Young Justice: The Gold Corps: Shattered, Chapter 25: Waking Realities

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I don't own either Young Justice or the Green Lantern Corp.

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Shattered, Chapter 25: Waking Realities.

Ragnar was on that very delicate edge of sleep where he didn't know he was asleep, but did know he wasn't awake. It was a marvelous feeling…no worries or problems. And, best of all, no Rose. Thinking about her not being there made him smile all the more. He hugged his pillow to him, wishing it could be Megan.

But just as with the old Earth story about the Rajah whose flying carpet would only work when he did not think of a white elephant, now that he thought how wonderful it was for Rose to not be around, that very thought, that very worry, began to wake him up. Sooner or later, there she'd be, in his face, as the Earth saying went, annoying him with some damned nonsense that he probably didn't want or need to hear about anyway. Sometimes he just wanted to close his eyes and stop up his ears. He sighed and opened his eyes a crack.

With his unique biology, much of which seemed to stem from cells taken from the ravager of worlds, Doomsday, he'd found he didn't really need to sleep. But he found it improved his concentration and, yes, his temper, which he was trying to keep in check. It seemed that when he lost his temper, he began to take on Doomsday-ish characteristics. And he was deathly afraid of going down that slippery slope. There could easily be no way back.

He gradually became more and more aware of his surroundings. Just as well; he could tell he was up before the Cookie Monster clock-radio Megan Morse, his beloved Miss Martian had given him, went off. Megan had given him that clock as a gift, and he tried to take very good care of it. He treasured it so much that he had encased it in a protective plastic bag, and developed the habit of waking up early so as to avoid strain on it by having to press the "off" button too hard. Just a simple, light pressure. This was one gift he'd be certain to take very good care of!

Especially since it was beginning to look like he and Megan were never going to get back together. When she'd been inexplicably discharged from the colony of Martian Mystics on Mons Olympus, he, like many others, had assumed she was either cured, or at least had been given some degree of control over the implanted meme that the evil alien scientist Bertron had crafted and placed within her: now, whenever she saw Ragnar, the one she loved, she felt unrelenting horror. But that had not been the case, and nobody had been able to explain to him why.

They had all tried everything the most advanced technology Earth had to offer, even going so far as to entreat the Guardians of the Universe, on Oa, for assistance, without any success whatsoever. J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, had appealed to the Mystics of Mars for their aid, thinking that where science failed, perhaps magic would not. But for some reason, the Mystics had discharged her, and nobody was saying why, or at least, nobody who was talking to Ragnar.

And the Martians apparently had had no better luck than anyone else. Nor would they discuss—with anyone—the reasons why Megan was discharged. Was it just because there was nothing more they could do? But somehow Rose had gotten the idea that there was more to it than that. "There's something they're not telling us, Ray. I don't know what, but it would have to be big." And she'd begun to think about it, utilizing a mind second only to Nightwing's for deductive reasoning. "I'll find out what it is."

At the present, Megan was under the care of Bertran, another universe's counterpart to Bertron, and the creator of the heroic Doomsday from that dimension. Bertran had suggested a highly unusual means of treatment that, she said, might offer some hope, being neither science nor magic.

There is a universal, or even transuniversal, collective subconscious. Objects—people—in this vast, indeed, infinite realm are not subject to the same laws as normal, physical space. The "Universe of the Mind," she'd called it. Dreamspace. Many otherwise purely psychological problems could be dealt with there, as if they were of a more physical nature. Thus, something might be targeted, destroyed, in that universe, and the psychological effect of it nullified here. Or, to use another approach, the person thus afflicted might hunt down the psychological avatar of something one was afraid of, kill or defeat it in battle, or in some way come to terms with it, and awake to find oneself no longer afraid.

Following that same logic (and Bertran cautioned him that this was hardly an apt, one-to-one analogy, as dreamspace was still largely an unknown), then if Miss Martian could deal with him there, or at least overcome the horror she felt when she saw him, while in that universe, she'd no longer feel the horror she now felt at his appearance in this one. She'd be free of the horror meme completely. Free and clear, forever.

Rose had exploded. "You numbskull! Do you really not see? What if she has to kill you?!"

"If so, then so. But I'm remarkably hard to kill, Rose. If anybody could survive such, it's me. Doomsday genes, remember? I won't stay dead. And she doesn't have to kill me, just defeat me. Which should be easy enough since I won't fight back."

Rose had just rolled her eyes, face-palmed, "eye yi yi"d, and stalked away, muttering something about "peabrains" and "vacuum heads," and "kids," and "hormone levels," which Ragnar was fairly sure meant him. Usually anything uncomplimentary did.

Well, he'd best be getting up. Lying here, motionless, wasn't getting anything done….

Wait. Now, as he was becoming more and more alert, he sensed, heard, and felt the slight signals that told him he was not alone.

He was facing away from the nightstand, towards the "window" (actually a live feed from outside, like all the "windows" here in the complex). Every so cautiously, he felt back behind him…

There was a head of snow-white hair on the pillow next to his, with a bare shoulder and arm below it. He groaned inwardly. Not again! This was what? The fourth time in two weeks now?

Gingerly, he turned over. A still-sleeping Rose Wilson lay on the other side of the bed, turned away from him, her bare shoulders protruding from underneath the sheet. He could tell she was nude beneath the sheets, her white bathrobe thrown over the foot of the bed. She was clutching something, a small holographic projector. She was in deep sleep, snoring, ever so slightly. That had been what had alerted him to her presence.

"Rose?" He whispered. She'd done it again, of course. It seemed like whenever she felt like it, she simply broke into his quarters and began annoying him in some way, perhaps with some project they were working on, or, most frequently, just to check up on him physically, to see if he was changing, physiologically. Most of the team had been alerted that, since Ragnar shared a common genetic heritage with Doomsday, that there was the possibility that he might transform into a being much like the monster than had killed Superman. And while that certainly was a legitimate concern, they didn't seem to obsess over it. Rose now… On one rare occasion, she'd grudgingly admitted that she was "bored." Privately, he thought she was lonely, but knew she'd rather die under torture than admit that. But he couldn't figure out why she'd picked him for her amusement, her one-person reality TV show.

Why him?!

And now this. On more than one occasion, he'd waked to find her alongside of him, in his bed, fast asleep. Evidently, she'd just let herself in, the way she usually did, and, finding him already in bed and asleep, joined him in that condition rather than wake him up. He guessed he should be grateful she didn't just wake him up anyway. It showed some consideration….he supposed.

"Rose? Rose!" She stirred slightly, moaning in her sleep.

At that moment, the clock radio Megan had given him went off, the morning news report from the local radio station filling the air. Without waking up, Rose raised a fist and hammered down on the clock, smashing it into a thousand and one pieces with a single blow.

"Aaaah!" Ragnar's hands went to his mouth. Megan had given him that clock! "Rose!" Still she slept on.

He bent over to her, taking her by the shoulder, careful not to dislodge the sheet. Rose Wilson normally slept au naturel, and he had less than zero desire to see her naked.

Suddenly, she woke up, slamming an elbow into his forehead, causing his eyes to momentarily cross. Another blow hit a pressure point on his temple; any lesser being would've been stunned outright. "Hey! Stop that!" he shouted. Strong as he was, the blows hardly registered on him, but they would have seriously injured any human-level opponent.

"Stop it? Whaddaya mean, waking me up like that! Don't you have any manners? Oh, wait…forgot who I was talking to. Yeah. So what're you…" she paused, propping herself up on her elbows and yawning. The covers came perilously close to sliding down and revealing her breasts. He looked away, hurriedly. "…is it morning already?"

"Yes! And I'm in mourning because you just destroyed that clock radio Megan gave me! Look at it! Rose!" He looked in horror at the shattered remains of his clock radio, a gift from the girl he loved.

"Eh, quit 'cher whinin'. I'll replace it. Look. Reason I'm here," she threw back the sheets, and stood up, naked, completely unselfconsciously, and grabbed her robe, while he looked away again. "Come with me. I've got something to show you."

"You've already showed me far more than I wanted to see."

"Shuddup. This is important."

She led him into the apartment's kitchenette. Proceeded to sit at the table, all the while fiddling with the projector she'd brought. "What's for breakfast?" At his blank look: "Oh, don't tell me you don't eat breakfast! Everybody eats breakfast! Are you that far out of synch? Oh, for the love of God. Here, lemme at it." She began bustling about the small kitchenette, collecting what she'd need. While she cooked, she continued talking. "Bertran called me last night. She got this idea for something that might help us the next trip into the collective subconscious. It's there on that projector. Give me a minute here to get things started and I'll show you how to turn it on."

"I already know."

"Oh, that's right… nothing wrong with your brain…well, there's lots wrong with your brain, but that isn't one of them. Well, anyway, the diagram on there is for what you could call a dreamscape guided missile. She calls it a harpoon. All we have to do…" Here she brought the scrambled eggs and sausage over; the biscuits were going to take a few minutes.

Ragnar looked over the plans, intrigued in spite of himself. Just as things were not exactly physical in the "dream" universe, so, too, was the missile. Its energy waveform resembled a missile, of course, and it would no doubt appear as that in the collective subconscious. Its appearance in the mundane world…was anybody's guess.

She came over and sat across the table from him, bringing the biscuits with her, her long, white hair draped over her shoulders. He had to admit it: Rose Wilson was a good cook. They left the holographic schematics on, hanging in midair between them. "Way I see it," said Rose, "Biggest problem will be delivery. This thing's good sized. I mean, we can't just lug something like that around everywhere we go, no matter how strong you are or any sort of weightless conditions. It's just too cumbersome."

"Perhaps I could shrink it, somehow?"

"Ask Bertran. I don't see why not. As long as you maintain the same molecular configuration…I guess it could be any size. But check first. And," she said, around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, "I don't know what the payload is. The warhead, I mean. It might be something you can't shrink. But she seems to think it'll work. At least do some serious damage, if we can just get the damned thing in our sights."

"When's our next insertion going to be?"

"Today at ten. Be ready. And here. Wash these dishes up. Don't be such a slob." She got up, leaving the projector for him to study.

Out in the corridor, Wonder Girl was just finishing up her morning workout and was headed down the hall for the showers when the heard a door slide open in the corridor she'd just turned away from. Curious, she glanced back….it looked like the hem of someone's white bathrobe just disappearing around the far corridor intersection. Whose bathrobe? And the only person down that hallway who hadn't already joined the rest was Ragnar Rok, the Gold Lantern.

When people live together in an enclosed environment, they develop an almost sixth sense about things. Right now, Cassie's sixth sense was telling her that a woman had just come out of Ragnar's room. But that was crazy. The entire team knew how he loved Miss Martian, and was waiting for her to return. Anybody else, well, she could see somebody like Red Arrow or Nightwing sneaking a girl in (except for the fact that the team's base was supposed to be located in a super-secret complex underneath a mountain)…but not faithful Ragnar.

Maybe she was just imagining things. Still, she found herself at Ragnar's door, signaling for entrance. "Yes?"

"Oh, uh, hi, Ray. Every, everything okay in here?" She stood up on tiptoe to glance over his shoulders, looking about his quarters, as he put away the dishes from breakfast. There seemed to be a lot of them for just one person.

He shrugged. "Sure. Just about to go get cleaned up. I don't have all that long until I have to meet Rose at the transit point." They'd installed a transition unit there in the base of Mt. Justice, so that it wasn't necessary for him to actually go to Bertran's base in Antarctica. That was especially good for him, because this way, he was less reminded of the proximity to the one he loved but could not see.

Cassie could see that this was wearing on him. "Ray, I know…well, I take it back. I don't personally know what you're going through, but, but…it won't last. There's a way around this thing, and we'll find it. Bertran appears to be every bit the genius Bertron was, maybe more so, and I'm confident she'll crack this thing sooner or later."

"Thank you, Cassandra. It's the 'later' part that has me worried." Bertran had expressed concern that, the longer the meme remained within Megan Morse, the deeper its roots, and the harder it would be to dislodge.

He continued to put away the dishes. "Boy," she said, still standing there in her gym suit, towel over her neck. She knew she needed a shower, wash this sweat off. "You've got one healthy appetite."

He continued to load the dishwasher. "Rose ate some."

Cassie's ears literally pricked up. "Rose? She…she was here?"

"Yes. She came by to bring this." He showed her the holograph projector. "Bertran's latest device. The Harpoon. If we can get the meme in sight, we target it with this," he showed her, "and kaboom. At least we hope kaboom."

"Oh! She was…just now here…to bring that?"

"Well, yes. Why? Evidently Bertran called her last night, and she didn't want to wake me up. Though gods alone know why; she doesn't seem to mind bothering me about anything else."

Cassie laughed. So that was all. Rose had just dropped by to deliver the projector, and chowed down while here. So. No big. She was the "girl" Cassie had sensed leaving Ragnar's room a few minutes ago. That was okay, then. The entire team knew how those two fussed and fought over practically everything. So. There…couldn't be anything there. No, couldn't possibly be. Of course not. "Well, I'm for the showers. See you at morning report?"

"Yes." As usual, he didn't smile. Cassie's own smile fluttered on her lips. Poor guy. He'd never smiled much in the first place, and goddesses knew he didn't have much reason to smile these days. How would she feel if it were her?

Torn apart, more than likely.

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"Ow." Hal Jordan muttered as he held a piece of meat up to his black eye.

"What happened to you?" John Stewart joined him, a cinnamon roll and coffee on his tray. The two were alone in the commissary, which was just how Jordan wanted it. "Goldface?"

"Arisia."

A bite of roll. "Arisia did that?" Stewart was impressed. Arisia wasn't that large or formidable looking. He reminded himself to never underestimate her. Apparently, she packed quite a punch for such a small person. "Why?"

"I, er, sorta laughed at her."

"You laughed at Arisia? Hal, I'm surprised there's anything left of you."

"I won't show you the other place she hit me."

"Oh. Well, anyway. What'd you go an' engage in life-threatening behavior like that for?"

"I can't tell you. But, uh, not to go into any detail, let's just say, she was inquiring about how Earthmen view…relationships. Certain aspects of relationships, to be more precise. I'm afraid that, when I learned what she was really asking about, I, er, kinda…" And he gestured towards the eye, now covered with the meat.

"I see." More cinnamon roll disappeared down Stewart's throat, as did another sip of coffee. "Aaaaand, does this, like, have anything to do with her, uh, current hobby?" John Stewart was aware of Arisia's determination to see the couple to the altar, and beyond, for all anyone knew. He wondered if she'd bought them a bassinet yet.

"No comment. Now, you realize I can't say anything beyond that, or I'd really be in hot water. Plus, word could easily get around, and…that just wouldn't be good. For anybody."

John Stewart considered. He had a pretty analytical mind, himself. "Well, Arisia hasn't been on Earth, so it's nothing to do with our Gold Lantern. She's mostly concentrated on Mars, on seeing to Megan. That was a cloistered environment; my sister's cousin was in one not long ago, a drug rehab. They have a bunch of rules, but one of the ones they adhere to the strongest is Holy shit!" A look of shock spread across his face, even as Jordan sputtered and sprayed his coffee out into a fine mist. "That's it! Of course! But that can't be it! But it was, wasn't it? That was it, wasn't it? Megan? Not Megan! Not our Megan! You can't be ser-*"

Desperately, Jordan slammed his palm against Stewart's face. "For God's sake, shuddup!" He hastily looked around; they were still alone. "We can't let that get around! You can't even guess what it'd do to Megan! And, and…" He became aware that the hand he'd slapped over Stewart's mouth was the same one he was holding the meat with. "Oh, sorry."

"'S'awright. Just for future reference, however, I usually like my steak a little more done than that. But, but you're right, we can't let this get out. So…well, I mean, this is…not particularly good, but, but, you know, it's hardly an asteroid strike. I'm sure they'll work it out, right?"

"Yeah? Think about it. Ragnar. Doomsday genes. The madder he gets…"

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

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"….don't understand why I can't see her, Rose! All I'm getting is what you here on Earth call the 'runaround.' Everybody's saying a whole lot of nothing." He paced back and forth. "I'm not asking for her to see me. I know, if she's no better than before, that would only hurt her. But why can't I just see a televised picture? For Pete's sake!" He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Who's 'Pete,' anyway?"

"Hm. I haven't had a lot of luck myself, I have to admit. And that's suspicious in itself. When we get back, we'll compare notes. Something's gonna stick out."

Morning report was over with, and the two were standing in the middle of the transit pad. An overhead light shone down on them.

The circular room was enclosed all around by various force fields, even though the effect was contained within a small area. Nightwing and Aqualad were in the control booth. "You two ready, out there?"

"Hang on." Rose unfolded the clear plastic helmet that connected with the life support system attached to her suit. After all, although they'd so far not encountered any area of dreamspace that didn't have an atmosphere, there was always a first time. Plus, this was evidently a universal collective subconscious. It could easily be some areas wouldn't be survivable by unprotected humans. "Alright." She gave them a "thumbs up," as did Ragnar.

A flip of a switch, and both they and the two in the booth were aware of an ascending whine as a curious cyclone of light descended upon the target area. It surrounded the pair on the launch pad, obscuring them from view. When it lifted, they were nowhere to be seen.

To be continued….