Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and ideas that are owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

Rating: PG

Balance of Power

by Rummi


Chapter 3

The flickering, dull light of the florescent bulbs on the ceiling cast an ominous glow on the room. The portions of Hank's mind that were still conditioned for the Realm bubbled with a threatened, edgy feeling. He felt as though he was walking into a dimly-lit cavern or a cell burning with eerie torchlight. But as he entered the room completely, that feeling changed.

The room consisted of nondescript, slate-gray concrete from floor to ceiling. The florescent bulbs cast a shadowless light upon the walls, seeming to drain any tint from the already sterile looking surroundings. The large room was divided in half by a row of iron bars, which stretched across the room's length. The area beyond was sectioned off into three large, separate cells, each lined with metal benches. In all probability, these cells merely served as communal holding tanks, and had the ability to accommodate several prisoners before they were either released or moved to the larger, more secure, county prison several miles away.

After being in the Realm for so long, Hank had expected a lot of things upon entering the jail: He had expected it to be dank and dungeon-like. He had expected to be assaulted by the protesting groans of mistreated prisoners. At the very least, he had expected a drop in temperature. But he was surprised to find that everything about the lockup – from the color to the atmosphere – was disturbingly . . . ordinary.

Everything, that is, except for the man standing alone in the first cell.

Hank started momentarily – probably because he had expected something more dramatic to happen before his eyes actually found what they had been looking for. Something more dramatic than being immediately greeted by the sight of Venger standing in a nondescript room, wearing nondescript prison-gray beneath dull and monochrome lighting that seemed to drain everything of its color.

Venger's back was to him, but there was no mistaking who he was. Not as far as Hank was concerned. He may have been divested of his recognizable garments – the black and crimson robes as well as the horn, which had all been replaced by a drab, single-piece jumpsuit – but Hank now knew beyond a doubt that his mind had not been playing tricks on him as he had watched the news last night.

Venger was here. On Earth. And separated from Hank by a mere two-arms-reach and a set of iron bars.

Under normal circumstances, Hank may have felt that was secure enough. Now, because this was Venger, he wasn't so sure. He felt vulnerable and exposed in the large room.

And yet, though Venger's identity was unmistakable to Hank, at the same time he looked so different. The first thing Hank noticed was his height – that hadn't changed, although the absence of his horned helmet detracted from it somewhat. Hank absently mused that it must have been difficult for the authorities to find a prison jumpsuit that fit. He also noticed for the first time that Venger had a long ponytail of white hair hanging down his back. This surprised Hank, although he had not known what else he might have expected. The surface of Venger's already fish-pale skin looked sunken and lifeless beneath the dull florescent lights on the ceiling.

Hank's appraisal of his surroundings, as well as the strange scene in front of him, had only taken a matter of moments, even though it felt much longer. He was startled out of his thoughts as the door to the lockup swung closed behind him with an ominous, and strangely loud, clack, and Venger turned his head toward the sound.

Hank's first instinct was to raise his bow to defend himself. In its obvious absence he felt naked and exposed as the evil creature turned to face him. He found himself clenching the fist that had once held his bow as the fingers of the other hand itched to draw the string.

The instant Venger's eyes fell upon Hank, they seemed to flash an angry crimson. Hank squared his shoulders and remained still, defiant. If this was indeed a trap, he would know in a moment – and he'd be as ready as possible to face it. For a breathless instant, he was glad that Sheila had remained behind.

"You!" Venger's voice rumbled through the room. It seemed to crawl uncomfortably over Hank's skin. Venger took two slow strides toward the bars that separated them – a movement which, somehow, still seemed imposing, even without the garish swish of his old robes. He raised his hand against Hank.

Once again, the Ranger's fist sought the feel and protection of his bow. His fingers continued to tingle, as though charged by the phantom fire of the absent bowstring. But he knew that even if he had his weapon – which no longer worked – he would be defenseless. He had known long before he had walked through the door. Now, he could only watch, and take a reflexive step back away from Venger's raised hand.

A hand which, in the end, merely gripped one of the iron bars that separated them – curling around it like a claw.

Hank's shoulders jumped involuntarily. He had not realized he had been holding his breath.

Venger glared down at him with murderous contempt. "You," he repeated. "What have you done to me?" His voice was quiet, slow, but fierce in the intensity of its hatred.

The question fell upon Hank's brain like a fog. His thoughts were thick and addled as he tried to process the meaning behind it. After a confused pause, he could only manage, "What?"

"Do not mock me with your feigned ignorance, Ranger," Venger demanded through gritted teeth. "How have you done this?"

"I . . . I haven't done anything," Hank replied. He really didn't understand. But the confused anger in Venger's demeanor gave him the courage to regain the ground he had surrendered a moment before. He took a step forward, to where he had originally been standing.

Venger stretched his hand beyond the bars, his palm facing Hank, his fingers curled and threatening. "I would strike you down where you stand, boy," he said, "even if you had not come to me unarmed. In this world, even with your weapon, you are vulnerable and weak. How, then, have you managed to block my power?"

Hank's lips parted slightly and he gave a little gasp. His eyes widened.

"Answer me, Ranger," Venger persisted. He gripped the bar again. "Was it you? Your accursed friends? Your soldier-allies who abducted my steed and incarcerated me in this iron cage? Tell me how you have managed this."

Hank breathed. "You lost your powers."

Venger scowled. "You try my patience, boy."

Hank let out another little breath of disbelief. One corner of his mouth curled into a tiny, involuntary smile. "You lost your powers," he repeated. This time it was less like a question.

"Tell me what you know, Ranger," Venger demanded, "or I shall—"

"But you can't do anything," Hank interrupted, his smile widening slightly. "That's just it." He took another bold step closer to the bars. When Venger did nothing but watch him scathingly, Hank felt a swell of relief so strong he thought he might actually start laughing. It was the first time since they had arrived back – the fist time since Venger's appearance had crushed their momentary joy at being home – that Hank finally felt completely safe. It was the first time home actually felt like home.

"You're trapped in there," Hank continued with a little more confidence – more reminiscent of the Ranger, "because you couldn't do anything to prevent it. And if anyone would know how that happened, it should be you, Venger. You said yourself: our weapons don't work in this world. That's because there's no magic here. It makes sense that your powers would stop working too." He shrugged. "I guess it just took a little longer – maybe because they're actually part of you."

"When I am free of this prison and the spell upon me is broken," Venger growled, "you will suffer greatly for this insult, Ranger. As well as for your arrogance. I shall destroy your paltry world and enslave all those whom you hold dear."

"No, you won't," Hank said, a stab of anger rising hotly within him. "You're not going to hurt anyone. Not anymore. There's no spell on you, Venger. You're the one who did this. You chose to follow us here to Earth; you wanted our weapons badly enough to risk coming to a world without magic and now this—" He spread his arms to indicate the cell around them. "—is the result. How many times have you taken our weapons in your world? And now you're trapped without your powers in ours. Maybe it's poetic justice. Except you know what? Eric was completely right: you're actually going to have it easy, compared to what you put us through. No slavery, no volcano prisons – just quiet incarceration in an ordinary world. But I guess, for someone like you, Venger, that might even be worse."

Venger glared at Hank, his crimson eyes flashing with loathing, but Hank did not shrink away. He stared back with just as much defiance as he had ever shown as a Ranger in the Realm. Finally, after what felt like several minutes, Venger drew closer to the barrier between them, curling his other hand around one of the bars. "Fool," he hissed. "You will pay for this."

Hank shook his head, as one might at a pitiful creature or a thrashing, petulant child. He started to back away, heading for the door.

"You know," he said as he stopped, "it's amazing, but Eric was actually right about something else: I can be happy now. All this time we thought you'd gotten yourself caught because you were planning something. But now—" He grinned broadly. "—I can leave here and never worry about you again. And we can all just be glad to be home." He turned, losing complete sight of Venger, and reached for the door handle.

"Ranger!" a rumbling voice thundered from behind him. "You will not turn your back on me!" Hank could hear the cell door rattle as if it had been ineffectually jerked. "RANGER!"

Hank stepped unceremoniously through the exit without a backward glance. It slammed shut behind him with the heavy finality of a dungeon door, and Hank's mind blocked out all sound emanating from the other side. He stopped briefly in the silent hallway beyond the lockup and took a deep settling breath. Then he walked quickly toward the front desk, where he had left Sheila.

She looked up as he approached and Hank swore he could see an intense anxiousness on her face. He smiled at her from across the room and he could literally see the change in her. She smiled back, her face awash with relief. Her shoulders rose and fell dramatically as she seemed to release all the dread she must have been fighting up until this moment. She was no longer paying any more attention to the policeman who was, apparently, still speaking to her. He must have noticed because he turned and his eyes also found Hank.

"That didn't take long," he remarked casually.

Hank shook his head and walked back to the other side of the desk to stand beside Sheila. She discreetly gripped two of his fingers and he returned the pressure with a reassuring squeeze. "I didn't think it would," he replied. "I just needed a look. Thank you, officer, I appreciate it. My friends will too."

"Glad I could help ease the minds of the Mayfield High student body," the cop said as he slid the log book back over to Hank. "If you'll just sign out here, please . . ."

Hank did. Then he looked at Sheila. She was studying him with what looked to be a mixture of happiness and uncertainty on her face. Her eyes even shone a little with traces of unshed tears. Hank gave her hand – which was still in his – another little squeeze, and mouthed the words, It's over.

Hank didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful smile.

"Let's go," he said and he put his arm around her shoulders. They turned and walked together through the doors.

Behind them, Hank could hear the policeman speak, "Hey, you know. I wouldn't mind getting a copy of the article when your next edition comes out."

But neither Hank nor Sheila replied as the police station doors swung shut behind them.

"I . . . I don't believe it." Diana slouched back against the foot of the king-sized bed, shaking her head and grinning.

The group had assembled early that evening. After leaving the police station, Hank and Sheila had called everyone, saying that they needed to talk as soon as possible. It was ultimately decided that they would meet at Eric's house and – since they needed a place that was big enough for all six of them, where they would not be disturbed or overheard – his large bedroom provided the easiest and most immediate location. Currently, the majority of the group was seated in a circle on the thick area rug in the center of the room, while Eric lounged on the bed.

Hank recounted the events at the police station for everyone, some details of which even Sheila was hearing for the first time. When he finished, a quiet astonishment hung over the group for several long seconds until Diana spoke.

"I just don't believe it," she repeated. Her grin widened even more. "Are you really sure, Hank?"

"Yeah," Hank replied. "I was right in front of him. If Venger had been setting a trap for us, he had the perfect opportunity to act on it. I was completely unprotected, except for the bars, and if his powers had been working that wouldn't have been much of an obstacle."

"Gnarly," Bobby breathed, clearly impressed.

"What did I tell you guys?" Eric said with a distinct air of self-satisfaction as he leaned back against the headboard. "Didn't I tell you there was nothing to worry about?"

Diana rolled her eyes from where she sat at the foot of the bed.

"What I can't believe is that you went there alone," Presto said as he leaned forward against his crossed legs. "Maybe you should have told us. We could have all gone together."

"I hadn't actually intended to go there when I set out," Hank replied. "I was really going downtown to get my car. I just sort of . . . ended up there. And besides," he added with a glance at Sheila, "I wasn't alone."

She cast him a slight smile and turned back to the others. "It may have been a little suspicious if we all paraded in there anyway. The policeman behind the counter was a little reluctant to talk to us as it was. If we showed up in droves as though we were visiting a sideshow exhibit, he may not have let any of us in."

"Still," lamented Bobby, "I wish I could have seen the look on old Horn-Head's face. To think of him as the one behind bars for a change . . ."

"And completely without his powers too," Diana said. "That must be—"

"Scary," completed Sheila.

"I'm sorry, what?" Eric interjected, leaning forward and away from the headboard.

"I'm just saying," Sheila clarified, "we know how that feels: being trapped in another world, alone. And then to have the only way of protecting ourselves taken away – like when our weapons lost their powers and had to be recharged, or whenever they were stolen from us . . ."

"And may I remind you that it was Venger who did most of the stealing?" Eric retorted.

Sheila looked at him a little impatiently, then sighed. "I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it; all I'm saying is that we know how he must be feeling."

"Do we care about Venger's feelings?" Eric asked. "Is that something we're caring about now?"

Diana waved her hand through the air as though brushing Eric's comments aside. "What else did you find out?" she asked.

Hank noticed that Sheila's little tablet was on the floor in front of her. Apparently she actually had been taking notes while the cop had been describing the situation in the park. Hank listened as she recounted any leftover details from what they had learned that afternoon.

"It's just strange," said Presto when she finished. "Venger still had his powers the last time we saw him coming back into the ride. How could he have suddenly lost them?"

Bobby shrugged. "His batteries must have just gone dead," he said.

"I don't think Venger has batteries, Bobby," Sheila countered with a soft smile.

"Sure he does, sis," Bobby insisted. "It's like when you plug something in and it works great. But then when you unplug it and it starts running off the batteries, it only lasts for so long."

"That's actually . . . " Presto mused, ". . . a really great way of looking at it. When Venger was separated from the Realm, it was like his plug had been pulled. His powers were running on borrowed time until he managed to get back to his own world."

"Which he didn't," Diana added. "So now he's stuck."

"Dead batteries," Bobby shrugged. "Just like our weapons."

"He seemed really surprised to be in that situation too," Hank said. "He was blaming us, but from the sound of it, he had no idea that would happen to him."

"Wow," Presto breathed as he slumped against the wall. "So, now what do we do?"

Eric clapped his hands loudly and rubbed them together. "Now, I say we do a little celebrating, that's what!" He bounded off the bed and stepped over random limbs stretched across his bedroom floor on his way to the door. "We're home, and that's all that matters. I say we don't talk about Venger any more for the rest of the night. Or ever."

"Can we talk about your apparent crush on Jennifer Beals instead?" Diana asked, jamming her thumb in the direction of a poster on Eric's wall. "I never knew you were a Flashdance fan." She snickered.

"Ha, ha. Very funny," he retorted.

Hank grinned. Even with the teasing, he could get used to this. They were home, they were safe, and that was what mattered.

"No. I thought some celebratory beverage might be in order," Eric continued as he made his way to the door. "My dad usually keeps plenty in the cabinet of his study. He won't miss just one."

Sheila glanced fretfully at the group and, in particular, at Bobby. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Eric," she said.

"Bah!" Eric replied. "We just got home after surviving everything from dragons to squid-monsters to zombies to slave mines. Not to mention one particularly cranky one-horned-warlock who had some kind of personal grudge against us. You think a little celebratory champagne is going to make a difference? Come on, I know where my father keeps the good stuff." He left the room before anyone could argue further.

Hank shook his head, but with a good-natured smile.

A few minutes later, Eric returned – a stack of glasses in one hand, and an expensive-looking bottle of champagne in the other. The group stood up to face him as he walked in the door. He was making a one-handed effort to fumble with the foil that covered the top of the bottle.

"This better have one of those corks that you can pop out instead of unscrew," he said. "I don't know where Dad keeps the corkscrew, so I hope we'll be able to get it open."

He looked up at them, and the bottle slipped from his hand. It smashed to pieces on the floor.

"I suppose that's one way to do it," Diana remarked bemusedly.

Eric didn't look at her. He didn't look at any of them. Hank noticed that he was staring past them. Everyone else must have noticed the same thing because they turned, as one, to face the inner-portion of the room.

Standing there, just beyond the foot of the bed, was Dungeon Master.

To be continued . . .

Quick Author's Note: Just in case of curiosity or confusion, for the purposes of this story, Venger's wings are part of his cape, rather than a physical part of his back. It would just cause sooo many narrative troubles the other way around.

Also, the battery discussion between Sheila and Bobby is a re-visitation of a similar conversation from "The Hall of Bones." It seemed an appropriate reprise.

Hope you're continuing to enjoy!