A Recursive Existence

November 20, 1939

The posse of men were performing the last minute inspections of their firearms when Hawkman fell upon them. They were in a small clearing, amidst the dense thicket of trees. If he were being truthful, he savored the terror in their eyes when they saw him swoop in, mace already in its fateful arc. These were hard men, local toughs, but they posed no challenge.

Within a few minutes the group lay scattered on the ground in various states of consciousness and pain. All of them would live, though they would bear the reminders of this meeting. He broke the remainder of their weapons, stringing up a few of them on nearby trunks, as a warning. A single blow from his mace wrecked their vehicles. There would be nothing to salvage from this endeavor, save for the understanding that a shred of mercy had been offered.

A powerful flap of his wings sent Carter Hall back to the air. The sky was beginning to acknowledge the approach of the sun, though it had not yet crested over the horizon. He flew north a ways, to the place that the men had intended to destroy. A small batch of homes near the shore of Lake Huron, close enough where you could hear the waves roll in.

Billie Cobb was out on her porch overlooking the ridge that swept down to the lake. A cup of coffee was in her hands, a rifle leaned near the door. Hawkman landed near her, without prompting so much as a twitch.

"I take it those fellas won't be coming around here today," said Billie.

"Won't be doing much of anything for a while," said Hawkman.

Billie took a sip of her drink. She didn't look satisfied, just tired. Bird songs provided the backdrop to their conversation, carried on the crisp breeze.

"There'll be more of em," she said.

"We'll take them as they come," said Hawkman.

"One day you won't be here. Or they'll come for you too," Billie said.

"Let them come. I'd rather go down with you and yours than stand by and watch," said Hawkman. "Anyway, have a little hope. I think I'm close to finding who's bankrolling these triggermen. A visit to them and your troubles could go away."

"Our troubles are not so easily solved. Though I do appreciate what you do for us."

"I'll see you around, Binishii," said Hawkman, using her Ojibwa name.

"Safe flights, meskwananisii."

The flight back to Midway City gave him plenty of time to dwell on the particulars of their predicament. It was an old story, the story of the strong displacing the weak. For land. A story the Ojibwa had been a part of for too long. Hawkman could not turn the tide of the broader injustice, but he could defend these people here and now.

Billie's concern could be correct. That the authorities would grow tired of his intrusion. There was a reason he seldom brought these groups of thugs to the police. So far Hawkman had been useful enough to Midway City in its fight against crime that the complaints of those who benefitted from these predatory deals had been stifled. There was no guarantee it would last. Carter cared little.

His loyalties were on the side of the oppressed even before he took the up the mantle of Hawkman. The color of his skin forced such considerations into his life, the child of a black woman from Midway and a North African immigrant. He was more fortunate than most, his family never hurting for money, but the world had a way of keeping people like him in check. It was there in the way his professors and peers in university second-guessed his achievements, how there was always that edge of indignity that a man like him could enjoy the same success. Even now, in his endeavors with the museum and the historical society, Carter could detect the envy of his colleagues.

Hawkman enjoyed more freedom, but he too was subject to injustice. The newspapers were quick to describe him as a "savage," and the "peril of the night." His methods could be ferocious, but he noted that few of the other masked crimefighters in the country were talked about in remotely the same manner.

A week ago, Carter was approached by a man in a gas mask going by the name Sandman. He had appeared out of the night air like a phantom, so suddenly that he nearly received a mace to the chest for his troubles. They had discussed Hawkman's place on a team that Sandman was organizing. Carter had his misgivings, but he would take the first step at the very least.

These thoughts continued to swirl through Carter's head as he returned to his offices at the Midway Museum of Ancient History. He had a few last items to prepare for a new exhibit and he preferred the necessity of these tasks to the pure solitude of his apartment. He slipped in through the discrete opening he had created in the roof, discarding the wing harness, bird helmet and the rest of his costume in the covert chamber he had carefully installed behind his offices. He massaged a kink in his shoulder as he entered his office properly.

"Strange hours you keep, Mr. Hall. Though I knew that already," said the woman in his office. She was resting on his desk, disinterestedly looking at the papers on it.

Confusion switched to recognition back to further confusion. The woman was Shiera Sanders, a fellow archeologist, albeit one Carter hadn't seen in years. They had known each other in passing at university.

"Mind telling me what you're doing here, Ms. Sanders?" said Carter, joining her by his desk.

"I've had an eventful last few weeks. Why don't you have a seat and I'll give you the quick version of it," said Shiera.

The tale that Shiera told Carter was dramatic, though in light of the life he was currently living there was no room for disbelief. She spoke of her narrow escape from a Nazi attack on a Libyan dig site, a perilous trek across the desert and a miserable flight back stateside.

"That's a harrowing story," said Carter, shaking his head.

"That's the light version," said Shiera with a look that did not invite further prying.

"Why come here?"

"I lost all my work. Other than Dr. Garett, you're the expert on that region. I want to know what they were after."

"I admire the professional courtesy, but why not take this up with the State Department?"

"Already talked to them. Besides, you've heard the president's addresses. We're staying out of the war."

President Roosevelt had declared that the nation would remain neutral, including banning the sale of arms and equipment to the various sides of the conflict. Carter had followed the outbreak of hostilities closely, as he imagined many of his fellow citizens did. There was still a collective holding of breath as everyone waited to see if neutrality was possible.

"I need you to help me figure out what they want from that site," said Shiera.

"From what you've told me, there isn't a lot known about those ruins. You'd know more than me," said Carter.

"Your reputation precedes you," she said, as she stopped leaning on his desk, moving to the display of artifacts on the other side of his office. "You're the man that can sift through the myths and legends and pluck out the core of truth. You've done it time and time again."

Something was tapping at the back of Carter's mind.

"The palace of Neb-amen. The Adamian monument. The Khefu tomb."

"Khufu," corrected Carter.

"The point is you're my best hope of figuring out what it is those Nazis were after." Something on the display case caught her attention.

"I'll need more information to get started," said Carter.

Shiera did not respond to that or any of Carter's follow-up questions. He stood up and joined her at the case. Her eyes were shut, but he could see that they were shifting rapidly under her eyelids. Shiera's body was rigid. Her fingers were barely touching a dagger.

The dagger.

"Shiera. Shiera!," he said, more forcefully. Her whole body began to shake violently.

Carter reached out to carefully grab her shoulders. As soon as his hands made contact with Shiera the walls of the office fell in tandem. He was thrust from it.

Faint landscapes blurred by, too fast to make out any details. Whispered voices, shouts and screams raced by, indecipherable. A burning church. A shipwreck. A lonely path in the jungle. More fleeting images. The jumble of images came to rest on the peak of a sand dune, illuminated by the flames of the nearby temple, alone in the desert.

Carter had been here before.

He descended towards the temple. The halls were empty, every sound magnified by their vast interiors. He could hear heavy breathing. Carter did not walk aimlessly. He knew the way. Had walked it before.

At the heart of the temple was staircase which led to a magnificent altar, flanked at all corners by pillars carved with the likenesses of the gods Horus, Anubis, Thoth and Ra. Torches lit the ascent as Carter followed the steps upward. He wasn't shocked by the slow trickle of blood that ran down the stairs.

It was the same as the last time Carter was here. The twin slabs beside the altar were adorned with two bodies dressed in fine clothing, a man and a woman. Blood continued to leak from their wounds. A dagger rested in the heart of the male figure. The female form was on her side, one arm hanging off the slab, as if her last act were to roll over and reach for her companion.

The only addition to the scene was Shiera, who was on her knees between the two of them, her chest heaving. Carter kneeled by her.

"Where.. what is this? What happened to me?"

He tried to place a hand on her back, but she crawled away from it, backing up against the slab of the woman.

"What did you do to me?"

"I did nothing."

"This, this isn't real. It isn't," she said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself more than anything.

"It is."

"How?"

"The dagger. The one in my office. You touched it."

"How could a dagger cause all this?"

He had a suspicion, but it was unconfirmed.

"I don't know. Let me help you."

Shiera looked at him fearfully. Her hands were raised, fists balled in a defensive posture. Carter had no doubt she would fight like hell in a situation like this one.

"I won't hurt you. I don't even think that's a possibility here, anyway."

Her hands relaxed, but she was still wild eyed.

"Please, let me help you," he said, offering a hand to lift her up.

"There had better be some answers to this nonsense," Shiera said.

Her hand met Carter's.

The temple was gone. New scenes sped by. A glance across a crowded marketplace, eyes that met his own, the flame that was lit. Humid nights by the river. A ceremony, attended by hundreds, but all he could focus on was her. A procession of great years. A lifetime. Another's envy. A dagger, bloodied. A final cry of her name as the end arrived.

"Chay-Ara."

"Khufu," said Shiera.

They were on the floor of his office, their arms wrapped around one another. Carter looked into her eyes. They were the same as those that found him all those millennia ago. A key that finally found the lock to which it belonged. Their lips found each other.

Carter Hall. Shiera Sanders. Together for the first time in this life. Three millennia of reunions upheld.