.

He assumed Winged Victory wasn't able to see Sir Justin either, if the fact Sir Justin led him to her and her lack of reluctance to obey the man who uttered her master's name told him anything. Maybe she had some kind of magic that would guide him to Sir Justin one day but for now, they were lost as could be.

It wasn't as if they were clueless though. Greg had Sir Justin's name and whatever possessions remained in Winged Victory's saddlebag. Whether they were Sir Justin's or not, he didn't know but at least they were something. Maybe he'd find a linguist who'd be able to decipher the texts or maybe he'd meet a historian who'd recognize one of the various trinkets bouncing around in there. Anything. He needed to know what happened to the man who'd saved his life.

"Let's go, Winged Victory," Vigilante said, kicking her side softly with his new, well-fit boots. "Giddyap."

Winged Victory tossed her head and broke into a trot, quickly speeding up into a gallop, and the pair headed into the rising sun.