Xaridian felt his bones turn to goo and his blood turn to ice. He cursed himself over and over again for even taking this job, hell he can't even remember why he took it. His attenas on his head tingled slightly as he tried to calm down.
Was it for the pay? Maybe, but he could make the same amount of money as a librarian like his brother.
Healthcare, paid time off and other benefits? He could get a better dental plan, more days off and even paid sick leave as a cleaner in the spaceship repair station down the street from his home.
Get a girlfriend? He laughed, the only kind of women this job attracts are ones that are either psychos, thieves, or ones who are ugly.
Was it for the honour and respect of his family? Very unlikely, his other brother worked in some shady gay nightclub and he is more liked in the family.
Adventure? If one were to call adventure standing in a ship with the most new things he can see being out of a door or a window where he is not allowed to leave unless if told to then he would like to know the name of their dealer, because that doesn't sound like one to him.
Was it the thrill of the job? While it's true that 'smuggling' is illegal in various parts of the universe, the job falls under a very grey area of smuggling. The most 'illegal' stuff he ever handled was some pills that 'turned females into males' or something like that, and while people smuggling was generally frowned upon, doing it to criminals or those with a bounty would at worst leave you several angry notes in your mailbox.
Xaridian raised his blaster rife as he and 4 other guards stood frozen in place staring at the door where it was held, and it wanted to be anywhere but inside.
Xaridian didn't know how to describe the sound, apart from the deafening bangings of metal, and the screams. The screams were loud, so loud that Xaridian was thankful for having earplugs as the thing screamed so language he didn't even speak much of, Tamar…Tama…he forgotten the exact name of the language and he can't even speak a word of it, but he knew that it was screaming bloody murder at everyone who can hear her and spamming every foul word it knew.
The clanging grew louder and louder, the door groaning under the relentless assault. Xaridian's hands trembled, the grip on his blaster rifle slipping slightly as beads of sweat dripped down his brow.
"Hold your ground!" barked the squad leader, a gruff-looking creatue that looked almost like Xaridian except he had mottled green skin Xaridian had blue. The other guards glanced at each other nervously, none of them convinced by the leader's bravado.
The door buckled, a massive dent caving inward with a resounding boom.
"What in the hell is she made of?" Xaridian muttered under his breath.
No one answered. They didn't need to. Everyone on the ship knew about her.
The thing's fiery green eyes blazed with fury, her orange skin shimmering under the dim cell lights. Her wrists, still bruised from the reinforced restraints, flexed as she delivered another earth-shaking punch to the door. Her physiology was fueled by her sheer anger and the sliver of ultraviolet light leaking from the cell's ceiling vent.
"I will not be caged like an animal!" she spat in her native tongue, slamming her fists into the door again. The metal groaned, sparks flying with every hit.
Her captors had underestimated her, thinking their technology and supposed knowledge of her kind would be enough to keep her subdued. They were wrong. They knew who and what she was, they knew who was paying for her head, and they and she knew what might happen to her when they arrive at the destination, and she was not keen to arrive. And no one, would keep her chained.
With a final, bone-rattling blow, the door blasted off its hinges as if fired from a cannon, slamming into the opposite wall with a deafening crash.
Xaridian's heart jumped into his throat as the figure emerged from the smoke and debris. She was taller than he expected, her lithe frame radiating raw energy. Her long red hair whipped behind her like a fiery mane, and her hands burned with glowing green energy. She looked like someone he would see in those beauty magazines, except her face made him wish he was dead.
"Tamaranean energy blasts!" Xaridian thought in a panic. "We're screwed."
"You dare cage me?" It snarled, her voice a thunderclap in the corridor. She raised her hand, a bolt of energy forming in her palm.
"Open fire!" the squad leader shouted.
Blaster bolts tore through the air, lighting up the narrow hallway like some deadly fireworks display. The woman darted forward, her agility far surpassing their aim. She ducked and weaved, a green energy bolt shooting from her hand and slamming into the nearest guard, sending him flying into the wall.
Xaridian fired, his shots barely grazing her as if they were nothing but minor bug bites, as she leapt into the air, flipping over another guard.
Her hands lashed out, disarming him with a quick strike right between the legs, and another strike at his arms, then slamming him down to the ground.
Two more guards charged, but she spun, her green energy blasting out of her hands like two cannonballs sending the guards down onto the ground, their weapons clattering to the floor.
Xaridian's rifle trembled in his hands as she turned her fiery gaze on him.
"Uh... stay down?" he stammered, raising the weapon weakly.
Before he could fire, she lunged forward, wrenching the blaster from his hands and snapping it in two like a toothpick.
"You should consider a new career," she growled, her voice dripping with disdain as she pointed one of the broken pieces of the rife at his face. "One where you don't imprison innocent people."
Xaridian nodded frantically, stepping aside as she marched past him. "I…I understand..."
She ran down the corridor, deafening alarms blaring all around her as red emergency lights bathed the ship.
Her muscles ached, and her energy reserves were running low, but she refused to stop. Freedom was within her grasp.
Turning a corner, she spotted the escape pod bay, a large corridor of faceless pods and a small window revealing the endless expanse of space outside. She gritted her teeth and ran faster, blasting open the doors that led into the corridor with a final burst of energy.
The remaining guards in the bay hesitated as she appeared, none of them were prepared for this, their courage evaporating into nothing at the sight of her glowing hands.
Without speaking a word, they scattered into another door that led to wherever, leaving her a clear path to the nearest pod.
She climbed inside, the controls unfamiliar but intuitive enough. Her fingers danced across the console, slamming buttons and pulling levers. The pod hissed as it sealed shut, the engines roaring to life.
As the pod ejected from the ship, Koriand'r looked back through the small viewport, watching the ship grow smaller and smaller until it was out of sight completely. Her chest heaved as a mixture of relief and determination filled her.
The pod's navigation system beeped, locking onto the nearest habitable planet: Earth.
The air was heavy with fog. It was as if the entire sky wanted to devour the entire earth, but some invisible force was stopping it from doing so, and yet the fog still existed consuming, weighing down on everyone and everything that even if one were to stand outside on the streets naked, they would feel as if they got clothes on due to the sheer weight of the fog.
A crumbling long forgotten and abandoned church stood at the edge of the miserable nameless town, its once-proud spires now bent and broken, casting jagged shadows on the cracked pavement below.
Inside the church, the silence was oppressive. Nobody dared make a sound, not even a bug. Stained glass windows, long since shattered, allowed the pale light of a streetlamp to creep in, casting fractured patterns of color on the damp stone floor.
At the far end of the nave, beneath what remained of a tarnished altar, sat a lone figure cloaked in darkness.
She sat cross-legged, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her deep violet hood was drawn up, hiding her face in shadow, though the faint glow of her eyes pierced the darkness like embers in a dying fire.
Around her, the air seemed to tremble, as if the weight of her very presence pressed against the fabric of reality.
The soft murmur of her voice echoed faintly in the hollow space.
"Azarath... Metrion... Zinthos..."
The words were barely more than a whisper, but they carried an unearthly resonance, vibrating through the stones beneath her. She chanted slowly, methodically, as if each syllable held the power to anchor her to this fragile plane of existence.
Suddenly, the air shifted. The subtle vibration of her voice was joined by something darker…a low, guttural hum, almost imperceptible that one could barely hear it, but it was undeniably there. Her chant faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands tightened into fists as the shadows around her began to writhe and coil like living things.
"Not now," she murmured, her voice sharper, tinged with fear. She closed her eyes tightly, and for a moment, the glow in them disappeared. "You're not coming out. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever."
The shadows pressed closer, their forms twisting into grotesque, barely discernible shapes. Faces emerged from the darkness. Faces she knew only a few people in the world can see. Twisted, monstrous visages that grinned with jagged teeth and hollow eyes. A deep, malevolent voice rumbled from the void.
"You cannot keep me at bay forever, daughter. I am always watching. Always waiting."
Her breath quickened, and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple. Her fingers dug into her knees as she clenched her jaw, fighting to steady her trembling body.
"You will not control me," she growled, her voice low and defiant. "Not ever."
"We will see about that!"
With a sharp gasp, she opened her eyes, and they flared brilliantly, bathing the space around her in a violet glow.
The shadows recoiled, their monstrous shapes unraveling into tendrils of smoke that dissipated into the corners of the room so fast it was as it they were never there. The oppressive hum faded, leaving only the faint echo of her ragged breathing.
For a long moment, Raven sat motionless, staring at the floor as the glow in her eyes dimmed to a faint flicker. Her body was still, but her mind raced, replaying the scene over and over again. She had won this time, her father wasn't even trying this time.
But it would only be a matter of time until he won. She knew this deep down inside of her. And yet it is not a matter of if, but when.
John Stewart is many things. A hero. A green lantern. A good man. A man one can rely on. And a man who can get things done efficiently.
Which was why all those years ago it came to no surprise to him when his childhood best friend, Paul Stirling, asked him to be his son's godson. John was the best man and Paul and Agnus' wedding, he had taken a bullet for them both literally and figuratively before and after he got the ring, and John didn't even have to think twice about it.
While John was a busy man juggling his life and responsibilities as a lantern, to his social life with his friends and fellow lanterns Hal Jordan and (even though he hated saying it) Guy Gardener, and his civilian life as well as his role in the Justice League and so on, he tried to squeeze as much time as he can for his godson.
He was there for him for a good chunk of his childhood long before a ring came to him, he was for him when he had a hard time in middle school, and so on. And he was there for him when…
John Stewart was known for being able to handle his emotions well, even he had no idea what to say or do to a 14 year old child who had received news no child should ever hear in their life.
He stood in the sterile blank hospital room, the faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, their sterile glow casting long shadows against the pale walls. The scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, blending with the faint aroma of flowers from a fresh bouquet on the bedside table obviously left by the boy's parents who had left mere hours ago.
A television with a mountain of video games and a console sat in the corner but the boy seemed to have no interest in using it at the moment.
Seated upright in his hospital bed was Thomas Stirling hunched over a leather-bound diary resting on his lap.
Thomas looked exactly like his father when he was 15, thick black hair that no comb would ever tame, thick eyeglasses that might as well be bulletproof, a thin body and skin that was somehow too pale and sunburnt at the same time.
He was fiddling with a giant pen, a sleek, metallic silver one scratched softly against the page. Every so often, he twirled the pen between his fingers, the reflective silver ink shimmering faintly in the dim light.
It was his lucky pen, a small token that had followed him through countless essays, idle doodles, stories that came to mind and now, days that felt far too long.
He paused, rereading the last line he had written:
"Another day. Another battle with boredom. At least the walls here don't talk back. Yet. I gotten Foxhound ranks 9 times in MGS3, beaten FF7 for the 7th time and I can play almost all of the Sonic games with a blindfold on…"
Thomas smirked faintly, tapping the pen against his lips. He stared out the window, where streaks of pink and orange from the setting sun painted the horizon. It was a beautiful view, wasted on a place like this. He shook his head, leaning back into the stiff hospital pillow.
"Great. Now I'm waxing poetic about sunsets," he thought, shaking his head. "Guess there's only so many times you can count the ceiling tiles before you go stir-crazy."
He sighed to himself as John watched on, unsure on what to say or do, and yet he knew that Thomas knew he was standing there. Coming to a decision he walked into the room, in his usual calm demeanor.
"Still writing, huh? Thought you'd have run out of things to say by now."
Thomas looked up, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
"What can I say? The walls aren't great conversationalists, my eyes needs some rest from games, and I figured the diary would at least pretend to listen."
John chuckled, stepping inside and pulling a chair up beside the bed. He placed a small paper bag on the bedside table, its contents unknown but smelling faintly of greasy comfort food and a wrapped up gift that was either a movie or a game. Thomas's eyes lit up, but he didn't reach for it yet.
"You bring me anything good, or is this another one of your 'learning experiences' where I get stuck with kale chips and some educational game?"
John smiled at this "Kale chips are good for you, it builds character. And the educational games can be fun if you know how to."
Thomas sighed "Character tastes terrible."
John chortled "Yes it's kale chips, but it's also that new game you were talking about."
Thomas' eyes lit up but John raised a hand as if asking him to listen to what he has to say first.
He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. His eyes lingered on Thomas for a moment, an unreadable expression crossing his face before he spoke.
"You're holding up, though. Writing still keeping you sane?"
Thomas shrugged, tapping the pen against the edge of the diary. "It helps me pass the time. I only have my phone, my books, my laptop and my console for company and when I get bored of that I just write whatever is on my mind…It gives me something to focus on that isn't... you know."
He gestured vaguely around the room, as if the room alone would answer the question.
"Besides…I have got my lucky pen. Long as I've got this, nothing can go wrong…for now"
"Lucky, huh?" John said looking at the pen "What makes it so special?"
"It's silver. My favorite color…I got it years ago. Used it for everything—homework, story writing that goes nowhere, sketching, even a terrible attempt at poetry here and there. I have enough ink refill cartiages to sink the Titanic. Don't ask. It's just... always been there, you know? It feels like a piece of me…In a way…"
John nodded his gaze thoughtful. "Sometimes it's the small things that keep us grounded. Reminds you who you are, even when things get... tough."
Thomas studied him for a moment, the faintest flicker of curiosity crossing his face. "You don't have to keep dancing around it, you know. Everyone else does, but you don't have to." He sighs "I know that it might happen to anyone…but why does it have to happen to me and…"
He stopped as if he was ashamed of what he was about to say and John sighed more to himself than anyone else. He had had this conversation so many times that it might as well be a chore and yet he can see that Thomas didn't want to continue on with what he was about to say.
"Dancing's never been my thing. But I'm not here to talk about that. Just came to check on you and maybe steal some of your fries."
Thomas chuckled, shaking his head.
"The fries are negotiable. The soda parts of it. The veggie burger? Off-limits."
"How about the tomatoes, you never eat them"
"Then take it."
"And I will take the ketchup with it."
"How can I eat fries with no ketchup"
"They are the same thing."
"You know I throw up if I eat stuff I don't like"
"I already ate them"
"But the wrapper is…"
"You know you can just ask the guy at the counter right?"
"Oh…"
For a while, they sat in companionable silence. Thomas returned to his diary, scribbling idle notes as he fiddled with his phone while John glanced at the muted television that was an advert for some clothing being led by some supermodel with an ego the size of a galaxy. Despite the lighthearted banter, an undercurrent of tension lingered in the room.
"You know, you've got more fight in you than most people I've met. And I've met a lot of fighters."
Thomas paused mid-sentence, glancing at him.
"Yeah? Well, let me know when you meet someone who's fought boredom harder than me. Cause I would like to speak with them." He said as he eyed the TV with a certain look in his eyes at all the healthly looking people on it.
"I mean it. You've got that spark, Thomas. Something tells me you're meant for more than just sitting in this room, scribbling in that diary."
Thomas blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in John's voice. He quickly masked it with a smirk.
"Careful, John. You're starting to sound like a motivational poster."
John laughed, but his eyes remained steady, thoughtful before standing.
"I'll see you soon, Thomas. I hope. Keep on writing. You've got a lot of story left to tell...And remember what we said last time."
Thomas didn't look up, but a small smile played on his lips.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't let it out and all that…Maybe bring better snacks next time."
"I brought you a game."
"And I am thankful for it."
"Maybe I could have a go at it next time."
"The tutorial takes like 40 hours and takes forever to get into."
John chuckled as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.
For a long moment, Thomas stared at the door, his smile fading slightly. He glanced down at the page he had been writing on and added one last line:
"Maybe he's right. Maybe there's more to come. Guess I'll find out."
He capped the silver pen, setting it gently beside the diary, and leaned back against the pillow. He paused for a moment, then he picked up the diary and turned back a few pages to see 2 words messily written all over the page repeated over and over and over again as if written by some madman.
WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME
Thomas stared at the page, then looked out of the window at the sunset, then at the TV which was showing some summer themed movie he didn't care for showing a group of teens no older than him having the time of their lives.
He glared at the TV for a fraction of a second, his eyes filled with envy, then composed himself as he looked at his new game.
"Well. Why not?" He said as he opened the box and turned on his console. "Better to do something than sit here."