Misfire

May 16, 1941

One minute Doctor Fate was on the outskirts of Star City, casting a spell that would nullify the army of animated golems that Professor Zodiak created, while his teammates fought towards the villain. The next moment he was in the same position, but the golems had crumbled, Zodiak was unconscious and bound and the other members of the JSA looked unhappy to see him.

"Pardon my language, but what the hell was that doc?" said the Flash.

"Fine time to cut and run," said the Atom.

Doctor Fate was too surprised to answer immediately. All around him was the aftermath of a battle he had no memory of.

"Zodiak's secured. Best to move him before he wakes up," said Black Canary.

A costumed man with thick green tinted goggles, a moon emblem on his forehead and a long green cloak walked beside her. "The dosage I gave him is enough to give us some time."

The masked man acknowledged Fate. "I don't think we've met. Doctor Midnight."

Doctor Fate returned the courtesy. Kent remained disoriented.

"I can transport Zodiak," said Doctor Fate.

The Atom shook his head. "I think we leave that job in the hands of someone who won't bail on us."

The others agreed to varying degrees. Even Black Canary shrugged her shoulders and gave Kent a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

"How long was I gone for?" he said quietly to her.

"At least twenty minutes. You didn't say a word. Just opened one of your portals and left."

Doctor Fate waited till he was back at the Tower to confront the source of his disappearance. He mentally projected his form into the depths of the helm.

"Nabu. What did you do?"

No response.

"Answer me."

You have shown that you will abscond from your responsibilities when it suits you.

Nabu's visage dominated the realm within the helmet, a suggestive outline of the being that trained Kent.

I no longer have time to reason with you.

"You abandoned my companions."

You abandoned your duties. There was a crisis that demanded Doctor Fate. I made sure he resolved it.

In times past, when Nabu took control Kent at least had a sensation of passing time, if not genuine memories from observing his actions. This time was a total void in his memory.

"You intend to puppeteer me? To suppress my mind?"

I intend to defend Order. The entire purpose of the Helm and your trappings. You have allowed yourself to become too attached to the material world. And its peoples.

Should you continue down this path, I will have no choice.

"No choice about what?" Kent knew the answer but he needed to hear it.

Your body will become my avatar. Now and forever.

May 18, 1941

"Why is it always on top of a building?" said Lois Lane of the Daily Planet.

"I figured I'm too distracting in your offices or out in public," said Green Lantern.

They were on top of the Daily Planet. Alan admired the massive globe that sat atop the building. He imagined being a part of a project with a similar theme.

"I could have gone to the New York Times. Or the Gotham Gazette. It does seem a bit unfair that it's always you that gets these interviews Ms. Lane. Superman, the Flash, Miss America. Spare a thought for the competition."

Lois scoffed. "They wouldn't know what to do with you."

She pulled out her notepad and a pen. "Let's get started."

"How did you become Green Lantern?"

"I was in an accident. One that nearly cost me my life. This ring," Alan said, wiggling his fingers, "saved me. It, along with my lantern, grant me my power."

"What made you decide to use those powers for good? I can imagine a less altruistic individual might weaponize it for crime."

"Others lost their life in that accident. I felt a need to honor their deaths. That and Superman."

"Superman?"

"I heard about him on the radio. It inspired me to be like him. I bet you could ask half the heroes in this country that question and they'd have some version of being inspired by him."

"You would have insight into that being on the JSA?"

"I can't and won't speak for my teammates, but it is a common story in our community."

"Interesting. You refer to it as a community. Is that how you view the heroes of America?"

"Not in any formal manner, but that is a way to conceptualize it. We're bound by a common purpose."

"Which is?"

"Serving the public good. Protecting people."

"There are some such as Lex Luthor who claim that superheroes are behaving in a selfish manner, detrimental to the needs of the American people. That no one should have this much power. How would you respond to that?"

Alan was ready for a question like this one. That kind of sentiment was a large part of why he agreed to the interview in the first place.

"The fact of the matter, Ms. Lane, is that we do have this power. And that there are those who wield comparable power that would use it to benefit themselves at the expense of others. To say nothing of those villains that act out of sheer malice. I feel it would be a waste to not use the gift I have been granted to help other people. Many of my peers feel the same. We are not politicians or policy makers. We do not issue commands from on high. When a problem occurs, we react to it and resolve it."

"There's another side to this issue, with its own critics of your actions. Why has the JSA or other heroes not intervened in the war in Europe?"

"As I said, we're not policy makers. I can say that it is the official position of the JSA that we not make a choice for the American people. I would like to have a short meeting with Hitler and his cronies, but we can't force that conflict on this nation."

This might anger Carter, but it was their consensus. Even as Alan felt less sure of that choice day by day. For her part, Lois examined Green Lantern closely.

"What of the rumored sightings of Wonder Woman and Hawkgirl in Greece this past month? Would that not be a violation of the team's policy?"

"We've had no confirmation that either of them were really there."

"But there would be consequences within the team if they were?"

Lane was no joke. Jay had warned him to be prepared.

"There would, at the very least, be discussion."

"Could that lead to their dismissal?"

Alan paused. "I can't be too specific about how our team functions internally."

"Why wear the mask?"

"To protect my identity."

"Superman doesn't."

"There's only one of him. I think you'll find the same answer you got out of the Flash. I wear it to protect my loved ones."

"So you have a second life outside of the hero business?"

"To an extent."

"Is there a lady lantern out there?"

Alan gave Lois a dim smile. Better to lie. The public didn't need to know the truth.

"I'm not at liberty to say," said Alan, with a suggestiveness he hoped didn't come across as phony.

They wrapped up the interview soon after. While they waited for the photographer to arrive, Alan spoke.

"You're not an easy woman to fool Ms. Lane"

"If you wanted a puff piece you should have gone with the Gazette."

"I can see why Superman speaks so highly of you."

This was the first thing that prompted a strong reaction. Alan thought he caught a hint of blush on her cheeks.

"Glad to hear it," she said, her back to him. Alan found it endearing. Superman wasn't available for the team much, but from the times he mentioned Lois Lane, Alan was moderately convinced the man was infatuated with her. Good to see it was mutual.

The photographer, a young man named Jimmy Olsen arrived, along with another reporter. A big man with spectacles. Clark Kent as he was introduced. Something familiar about him.

"Stand over there, by the ledge. Yeah, right there. That's where the wind can catch your cape," said Jimmy, composing his shot.

"Needs something else," said Lois, a hand on one hip, another on her chin.

"The flame," said Jimmy.

"That."

Green Lantern produced a flicker of flame off the ring.

"Front page, here we come," said Jimmy Olsen.

Alan was still reexamining the interview by the time he returned to the GBC in Gotham. Some of the team, like Hawkman, didn't think this kind of PR was necessary. Alan begged to differ. The more distant they remained from the public, the more their image was shaped by men like Luthor.

He wasn't sure how the part on the war would play. But, it was the lies about his love life that nagged at him. Alan caught himself staring at his reflections as he moved through the offices. His time with Jimmy (his Jimmy, not the photographer) was brief, too brief, but everything up to its violent conclusion was perfect. Alan understood that part of that was him, preserving it in this bubble of nostalgia. Could it have survived the circumstances that brought them together? They wouldn't have been able to be together in a public manner.

It was this focus on reflections that allowed Alan to catch the one that formed alongside his own as he tried to enter his office.

"Alan," said Molly.

Oh dear. Her tone told him everything.

"Molly. You're here la-"

"Stifle that nonsense. You had me transferred." She got right in his face. Her cheeks were red.

Alan let go of his door handle. There was no escape.

"I...I did."

"Why?"

"I thought that it was too awkward between us. Things became so cold after our time together. I didn't want you to languish in my office," said Alan.

"You thought I was cold to you? So you took the coward's way out."

Alan didn't say anything. He just braced himself.

"I wasn't happy that you ignored my ideas, but I would have gotten over that. Not this, you bastard. I had room to breathe here. People actually listened to me. I thought..well, I thought that this could lead to a better position. At the company. That's not going to happen in my new job. All they want to hear is that I have their coffee, just the way they like it."

Alan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Molly. I can try to get you switched back."

"What, so that everyone can gossip that this is all part of a lover's quarrel? No Alan, you've done enough damage."

Molly stormed off.

May 20, 1941

Sandy Hawkins stay with his aunt Dian had lasted longer than intended. Sure, there were visits from his mother and his brother and sister, barely toddlers. But, they were short, distracted and distant. As his mother had been since Sandy's father ran off with the waitress from the cocktail club he frequented. His aunt's hospitality was borne of necessity.

He was only just now getting properly adjusted to life in New York City. The papers and the comics promised him gangsters and gunfights around every corner. All he found was trash and crowded streets. Sandy made a handful of friends at his school, yet there was no escaping that sense of isolation. It didn't help that the radios always had something new and terrible to say about the war in Europe. It seemed that the walls could fall in at any moment.

Sandy jogged up the flights of stairs into the apartment. Aunt Dian lived more comfortably on her own than Sandy's family did all together. Not that she was always alone.

"Sandy?" said his aunt.

"That's me."

Aunt Dian did the usual song and dance of asking about his day, his studies. His answers were vague, unenthusiastic. Sandy tried not to let his dismay show for her. She had done a lot to make him feel welcome.

"I'm going out tonight. I've already made dinner for you," she said, setting the table.

They ate mostly in silence.

"If you're up for it, Wesley and I are going on a little trip this weekend. To Metropolis. Would you want to come?"

"Uh, maybe. I have exams coming up…"

"Well, just let me know," said aunt Dian. She didn't press the matter.

Wesley Dodds was his aunt's boyfriend. He was over constantly. Sandy got on with him well enough. Wesley held a deep well of knowledge about a broad variety of subjects. Everything from aviation to music theory, ancient India to the latest in radio technology. If nothing else, he was interesting to listen to. Still, there was something off about the man, a piece that never fit quite right. Sandy would catch him lost in thought, with a blank expression when he thought no one was watching. There also persisted that feeling that Sandy was a project for his aunt and her boyfriend. A poor miserable boy to be helped in his time of need. Sandy resented that idea.

When his aunt was gone Sandy tried to read his textbooks, but he was unable to focus. He ended up with his head outside the apartment window, watching the neighborhood kids play a haphazard game of baseball. The air was muggy, like a storm was on its way. When the shadows grew long and the kids went home, Sandy turned in for the night, overcome by an onset of sleepiness.

The nightclub was fit to burst, with throngs of people in various stages of intoxication. Sandy was in a booth near the back, the others at his table asleep and snoring, their empty glasses arranged precariously. There was a husky bout of laughter. His dad was near the bar, a beer in hand, the other one on the small of the waitress's back.

Sandy got up from the table with a start, intent on repaying his father for the hurt he had done to the family. A hand stuck out from the crowd, blocking him.

"You don't belong here," said Wesley Dodds. He was in a neat tuxedo, with a black fedora and tinted glasses.

"I didn't sneak in, I swear…"

Wesley interrupted him. "Stop. I don't mean in this nightclub."

Sandy had the sinking realization that he had no memory of arriving here.

"Where are we?" said Sandy.

"Hey! Is that my boy," said Sandy's father. He got up from his stool, drunkenly stumbling toward them.

"Dad?"

"Not really," said Wesley. He tugged on Sandy's arm. Reluctantly, Sandy followed through the crowd.

"Where are you going? Sandy? Sandy?" His father's cries turned frantic. The cluster of people blocked Sandy from looking back.

"Sanderson, I need you to promise me that you won't freak out."

"Excuse me?"

"This is only going to get weirder and you've got to keep your head."

They pushed through the doors of the nightclub out onto the street. Or what was supposed to be the street. Cars honked at one another on the sides of buildings as pedestrians floated off into the sky. A nearby vendor handed out baskets filled with cats. A radio announcer spouted the results of the latest baseball game through newspaper dispensers.

"Ah," said Sandy.

"This way."

Wesley seemed sure of his destination. That was enough for Sandy at the moment. They passed ludicrous sight after sight. Parades of wild animals on floats, applauded by crowds of houseplants. Motorcycles whose engines sounded like babies crying. A sky that could not stay the same color, fluctuating between sickly green, eye-straining pink, soft orange, pitch black and dozens of other variations.

They walked until they stood below the shadow of a palace of crystalline spires. Sandy could see objects floating through the structure, their form distended by the refractive nature of the crystal. Wesley hesitated.

"This could be dangerous. It might be best for you to wait here," said Wesley.

"This is the dangerous part? Why is any of this happening at all?"

"We're in a dream. I'm under attack. Somehow you've been draw into it as well."

It was insanity, but it had all been insanity so far. If it was indeed a dream, Sandy hoped it would end soon.

"Attacked by who?"

"I have my suspicions."

Sandy rubbed his temple. The sidewalk swam below his shoes.

"Why would anyone attack you?"

Wesley turned to Sandy. Only it wasn't Wesley anymore. In his place was a figure in a black trench coat, whose ends pooled to the ground like shadow. His face was obscured by a gas mask with bulging lenses and smoke that spilled from vents along the jawline.

The figure spoke with a voice like wind whipping along the water's surface. "Because I'm the Sandman."

"Wait here," said the Sandman as he departed for the crystalline palace.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. This place defied such measurements. All Sandy knew was that the pit in his stomach had grown. The sky continued its bout of madness as music swelled from everywhere and nowhere. He couldn't tell what was happening in the palace, but the worry that plagued Sandy only mounted further. It was when his father's voice sounded on the wind that he could wait no more.

Sandy followed in Sandman's tracks. The halls of the palace bore no resemblance to real structures. Gravity changed its rules from room to room as Sandy would find himself walking on what were once vertical walls. There was no choice but to accept the dream logic. His path led him to an inner hall, adorned with hanging lights that spun in inconsistent patterns, creating a patchwork lights show on the interior.

At the far end, Sandman fought with a knight of smoke and fire. Sandy could not discern who was winning, only that it was a close contest. Without thinking, he ran towards the brawl. The hallway refused to cooperate. His steps made no difference. Sandman and the knight remained the same distance away.

The knight winged Sandman with a slash from its wicked blade. Sand poured out of the wound in heaps on the crystal floor.

Sandy surrendered to the dream. He closed his eyes and took a step. Then another. He forced himself to keep his eyes shut even as his guts lurched and the voice of his family bounced off the walls around him. Step after step. He imagined crossing the hall swiftly.

When he finally opened his eyes, Sandy was beside the knight of smoke. Sandman was on his back, at the villains mercy. Sandy acted before his brain could tell him not to, leaping at the knight's back. He wrapped his arms around where the knight's neck should be and jerked his weight backward. The warrior did not topple, but he was distracted by the newcomer. Sandy wriggled away from attempts to grab at him, until at last a massive hand took him by the neck and raised him into the air. The pain on his throat was unpleasantly real. Sandy clawed at the grip, to no avail. Flames sprouted from the knight's helm.

Sandman stepped close to the knight, a gun with a thick cylindrical barrel pointed right into the villain's helmet. A thick plume of gas blasted out of the gun, smothering the fire, as the knight collapsed into a heap of dimming embers. Sandy clutched at his neck, gasping for air.

"Are you okay?" said Sandman, helping him up.

"I will be, if we can escape here," said Sandy. There were no fingerprints on his beck, no residual pain.

The palace began to fall apart around them. Shards of crystal exploded as it fell, raining in slivers.

"Shouldn't we run?"

"No. This will be over soon," said Sandman, looking up at the ceiling.

Sandy followed his gaze. A warm light was pouring in through the broken parts of the ceiling. A light that smelled like home and felt like comfortable blankets.

"Was this real?'

"Depends on your definition of that word," said Sandman. The mask was gone, Wesley's face returned.

He clapped Sandy on the arm. The light absorbed his companion.

As the light consumed Sandy, he got one last glimpse at the dream. A man sat in a glass capsule, legs crossed. He was the palest person Sandy had ever seen. But, that's not what he recalled, what he would recall until his dying day. It was those eyes. Those burning eyes.

Sandy Hawkins shot up in his bed. Someone stood by his door. A light flicked on. As his eyes adjusted, his visitor spoke.

"Hello Sandy," said Wesley Dodds. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

Henry King opened his eyes. His body was soaked with sweat, his heart slamming in his chest.

"He lives," said the Icicle.

Henry sat up in his chair. Only a thin beam of light snuck through the boarded up windows of the abandoned building they were in.

"Where are the others?" said Henry.

"Fiddler went for food. The Thinker's asleep upstairs Shade left. So did the Gambler."

The latter two did not surprise Henry. The Fiddler was liable to get them caught again. They had only just left prison, aided by the Wizard's benefactors. Not that that had helped the man himself.

"Did it work Brainwave? Did you get Sandman?"

"No."

"No?"

"He had...unexpected help." That boy.

"That's a shame. Can you try again?"

"Unfortunately I cannot. His mental defenses will be sufficient now that he is alerted to my threat. At this range, anyway."

Of all the heroes that Henry had made mental contact with in their last bout against the JSA, Sandman was the only one he was able to sense when he tried. The man was liable to be sensitivities to psychic energies as well.

"Don't let that get you down," said Icicle. "The others were planning on voting on our next move in the morning…"

"Vote?"

"Yeah…"

Henry stood up as Icicle buckled to his knees, hands pressed to his head in agony.

"This is not a democracy. You have misunderstood your place here," said Henry.

Icicle tried to respond. It would be impossible to even form coherent sentences under the mental barrage he was enduring.

"Need I make an example of you as I did the Wizard?" Henry grinned at the thought of putting that puffed up charlatan in his place during the prison break. The only trick the Wizard would perform from now on was babbling like an imbecile.

"Must you be so petty?" said the Thinker from the stairs.

"If you plan on taking advantage of this, know that I can lobotomize you as well."

The Thinker regarded Icicle as one would appraise a mangy dog whining for food.

"Do what you want with him. I merely think our energies would be better spent on other tasks."

"Such as?"

"Revenge. On the Justice Society."

Brainwave permitted Icicle the peace of unconsciousness. He wiped the last few minutes from the man's brain for good measure. For a scientist, he had a real lack of mental fortitude.

"Now, that piques my interest."

The Thinker stepped over the body.

"There's no reason to stick with the old. I suggest new blood."

"Let's go find them then."