Heaven's in Here: The Last Blue Beetle Story

Victor D. Infante

Victor D. Infante is a poet, screenwriter, and journalist..


Prologue

My name is Ted Kord. I was shot by Maxwell Lord in in 2005, and I woke up as a policeman in London in 1990. Am I crazy, in a coma, or have I traveled back in time? Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on a different planet. Now, maybe if I can work out the reason, I can get home before Lord destroys The Justice League...

Part One: If I Could Turn Back Time

I knew immediately it wasn't going to be enough. Knew even before he fired the gun. He had stolen something from Batman, some sort of spy satellite or something. He knew everything about all of us. Even Superman. Maxwell Lord – my friend Maxwell Lord, the man who once connived a new Justice League into being – was now in charge of Checkmate. He'd be coming for the rest of the League soon.

But I was first. Even if I could escape Checkmate's Zurich headquarters, I couldn't resist Max's mind-control powers. What happens if he uses them on Superman? On Diana? We never worried about that because we thought we could trust him.

All I want is to put Earth's destiny in the hands of humans, he said, pointing the gun at me while I knelt wounded and bound on the floor. In the hands of people like me ...and people like you.

I asked if he was asking me to join or die. Then I told him to rot in Hell. In retrospect, maybe I should have stalled for time. Nah. Max would never have bought it. He fired, and I blacked out. For a moment, it was as though explosions rippled through my head. Then the pain changed, and it was as if I was being pummeled by fists.

Because I was. Instead of Max pontificating about his evil scheme, I suddenly had four skinheads laying into me, punching and kicking me as I lay on the ground. And I was on a city street, outdoors. I heard someone shout for the police, heard running. I almost forgot about the punching and kicking, because I realized that there wasn't a gaping hole in my head.

First problems first. I grabbed one skinhead's arm and tossed him into his buddies, then flipped and kicked another one in the chin. He was out cold. One kick! I thought to myself, but these were hardly the Legion of Doom. I spun and took out another. The other two ran.

"Stop, police!" Shouted a woman's voice. A young woman in a police uniform – British? Definitely not American, despite her accent – took a baton to one of the skinheads as he tried to push past her. The last bruiser made a break for it, but I wasn't having it: I leaped, bounced off the wall and came down with my foot on his back.

I turned again to face the policewoman."The elderly couple they mugged said you jumped in to save them," she said. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding, I felt a little wobbly on my knees. "Are you all right?"

"I don't think so," I said. "I think  I need to lie down for a... ."

Aaaand, I was out. Just like that. It's kind of embarrassing, actually, because the cop was kind of cute. If you're into women in uniforms. Which, hey! I am! Thankfully, she was there at the hospital when I woke up.

"Hey," she said, smiling down at me. "I was getting worried about you, DI Kord."

"DI?" I said, clearly at the top of my wit.

"Sorry," she said, folding up a copy of the London Herald and laying it on the table. "We had to go through your wallet when we brought you in. CDI was expecting you later today. Hell of a first day on the job!"

"Job?" I asked, confused.

"DCI Hunt was beside himself," she continued. You should have heard the shouting. Well, I guess you'll hear enough it soon. The doctors say you can go home as soon as you feel ready."

This was getting confusing. The cop seemed to think I was someone else. I had ID... people expecting me... "Where am I?" I asked.

"Royal London," said the cop, still smiling.

"London?" I said. "But I was in Zurich. Last thing I remember..."

The last thing I remember is Max Lord putting a bullet though my brain.

"Are you going to be OK?" said the cop. "I think the pounding might have rattled you more than we thought."

"No, no," I said. "I'm OK getting pounded." The cop snickered a bit and I added, "I can take a few hits! I mean..."

...I'm in London with no costume and no communication device, and the JLA doesn't have an embassy here anymore...

"This is going to sound crazy," I said, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, "but I need to  get in contact with the Justice League."

"Who are they? Some sort of social advocacy group?"

"No! The Justice League! Everybody's heard of them! Superman and Wonder Woman and ..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said the young woman, smiling the sort of smile you wear when you're just about to have someone medicated for their own health and safety. "Should I call the Sister?"

 

She was about to make that decision for me, but I wanted to smooth things over before they escalated. I couldn't get bogged down here. I had things to do.

"No, no," I said. "I'm OK. Just a little fuzzy, still. Hey, I never actually caught your name."

"PC Bishop," she said, her smile relaxing. PC Henrietta Bishop. But everybody just calls me Etta."

"Nice to meet you, Etta," I said, smiling lightly. I then looked around the hospital, to see if anything else was odd or out of place. Maybe hanging out with Bruce did have some effect on me. That's when I saw the newspaper.

Nelson Mandella Freed.

And suddenly, I knew that  whatever was happening was far stranger than I had realized, and it began to sink in that I was very, very far from home.

 

Part Two: Where is My Mind?

When you're part of a team, you have a role. I was never the detective. That would be Bruce. Or Ralph and Sue. Or even J'onn. Me? I was the guy who could fix the machine, or fly the plane, or crack a joke when it was desperately needed. Which was more often than you would think. Grim and gritty was so late '80s.

But evidently, so was London in 1990. Assuming this is really happening and I'm not hallucinating or something, I'm in my mid-teens on the other side of the Atlantic, tinkering with machines and listening to Rush right now. Don't judge. "Tom Sawyer" was instrumental in my super-development. I've never spent much time in London, but I remember it being more frenetic than this. It's still busy, but this is a more reasonable sort of busy.

Like I said, I'm not a detective. But I do notice things. And as I ride along in the police car beside Etta, I'm noticing details: Anti-Thatcherite graffiti, punks with massive Mohawks, bad dance music blaring from every car, homeless teenagers everywhere. There's a sort of grimness here, a sort of hopelessness. You can see it on people's faces. I don't remember much history, but I know Thatcher will be gone by the end of the year.

Etta's been rambling off about cases – kidnappings, disappearances, a few murders. They sound interesting... I can help. I love to help people. Especially cute policewomen. But really, most anyone who needs it. That's why playing Blue Beetle was always so addictive, even if Bruce and the rest eventually started looking down on me, thinking I was too goofy to be a superhero. Maybe they were right.

Unbidden, the image of  myself lying dead on the floor with Max Lord standing above me comes forward. I shake it off before I scream.

It's the little things that are different. I haven't seen a cell phone the entire time I've been here, but there are some old-school computers at a few desks. Not even all the desks. And they're, like, cave-puters. No Internet, yet. Not in any big, substantive way, anyways.

That's bad. If I'm going to get home, I need research. I need to figure out how it happened, who's responsible. This doesn't feel like Max. The Lord of Time, maybe? That Legion bad guy, The Time Trapper? I've never really dealt with either, so I don't know why they'd bother. A magic baddie? Maybe, but usually the Phantom Stranger shows up and says something cryptic by now.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe all of this is in my head. That's really not a comforting thought.

We walk through the halls of the police station, and the desk sergeant glares at me as Etta and I walk up. Another blonde woman, older than Etta. Pretty, but there's an odd sternness in her demeanor that I can't... and then I notice she's gesticulating at me.

"Srgt. Jenkins," says Etta, "This is DI Kord, he's..."

"I know who he is, PC Bishop," replies the sergeant, and I realize she's American, too, which is odd. "We were expecting him this morning, and then he was in the hospital. Honestly, can't you schedule your injuries until after you've punched in? The paperwork alone... "

"Thanks, Skip!" says Etta, grabbing my arm and pulling me past the desk. "Don't mind her," she says, conspiratorially. "She's... kind of a stickler for rules. And has no sense of humor. Or empathy... or tact... "

"Good thing she's in public service," I joke, and Etta smiles. "But hey, are there many Americans at Scotland Yard? You, me and her make three ..."

"A few. I hadn't really thought about it. And I think Srgt. Jenkins was actually born in Norway or someplace. Anyway, here we are."

We enter a large, open office where a hectic mob of people – some in uniform, some not – stop everything they're doing to gape at me.

"Is there something on my face?" I whisper to Etta, who just giggles. "Everyone, this is Detective Inspector Kord."

The reception's not-exactly warm. A woman in her late 50s with a kindly face and eagle-sharp eyes strides forward, extending her hand. It's more formal than friendly, though.

"Welcome to CID," says the woman. "I'm DS Smith. I guess we'll be working together."

I shake her hand and smile. There's something in her look – does she not trust me? Did I take her promotion? I can't read her. This one's actually English, though, so that's reassuring. I was beginning to get suspicious.

"Looking forward," I say, deciding to stick with the game. "Sorry I'm late. Got into a scuffle on the way here."

"He stopped a mugging," adds Etta, brightly. DS Smith's smile becomes slightly more genuine. She's still suspicious of me, but it's subsiding.

"What," says another voice, from a desk in the corner. A large, dark-haired man with a London accent – much rougher than DS Smith's – "is he expecting a medal?"

Most of the room laughs, but the man just glares at me, a sort of brooding anger just underneath his skin. DS Smith sort of roles her eyes and speaks up, bringing the room back to attention.

"Don't mind DC Black," she says. "He's just winding you up."

'Right," says a bellowing English voice on the other side of the office. "If anyone's going to do any winding up around here, it's gonna be me!"

All eyes turn towards the large man who has just entered from an office across the room.

"So you're the Yank they sent me,"  he says, looking me up and down. "What? They didn't have any Frenchmen this time?"

There are a few nervous laughs. I step forward and start to introduce myself, when I realize that Etta – who is suddenly standing stiffly at attention – has actually stepped back away from me. That cant be good.

"DI Kord," she says, barely concealing a sudden nervousness, "This is DCI Hunt."

The large man looks me up and down."Show the Yank his desk and get him outfitted," he says, dismissively. "We don't have time for tea and crumpets with the queen." A seriousness falls across his face as he addresses the room. "There's been another kidnapping."

Part Three: Dead Man's Party

I think I may have a screamed the entire drive from the station to Braddock Academy, a "posh" boarding school in Westminster. I should have been thinking about the case or how to get home, but it was everything I could do to hang on for dear life as DCI Hunt propelled his "Starsky & Hutch" colored 1985 BMW M5 through the streets of London, going far, far out of his way so he could find roads to "open 'er up on."

My face was greener than the Martian Manhunter with too many Oreos in him.

"Ah, c'mon, Nancy," shouted Hunt. "I thought you Yanks loved your fast cars and your big guns. Show me a little Clint Eastwood, why don't ya? GO AHEAD PUNK, MAKE MY DAY!"

And that's when it occurred to me that The Dead Pool had only been out for a couple years, and he was still re-enacting the movie as he swerved in and out of traffic and flew around blind corners. On the other hand, we beat everyone from the station there.

"The boy's name is Brian Braddock III," said a uniformed officer, handing Hunt a photograph of the handsome blonde teenager.

"I'm guessing it's not just a coincidence the place is named after him, then," said Hunt, snarling.

"No, guv," said the officer. "His family founded the place, and his father's on the Board of Trustees."

"Of course he is," said Hunt. "All right, Nancy, let's go talk to the headmaster.

"You really need to stop calling me Nancy, DCI Hunt," I said, trying to sound somewhat professional. "My name is Kord. Ted Kord."

"Right," said Hunt, not even looking at him. "All right, DI Yankee Doodle Dandy, this is the second kidnapping at this school, following one suspicious death."

He handed me a small stack of folders he had stuffed in his trenchcoat.

"The boy who died was named Aiden Walker. Found a few blocks away. It looks like he was running, fell and hit his head. Then, when the girl Nara McKenzie went missing, we began to see a pattern, and figured the first death was a kidnapping attempt gone wrong."

"And now another kid," I said, thinking out loud. "Ransom demands?"

"None yet," said Hunt, as we came to the Headmaster's office. "But the day is young."

We took statements from the headmaster and other staff members, and then fanned out to search the campus. I took the main building, alongside some uniformed officers whose names I never caught. We'd been given a list of young Brian's friends, but it was pretty much every kid on campus. The list of his enemies was virtually identical.

The uniforms had begun searching dorms. I was amazed that parents hadn't called their kids home after the first kidnapping. Must be a stiff upper lip thing. The police went through the rooms with clockwork efficiency, while I tried to look for something out of place. I fell a few rooms behind them, looking around one that had just been searched. A radio had been left on, playing Michael Jackson's Bad. I sighed, and extended my hand to turn it off, when there was a squelch of static, and suddenly, a familiar voice was talking.

Blue Beetle's dead, said a voice that was unmistakably Bruce's. No one sounded like Bruce when he was in Batman mode. And trust me, I've tried to imitate him a few times.

Then it hit me: "Wait," did he say I was dead?"

Gaea's mercy, said a voice that I recognized as Diana's.

No ... gasped Booster. Booster Gold, time-traveling superhero and my best friend. I knew all of these voices. I wanted to scream at them, tell them I wasn't dead, but instead I just listened, in shock.

I believe Ted discovered who stole Brother I, said Bruce. See, that's what a detective sounds like! and I believe that's why I was murdered.

"It was Max," I said to the radio. "Max killed me. Max ..."I wanted to vomit.

YOU SON OF A BITCH, shouted Booster. Ted went to you at the start! He went to you and you knew what he was getting into and you refused to tell him!

Angry Booster had a very good point., says Diana. Trying to be the voice of reason.

Booster, echoes Bruce, although it's clear even he doesn't know what to say.

YOU GOT HIM KILLED, shouts Booster and there's a crackle of static and then...

"DI Kord," says one of the policemen, and suddenly it's just Michael Jackson's voice coming out of the radio. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "Still ... still a little beat up from this morning." I laughed. "Dead tired."

"Sir," said the cop, who obviously didn't know what else to say. What could he say. Even if he believed me.

We were a team, I thought. How could they ...

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a photo of the school soccer... err, football ... team. Braddock was on that team. It was in the file. But Aiden was a little out of shape, and there were no girls on the team, which discounted Nara. But still ...

"Find something interesting," said a gruff voice from the doorway. I turned, and it was DC Black.

"Maybe," I said. Just a hunch, but... "we need someone to go through all three of these kids' classes and activities again. Any clubs they belonged to. Social groups. There's a connection here. I can feel it."

"Right," said Black, and there was sort of a sulk in his voice, like he was about to argue, but knew he was outranked. That's when I realized: I can make people do things!!!!

Black just nodded as he walked off, but I could feel it. There was something about these kids. Something no one else could see.

I moved on to the next room, but it was hard to concentrate. All I could hear was the rage and pain in Booster's voice.

Part Four: Criminal World

I've traveled in time before, of course. I know, that's a really ridiculous thing to say, but it's been ... was... is that sort of life. When Dan Garret died and left me the Scarab, I sort of thought I'd become some sort of mystical crusader, like him. But it never really worked for me, so I ended up honoring him by swinging from rooftop to to rooftop in Hub City, and catching bad guys with nifty gadgets. I even built a flying ship that could maneuver in urban environments. Pretty cool, huh?But yeah, it was all bank robbers and muggers until The Crisis. You know the one. Red Skies? The Anti-Monitor? Ringing a bell? Anyway, I hadn't been active for long, but The Monitor tapped me to help save the Universe. I know, right? The big time! I ended up in the future, when there were barely any people alive and animals talked. I became buds with a Gorilla King, at least until he died. I know how that sounds. But what I'm getting at here is, I've seen crazy.

Crazy doesn't send you back in time to a place where everyone thinks you're a police detective in England. And it certainly doesn't have you investigating the kidnapping and/or murder of a trio of teens. And yet, here I am. Which means I've not yet found the bottom of the crazy well, because if this is some supervillain plot, I'm totally lost.

Maybe there's something about the kids... some reason I'm supposed to be here...

"Good instincts," says a pleasant voice, and I look up to see DS Smith smiling at me, carrying pieces of paper. "It seems all three of them were involved in a... group activity."

She handed me the paper, and I'll admit, I was confused."The Socialist Students Union? I thought they were a bunch of rich kids."

"Right," came the belligerent chiding of DCI Hunt. "That's what most of these schoolyard Commies are. Working class stiffs, we know the value of a real job. Ain't that right, Sirius?"

DC Black just glowered. "Don't mind him," continued Hunt. "I'm just winding him up. He comes off all rough, but he's from a family of toffs, ain't he?"

"I ain't anything like my family, guv," said Black, simply. "I'm a copper."

"That you are, my boy," said Hunt. So let's go be coppers and find out what our junior Marxists are up to that would get them in trouble."

I looked a the names on the list: Katy Bashir, Tim Bashir, Cullen Bloodstone ... "Bloodstone?" I said. "Now that's a suspicious name!"

"Yes," said Smith, dryly. "Because villains are always appropriately titled."

"Bring 'em all in," said Hunt. I want to talk to all three of them. Down at the station. Away from this place."

"Sure, but I'm still not seeing how it all links together," I said, flipping through the papers. "Far as I can see, they're basically idealists. Do-gooders. Youth homelessness, caring for the poor..."

"Load of bloody bullocks," said Hunt. "The Berlin Wall's open, and Old Maggie and your new President Bush are serving it to the Russkies. Said so on the telly."

He was right. This was the time: Everything was happening fast. The Soviet Union was effectively gone already, and would be officially kaput in... what? A year? I remember my dad wanting to take me on a trip to see the Berlin Wall come down, but it never happened. Work. Of course. And wow this is not the time to be processing my issues.

"Well," I said, "just because it's all tied to this group, it doesn't mean that the group's activities are the reason they're being targeted. We'll find out soon enough.

"Hunt looked like he was going to say something, and then just grunted his assent, walking back toward the headmaster's office.

"Wow," said DS Smith. "He must really like you. He's usually much more difficult to deal with than this."

"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe he's just got a problem with dead and missing kids. He's looked distracted ever since we got here."

Smith nodded, as she watched him leave."I've got a son not much older than these children myself," she said, simply. I nodded seriously, but I'll admit, I was kind of glowing inside. For whatever reason, people were taking me seriously here. It wasn't something I was used to.

"Hey," I said, trying to dig out of the awkward and unfamiliar sense of pride. "Is there anything I can call you besides 'SC Smith'?"

She smiled. "You can call me Sarah Jane," she said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sarah Jane. We'll see what happens when we get some of these kids alone.I turned, and that was when I saw him in the crowd of students watching the police work from a distance. He was younger – 18 maybe? –  and skinnier, but there was no mistaking his face. It was the face of the man who would eventually kill me.

Max Lord.

Part Five: Disintegration

I remember it vividly, Max sitting casually in the Justice League headquarters, waiting for us to return. We had no idea he had been pulling strings behind the scenes to pull us all together.

The name is Lord, Batman, he said. Maxwell Lord. And I just thought I'd drop into your secret headquarters and introduce you to your newest member... Booster Gold!

The brass on that man! Is it any wonder we eventually gave into him, let him steer the League into new territory. But at the time, I didn't realize how important that moment was... how it introduced me to two of the most important in my life... the friend who stayed true to the end, and the one who betrayed me. The one who killed me.I'm already moving toward the crowd, away from the other cops, before I realize what's happening. Few in the crowd notice me. I'm in plain clothes, after all. Just a man walking. But Max can see me. It takes him a moment, but our gazes meet, and he seems to realize I'm coming for him. He begins to back away, begins to run.

This man killed me. HIM. Not Doomsday, D'espero or The Gray Man. Not the Madmen or Carapax or Catalyst. HIM. Max Lord. He murdered ...

I'm running now, and so is he. He darts into the crowd, hoping to lose ,me, but I'm leaping now, bounding over the crowd and bouncing off the walls of buildings. I'm the Blue freaking Beetle! I'm the Blue Beetle and everyone is staring at me. I can hear shouts from the other cops behind me.  I ignore them as I leap, flip and land on the other side of the crowd, right in front of my fleeing quarry.

"Howdy, Max!" I say, chipper as I can fake. "Not leaving yet, are we? The party's just starting."

"Who are you?!?!?" shouts mini-Max, and it's suddenly clear to me that whether his presence here is a coincidence or not, he really is just a teenager here. "Why are you chasing me!?!?"

I brace myself for his mind-control powers, and then remember he didn't have them yet. Got those during the Dominator invasion. Still, he's dangerous. I grab him and pull his arms behind his back, forcing him on his knees to cuff him. I'm hearing shouting. I look up, and Sarah Jane is shouting at me.

"DI KORD!" she's shouting. "What happened? Why are you chasing this boy? Who is he?"She must have ran after me when I bolted... she's just caught up and is mildly out of breath. But looking at her in the face, I realize how crazy this must look.

"This is Max Lord," I say, as confidently as I can. I knew him back in the States." The boy looks visibly confused at that statement. "I need to bring him in for questioning. I'm pretty sure his being here is no coincidence."

"I go to school here!" shouts the boy, but I don't relent."He has something to do with this, Sarah Jane," I plead. "I'm sure of it."

She looks into my eyes, and seems to be searching for something. Her lips purse and a stiffness comes over her manner, that small needle of distrust again. Finally, though, she relents.

"All right, Detective Inspector," she says, bowing to rank if nothing else. "we'll bring the boy in for questioning. In the meantime, they've found the Bashir twins. DCI Hunt is going to be questioning them. You might want to accompany him."

"I'm sure DCI Hunt can question two teenagers by himself," I say.

Sarah Jane just sighs."That's because you've never seen him question a suspect, before," she says, glancing then toward the handcuffed Max.

"Of course," I'm sure you'll do much better," she quips, before walking back toward the cars.I follow her, dragging the protesting Max with me. I've caught the guy who killed me. So why the Hell do I suddenly feel guilty?  

Part Six: Dance With the Devil

Hunt having taken off already, I was left to ride back to the station with Smith and Black. I waited in Smith's car while they dealt with getting Max carted back in a patrol car. Which was fine. I needed a moment to catch my breath before heading back into the mess. I still had no idea what was going on. I didn't know if Max being here is a coincidence or not. And if I really did have a life here, I had no idea where I lived.

The crackle of the police radio was lulling me to sleep. Slowly, I drifted off, until I heard a familiar, acerbic voice cut through the static.

So it's true? said a voice that could only belong to my be my least-favorite renegade Green Lantern, Guy Gardner. Somebody killed Beetle?

It's true says Diana. Who did it? Guy responds, his voice colder than I think I've heard. And why the Hell are you floating around here with HER... instead of getting the old crew together and kicking their asses?

The conversation goes back and forth, with Guy becoming increasingly belligerent and Diana somehow becoming even more sympathetic. There's a third person there, and I don't need to hear his voice to know who it is.

Look. Shut up, all right, says Guy. Yes, you've got a body to die for, and I'll admit, I could stare at that rack for hours. But you're not one of us, so keep out of this, OK?

Diana protests, but it's obvious that Booster's made up his mind.

Look, he says, finally finding his voice. I appreciate everything you've done... more than you can know. You believed Ted when no one else did. But Guy's right. You were never part of our League.

I wake with a start as Smith and Black get back into the car.

"Catching a cat nap?" asks Black. "I can get you home If you want a little lie down ..."

"No, no," I say. "I'm fine. Just been a long day," I reply, but thankfully, no one is in a talkative mood. I stare out the window as Sarah Jane drives, and watch London unfold. Why London? I think. Is it because Max is here?

Guy, Booster, Diana... they're trying to find out what happened.  If only I could communicate with them. For a moment, I consider leaving some sort of time capsule or something, but I can't say for certain this is really my world. For one thing, I can't find any trace that the Justice Society ever existed. Even when I was a kid and they were nowhere to be found, you'd see a picture of them somewhere... some old magazine, somebody's framed keepsake in an office. Something. Here, it's like they never existed.

The station is in an uproar, with the three teenagers being brought in. Confusion abounds, as no one seems entirely sure why they were there – particularly Max. But there's something else in the air, too, and it comes to a head as Srgt. Jenkins. Stops me almost as soon as I walk in.

"DI Kord," she says. "You need to be in interrogation room No. 3. DCI Hunt is interrogating those twins."

"I just need to check..."

"You don't seem to understand," she says. "DCI Hunt is interrogating them. That never goes well. Well, maybe once."

When the seriousness on her face sinks in, I move hurriedly toward the interrogation room, where Hunt is waving his arms menacingly and shouting at an Arab teenager.

"All right, Muammar Junior," shouts Hunt, right in the boy's face. "You're going to tell me what you and your little comrades have been up to, or else I'm going see to it that you have a one way ticket back to wherever you came from..."

"I'm from London," says the boy, surprising clam. I'm British, of Egyptian descent, not Libyan."

"I don't give a flying fuck if you're Ali-fucking Baba and your little Socialite Socialist are your fucking thieves, you..."

I can't be sure if he was actually going to take the swing, but the machine-gun blasts of racism were enough to get me riled up, and I was in a bad mood already. However it happened, I was suddenly standing between Hunt and the boy.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?" I shouted at him. "He's just a teenager!"

"That teenager," said Hunt, "knows something. He either knows where the two missing kids are, or knows why they were taken. He knows why that boy's dead. You can go ahead and report my to D and C if you want – Keats would love another crack at me – but I'm going to find out what's what, and we don't have time to coddle his poor little rich boy sensitivities."

Hunt towered over me, and maybe it was just because I had heard Guy's voice on the radio, it was clear that this monolithic overreaction was because he was sincerely worried about the kids. Maybe even this kid. Still ...

"Let's speak outside," I said, trying to sound as serious as I could. Hunt just grunted and followed me out to the hallway.

"Look," I said, "there's a right way and a wrong way to question ... " and suddenly I was pinned against the wall by his hammock hands.

"Don't go lecturing me, with your American sanctimony," said Hunt, "people like you... ."

I didn't let him finish, but rather grabbed his arm, twisted it and threw him against the opposite wall.

"I don't like bullies," Hunt. "You're probably right about what he knows, but ..."

"But there is a right way and a wrong way," said a new voice – an English accent, I think, but with a small, imperceptible alien quality to it. "DCI Hunt, DI Kord. he added casually, as though he were just passing them in the hall.

Hunt and I looked up from our confrontation to see a tall, handsome am with a thick shock of blonde hair, watching impassively with his hands behind his back.

"DCS Vale," said Hunt, and I realized this had to to be some sort of big boss.

"Gene," said Vale, still eerily calm, all things considered. "I just stopped in to talk to DI Kord."

"Me?" I asked, dumbfounded."Indeed," said Vale. "We have things to discuss."

Part Seven: Waiting in the Sky

DCS Vale was a tall man – lean and muscular. He moved with an almost eerie grace, and he had the platonic ideal of a movie star's rugged chin. He seemed kind of ageless: He could be anywhere between 25 and 55, and yet there was something about him that made him feel even older. His arms were behind his back as we walked down the hall. The hall itself was lined with numerous framed photographs. Vale seemed to examine them absently as we walked.

"How are you settling in on your first day, DI Kord?" he asked, and I had to take a moment to answer.

"Well," I said. "I was hospitalized after getting pounded on by skinheads, then got to work and walked straight into a kidnapping-homicide. With teenagers.  Speaking of which, I should ..."

"Go talk to young Max Lord?" asked Vale. I nodded. "I know he's a longshot, but I can't help but think he's connected to this somehow."

"So no evidence... just a hunch?" asked Vale, and the levelness of his voice became sort of unnerving. There was something foreign about his accent, something almost musical  He laughed.

" I would have expected wild hunches from DCI Hunt, not you, DI Kord," he says. "When I got your transfer papers, I thought you were going to be a real white knight, not a wild maverick like him."

"Well I," I stammered. "I'm not... I don't ..."

"Relax," said Vale. "I'm just giving you a hard time. Gene's all right, in the end. He's been doing this a long time. He knows a thing or two." Then, he looked at me, and there was an unshakable calm there. A placidity I'd only seen ... I don't know. Space, maybe, the few times I've been out there. Nowhere on Earth.

"You're concerned about him interrogating the Bashir twins," he said, and it wasn't a question. "and with good reason. That looked like quite a scene back there. But trust Gene, Ted. He might not seem it, but he's one of the good ones."

We had come to an interrogation room, where Max was waiting by himself. Vale nodded and walked on, and I entered to watch Max through the one-way glass . He looked like a scared kid. Which I guess he was. I could barely see the man who shot me in his face.

Etta was waiting in the observation room, watching the boy with interest.

"I'm not sure what you saw in him that made him such a threat," she said lightly.

"Well," I said, trying to sound confident, "let's find out."

Sitting down across from Max was surreal. He had always been the one in control of our dealings. It was just part of who he was. Now? Not so much."Who are you?" he asked. "You said you knew me. Were you one of the cops who investigated my dad's death? Those are the only policemen I've ever met, and I don't remember you."

"Something like that," I said, trying to keep my voice level like Vale did. Now that guy had a presence. It was like talking to Superman, that sheer force of will. I think I was developing a man-crush on DCS Vale... not that there's anything wrong with that. I kept my focus on max.

"Do you belong to any groups or organizations,"  I asked. "The Socialist Students Union, maybe?"Max shook his head.

"No. No way," he said. "If I were any more of a capitalist, they'd put me in a top hat and monocle."

"Oh, yeah," I laughed. "I could totally see that.  But did you know any of the kids in that group? The Bashir twins? Or Braddock?"

"Well... yeah," he said. "It's a small school. I know pretty much everybody."

This... was harder than I thought it would be. I was running out of questions. So we talked a few more minutes, and had him give me his whereabouts of the time of the kidnappings and murder, and then I let him go, asking a uniformed office to drive him home safely. I might just have completely blown this lead, and I still didn't know if either he or the kids had any bearing on what I was doing in 1990.

I wasn't a cop. I was a superhero. I needed to start doing this the way I knew how to do it.

I watched Max leave, more confused than when he entered, then started looking at the faces on the wall, the snapshots of decades and decades of police. Some were old, black & white. Others had that odd off color that photos from the '60s and '70s had. He didn't know what he was looking for in all of these strangers' faces, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it. And then he saw it, and was so startled he yipped. Etta, not far off heard and asked what was wrong.

"This picture," I said, looking at what looked like an old '70s print – judging from the color and the collars. I pointed to the large man in the center of the shot.

DCI Hunt. Looking the exact same then as he did now.

Part Eight: A Thousand Wwords

"That can't be him," said Etta, shoving me aside to look closer at the photo. "Look at the caption. It says 1973."

She stepped back again, as though trying to get a different perspective on it.

"Maybe it's his dad or something?" she said, hopefully.

I guess I'd seen more impossible things than PC Henrietta Bishop, because I wasn't convinced. Besides, the idea that DCI Gene Hunt might be 20 or so years older than he appeared wasn't even the weirdest thing to happen that day.

"There's names on the plaque," I said, wiping the dust off with my finger. "PC Christopher Skelton, DC Ray Carling, WPC Annie Cartwright, DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler." For some reason, my eyes were drawn to Tyler. There was something about him, something almost familiar.

Etta was fascinated now, looking over the wall of photos for another glimpse of Hunt. She found one.

"Look at this," she said. "The date's 1982, and he's still labeled a DCI. Has he been a DCI for more than 20 years? That's... a little weird."

I looked at the photo. The color quality and hair both screamed "'80s" so loudly Flock of Seagulls may as well be playing behind them.

"Hey," I said. "The other photo's labeled 'Manchester,' and this one's labeled 'London.' Did he transfer?"

Eta nodded.

"I think I heard that once," she said. "He's definitely from somewhere up that way."

"OK," I said. "Then why are Skelton and Carling in this picture, too? Is that normal?"

"No," replied Etta. "It isn't. And they look the exact same. My God, these photos have been here the whole time I have, and I've never noticed them."

She wiped the dust of the tiny plaque at the photo's base.

"WPC Sharon Granger," she said, reading the plate, "and DI Alex Drake. That name's kind of familiar, actually. I think she was a big deal about a decade ago."

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She moved on," said a snarling voice behind us. We turned, and Hunt was behind us, annoyance written all over his face. "Eventually, everyone moves on. Except me. And you lot'll be moving on a lot faster if you keep poking your noses in other people's business.

"But the photos," said Etta, "they... "

"Old friends," said Hunt, dismissively. "Good coppers, every one of them."

He turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Etta and I dumbfounded behind him.

I started to speak, but Etta interrupted.

"You know, DI Kord," she said. "I think our shift is about over. Fancy a pint?"

Dear God, did I ever.

Part Nine: Enjoy the Silence

"... so my mom and dad were cops." said Etta, over a half-pint of bitter, which was far-and-away the best beer I'd ever drank. I honestly didn't even think I liked beer that much. I tended to order drinks adorned by fruit and umbrellas, a habit I picked up in Kooey Kooey Kooey. And I wonder why Bruce and the others didn't take me seriously ... "But they were kind of distant. Sometimes I feel like they weren't there at all. I literally have almost no childhood memories of them. Is that weird?"

It was a little weird, but in that ridiculously normal sort of way. It was the weirdness of everyday life, not the kind of life I'd lived since I took up the blue Beetle mantle. No, if it had been my kind of weird, her parents would have been trapped in suspended animation in some sort of alien crystal, leaving her to grow up alone in a dystopian future. Which is a really specific supposition, but what do you do? I've seen strange backstories, and absentee parents were about as normal as it gets.

"I almost never saw my parents, either. My dad was in business. Traveled a lot. Think he was always mad that I went into... law enforcement... instead of following in his footsteps." Etta nodded in understanding, and then excused herself to use the loo, which is really cute phraseology, especially coming from her. Everything was cute coming from her. And I knew I really, really shouldn't start falling for a girl from 20-odd years in the past. I could ... I don't know... end up changing history or something. I could be stepping on butterflies. I could ...

Oh, who was I kidding? History, as I knew it, had already been changed. A teenage Max Lord was the only sign of any proto-JLA at all. There was no Daily Planet in Metropolis, and indeed, no Metropolis. No Bruce Wayne listed in Gotham City, because there was no such place. I was beginning to lean toward alternate-universe – I've seen some of that before, too – and was beginning to wonder if the presence of a young Max Lord was just a dumb coincidence. There was a Thatcher and a Reagan and a Michael Jackson, after all. Maybe Max is some sort of universal constant. The universe can be kind of unfair like that.I took my moment of solitude to examine the pub. It was pretty much exactly what I'd think an English pub would look like. Soccer on a telly above the deep-brown wooden bar, a snooker table in the back, darts. The place was pretty busy, and it didn't take me long to realize it was mostly packed with cops. I recognized a few from the station, mostly uniformed officers. None of them were paying the least bit of attention to me, which was fine. The only thing about the pub that seemed off-stereotype was that the bartender had dreadlocks and a Jamaican accent. All the cops seemed to love him, and he knew their regular drinks straightway.

Idly, I wondered if I'd be here long enough to have a regular drink. I wonder if I could even survive going home, what with the bullet through the head and all. Maybe this time warp deal was some sort of gift. I mean, the universe could have stuck me in a worse place. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket... some cash, a bank card, a couple credit cards, an ID... I evidently had an address, which I reminded myself I hadn't actually ever visited. There were keys in my pocket that I hadn't thought much about. I hadn't had time to think about much of anything.

There were too many mysteries, and I needed to begin unraveling them in order. The kids take priority. That's not even a question. Then Max, whether or not he's connected to the kidnappings or not. Then I figure out if how I got here and if I can get home. Looking up, I see Etta making her way form the back, stopping to talk to friends as she goes, and part of me wonders if I shouldn't consider staying. What else is waiting for me back home, right?

But then I remember that Max has access to every member of the JLA's secret identities and some sort of killer spy satellite. He's not building up that sort of weapon stash for fun. No, I may be sore with the JLA for patronizing me and letting me die and all, but I can't leave them to Max's mercies. If he'd kill me, who was at least ostensibly his friend, he'd kill all of them, and the ones he couldn't, like Superman? He'd either try to control them or go after the people he loved. Clark's got a wife... Lois. He's got friends. All of them are in danger as long as I'm trapped here.

"You look like you're deep in thought," says Etta, returning to the table.

I smile, and shrug my shoulders boyishly. "It's been a big day," I say. "I'm having  a blast, but I think I should probably get some rest. What with all the battery and everything."

Etta laughed, and nodded in understanding, saying, "good thing your apartment's right upstairs, then." I tried not to look like I was surprised.

"Yeah ," I said. "Good thing."Another synchronicity. And also, where was the staircase up?

Part Ten: Free Falling

You know, if she didn't think I was a co-worker and we weren't surrounded by fellow cops, I'm pretty sure I would have gotten a goodnight kiss out of that. Mostly sure. My track record hasn't been so hot in recent years. Kept convincing myself I had a shot with Barbara Gordon, but it never worked out. She just didn't see me that way, and was way too hung up on Nightwing still. And why wouldn't she be? Nightwing's got that acrobat's body, movie star good looks and loads of those Bruce Wayne dollars. Not that Kord Industries is anything to sneeze at, but one of the trails that led me to Max was the discovery that he was hacking my bank accounts and robbing me blind. I discovered this when my credit card bounced refueling Barbara's jet. Awkward. And to make it worse, Batman seems to have given every little bit of his own sensitivity to his former teen sidekick: Nightwing was as warm and personable as Bruce wasn't. Not that I'm jealous or anything.

But then, maybe it's best that I didn't invite Etta up to my room tonight: It's really not much to look at. A bed stuffed in a corner, some bare shelves, a natty old couch and a B&W TV. Dear Lord, the thing only gets four channels, and one of them was playing snooker. And while part of me was realizing that late-night re-runs of classic Doctor Who episodes would be a plus, it was pretty clear I wouldn't have much time to be a couch potato. No, I wanted to go out and do some investigating costumed-superhero style. Not that I had a costume, but there was enough loose, dark clothes that I could make do. Even a ski mask and some gloves! It would do.

But first, I wanted to get a few hours sleep before investigating. I tried to turn off the TV, but the switch didn't seem to work. I sighed, and just turned the volume and figured I'd deal with it later. I fell down on the lumpy mattress, and tried to drift off, only mildly distracted by the intermittent TV static. If I stay here, I'm totally investing in digital.

I fell into a rhythm with the static, and drifted on to sleep. Eventually, the static began to resemble words. Damn, said a voice that sounded a lot like Guy's, It looks like an IRS audit exploded in here. Who knew she could read, huh?

Beatriz! Interjected Booster, We need to talk to you.

Whatever Beatriz Da Costa, the Brazilian superhero known as Fire, was doing, she had to have been totally engrossed, because usually she's a lot quicker to retort to Guy's casual sexism

Do you know who killed Beetle? She replies. Sounding more intense than I think I've ever heard her. Booster replies that they don't, and then she simply responds, Then go away. There's an argument, then: Guy crudely belittles her intelligence, saying she's no detective. Beatriz reminds him that she used to be a spy. Then, she starts talking quickly, mostly in Portuguese. I know very little of the language, but I have enough Spanish to realize she's talking about money and spreadsheets. Booster asks what she's discovered. First, she says, tell me something. Did you and he have any contact with Max Lord in the week before he died?

"YES!!!" I exclaim, so loudly that it wakes me from my sleep. It's pitch-black, and the TV seems to have turned itself off. I don't know if I'm really tapping into my proper timeline or whatever and the people I know back home, but if I am, that means Beatriz has gotten a step closer to discovering what Max did. Will do. Time travel is confusing.

I wake, throw water on my face, and change into some appropriate clothing. I look less like a superhero and more like a cat burglar, but it'll do. I open the window: No nifty high-tech stun gun, no flying mechanical bug-ship, not even a grappling line. I'm only three stories up, but I should feel ridiculous contemplating stepping out that window. The feeling doesn't even last a second: I leap out the window and fall, then twist until my feet touch the side of the wall. The moment I make contact, I kick out, and then bounce. I practically defy gravity, bouncing and jumping and leaping my way up onto the rooftops, and then across town, all the way, laughing hysterically. Mere days ago I was miserable, and then I was dead. And now... now I feel more free than I have in years. In bounds and leaps and the occasional joy ride on the tops of trucks and buses, I make my way to Winchester, and the Braddock Academy.

Time to discover what's really happening here. Time to be – wardrobe aside – the Blue Beetle again.  And despite myself, I laughed with joy as I leaped.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Part Eleven: Dangerous

I move briskly through the shadows of the academy, noticing the police presence stationed on the outside, and probably on the inside. There's likely private security, too, and frankly, if I'm caught, I'm probably in hot water. But I'm pretty good at not being seen. I'm no Batman, but I'm not slouch, either. It occurs to me that I should probably stop comparing myself to Batman. Bruce is in a class by himself, and I'm pretty sure the constantly comparing myself played havoc with my self-esteem. And again, not the time to self-analyze. But then again, when is the time?

The  Bashir twins' stories checked out, but there's still no way they had no idea what had happened to their friend, and evidently, Cullen Bloodstone still hasn't turned up. No one's reported him missing yet, but but still... either he's been kidnapped, too, or he has something to do with it whatever it is that's happening. Still nothing linking Max to any of it, but I'm not willing to let go of the coincidence just yet.

Bloodstone's dorm room is on the third floor. He shared it with Aiden Walker. How did that not ping before, I ask myself, but that's a question for later. There's no security on the windows, and it's easy to open from the outside. As far as I can tell, no one is watching the window at all. I suppose normal cops wouldn't think like that.

The police have been through here, though, although nothing of great interest was found. But they were looking for reason someone would murder the boy. He died running from an assailant. And then they went and looked for evidence of a kidnapping. But what if that wasn't it at all. What if our little social crusaders were keeping a secret, and someone was blackmailing them. If that's the case, most of these kids are still alive, so I'm rooting for that one. Braddock was filthy rich, but Walker wasn't. Jealousy? Doesn't ping right, and Walker's financials were holding up fine. He was on a full scholarship, with a cost-of-living stipend. Bloodstone was rich, too, although not in Braddock's league. The investigators had turned up no evidence of conflict between any of the kids.

When is a do-gooder not a do-gooder, I ask myself. I'm not entirely sure Max was always playing us, and even his ranting at Checkmate headquarters ringed of a twisted sort of altruism. So when do you stop being a hero? When you go mad?

I search the room for medications, prescriptions, pill bottles. I find one –  a half-filled bottle of clozapine – prescribed to Bloodstone. Clozapine's an anti-psychotic medication, right? It would have been brand-new in 1990, but his family could afford it. I replace the bottle where I found it, and then leave the way I came. Quietly, I make my way to the roof. I don't have the equipment to analyze the drugs myself, but I think a picture's starting to form. I make my way down to the street, stashing my mask and gloves in my I've-been-warned-not-to-call-it-a-fanny pack, and walk over to talk to the uniforms on the street. I show them my badge, give them the room number and tell them to watch it from every angle. No one goes in or out. They call in the security already inside and reposition officers to the floor.

I also tell them to fetch the Bashir twins again, if they can find them, and Bloodstone, although he's probably missing. One of the uniforms asks if I want Max Lord again, too, but I tell him that won't be necessary.

I begin to ask for a ride back to the station, but when I turn around, DS Sarah Jane Smith and DC Sirius Black are standing there, watching with great curiosity and no small amount of visible disapproval.

"Do you have something you'd like to share with us, DI Kord?" says Sarah Jane, in a terrifying school teacher tone. I gulp, and nod.

"We'll talk on the way," I say, mustering as much courage as I can. "I think I've got this about figured out."Well, most of it, anyway ...

Part Twelve: Heart of the Matter

I had to crouch everything in veiled terms, making up an "anonymous tipster" who let me know that Bloodstone was on anti-psychotic medication – but our warrant to search the room was still good from when Walker died. The medication was bagged and brought back to the station for testing, and an APB was put out for Bloodstone.

"So I guess there's something to having a sinister name after all," said Sarah Jane, still dubious. "But it'll take days to get the test results back."

I just shook my head.

"We won't need them," I said, reaching over to the evidence table where the bottle of pills were. "I'll bet you anything when the results come back we'll discover this was a placebo."

Smith and Black just stared at me for a moment, and I braced myself for my crazy theory to be dismissed. After all, it was pretty much pure conjecture.

But Black cocked his head one way, then another, all the while appearing to be in the most painful sort of contemplation imaginable. He looked as though he might strain himself from the effort.

"You're saying," he said finally, "he went off his meds and killed Aiden Walker?"Sarah Jane shook her head sadly.

"No," she said. "Someone took him off his medication then pointed him at the boy like a bullet."A storm cloud fell across Sirius' face.

"One of his crew, then?" he said.I shook my head.

"No," I said. "At least, I don't think so. I think if they knew who did it, they would have just come right out and said so. No, I think they have a sense of what happened, and how, but were protecting Bloodstone. They've gone to ground, concocting the kidnapping scheme to cover their tracks."

The pair nodded in understanding."So that provides Bloodstone cover, and allows them to search for the real killers," said Sarah Jane.

"But why would they do that?" said Sirius. "They're just kids."

I hesitated a moment before I answered, weighing how much I wanted to give away in that moment, how much I was willing to look like I was a crazy person."Because on some level," I said, mulling each word as it left my mouth, "they're heroes." as their faces grew quizzical, I gave myself permission to abort the decision I was in the process of making, and then knew it was the only way forward. Because while I didn't understand everything that was happening, I had figured one or two things out, and not just about the case.

"Do you ever dream you're someone else?" I asked, and the look in their eyes told me all I needed to know.

Part Thirteen: In Dreams

Sometimes,  when she dreams, Sarah Jane Smith sees herself traveling with a man. A Doctor. She knows that much. Sometimes his face is different. When she's young in the dream, he's older than her. When she's older in the dream, he's younger. She's known him with so many faces, but knows she'd always recognize him. She travels to other times, other worlds. Sometimes the Doctor is gone, and she's surrounded by children. Sometimes she wakes up screaming, afraid for her son, but she knows he's far away.

And sometimes, Sirius Black dreams that he's a wizard, that he can use magic to fly through the air on a motorcycle. Sometimes he dreams he's been betrayed, and that he's been locked away in prison for a long, long time, and the guards are shadows that feed on the prisoners' souls. There's always a pang of loss to those dreams, as though he's remembering friends who died long, long before. And sometimes he dreams of his godson, and dying to protect him from a woman he knows is his cousin. When he wakes from this dream, he's drenched in cold sweat.

Ted Kord tells them his story, although he, too, couches it in terms of being a dream. He says he wouldn't be surprised if everybody at the station had those sorts of dreams, even...

"If we're done holding hands and talking about our feelings," interjects the bellicose voice of DCI Hunt, "perhaps someone can tell me why we're wasting our time with New Age hogwash when there's a murderer loose. He shoots me a look of pure disdain as he says it, and I admit, it's hard to believe there's any sort of world where this awful man's a hero. But then, I also know Guy Gardner.Hunt's bombast has ruined the moment, and Smith and Black have returned to their police roles, as though nothing's happened. Then, back in the rhythm of detective work, Smith's face lights up and she snaps her fingers.

"Do-gooders!" she says, cheerily. "They do public charity, food pantries and the like. They probably know what church basements and the like will be empty and unchecked for days or even weeks on end.

"Right, then," says Hunt. "Get me a list of all the places they volunteered. "We'll start with the places they worked most frequently, then move on to the ones that are more out of the way. Nancy, my office."

I sigh, and follow him into the office, and he closes the door behind me and pulls down the shades. Then, he proceeds to scream at me for what feels like a few days, the gist of it being that if I've fucked up evidence by illegally obtaining information and consequently blowing this case, he was going to do things to me that couldn't possibly be legal. It was all very violent and verbally abusive, and I took every word of it because he was right. I had chewed him out earlier for bending rules, and then I went and did the same.

He plops down his chair in exasperation, and pulls out a cigar, offering me one, which I decline. He lights it up, and the office fills quickly with smoke, which I'm pretty sure wasn't allowed. I cough a little as my lungs fill with ash.

"Do you know why you're here," he asks me, after an an interminable silence punctuated by coughs. I begin to answer, but Hunt just waves me off. "You're here to do police work, not be some kind of vigilante costumed crimefighter. I don't mind cutting a few corners, here and there, but some lines are inviolable. You can't cross them at all. Right now, I can't prove you did anything wrong, but if it happens again, I'll have no choice but to send you down to Keats in D and C, and trust me, if you think I'm a piece of work, you should see him. That man's the Devil himself."I nod and take it, and he banishes me home for the evening, assigning a uniform to drive me home. As I leave his office, though, he says, "it doesn't matter what our dreams say, Nancy. This is the life we need to contemplate, the one we need to take seriously. I'm slack-jawed, unable to respond, and he boots me out of the office, slamming the door behind me.

Part Fourteen: Before the Night is Over

My apartment is dark when I return. I lay down, and try to get some sleep before I have to go back to the station. I'm out the moment I hit the pillow, until there's a hiss of static. The TV's turned itself on again. I try to ignore it, but it won't go away. And then I hear Max's voice. It's slurred, as though he's been drinking.

. . . but when Joker shot Barbara Gordon through the spine last year, he says, and I'm unsure who he's talking to or even when this conversation was happening, Clown Boy shot 16 people before Bats locked him up. Or when John Stewart's arrogance caused billions to die when Xanshi blew up. What do you think those games are about. Do you ever wonder if you guys – just by being around – are doing more harm than good?

I don't recall Max ever talking so seriously about things like that before, but it feels kind of in line with who he became by the time he hit Checkmate. There's a heaviness in his voice that resonates. The pregnant pause fades, and a voice replies to him. It's Booster. Of course it is.

Max, he says, I know you're upset. This is a nightmare, but you can't give up hope. We do what we can. You do what you can, and we...

My mother lived in Coast City, replies Max, and I nearly scream, I'm so startled. I didn't know that. Coast City... I was in a coma for Coast City. It was right after Doomsday's rampage. I nearly died fighting that monster, and Superman did die. For a while, at least. And then... then there were four people who sort-of claimed to be Superman, and one of them was Hank Henshaw, an insane cyborg. He allied himself with another Superman villain, an alien named Mongul, and they destroyed the entire city to turn it into some sort of engine. Everybody there died. The other faux- Supermen came to try and stop him, and Supergirl, and the real Green Lantern, Hal Jordan, who also lived in Coast City but had been in space when it was destroyed. And Clark. That's where Clark came back to life and stopped them.  

How could I not know Max's mother died there? I wondered, and then I realize it's because he probably erased the memories of anyone who knew. That's the moment he turned, when he went from a brazen businessman and superhero supporter to... whatever he's become. Someone who hates us all, who suffered when we failed, and now wants revenge. I understand, now. I understand everything.

Part Fifteen:... Beating Up the Wrong Guys...

The alarm goes off at 7 a.m. – don't actually remember setting it, but whatever – and the sun is shining. Maybe two or three hours of sleep, all told, but I feel fine. Refreshed. I feel like, whatever the hell is happening, is beginning to sort itself out.No food in the pantry, but there's some coffee. I put on the coffee machine and the radio while I shower and get ready for work. I feel human. What's more, the world – this world – is beginning to feel a bit more real. David Bowie's playing on the stereo. Is there life on Maaaaarrrrrss ... I laugh, because on my world, there is. Well, was. J'onn J'onzz , the Martian Manhunter, lead my Justice League team. By the end, I had worn out my welcome with him as much as I had with everyone else. I wonder if he was as worked up as everyone else seemed to be. Probably. Despite the stoicism, he was way more sensitive than Batman.

Some coffee, and then I'll figure out how to get to work. A cab? The tube? I really need to learn my way around. Then, there's a knock on the door, and when I peak through the people, I see it's Sirius. I open the door an let him in.

"Hey," I say. "I just put on some coffee if you want a cup. I know it's more tea over here, but... well, anyway. Any word on the case."That's when he socks me in the jaw. It's a good punch, and my guard is completely down, so I fall hard to the floor.

"You should have just let it be, Kord," he says, and there's a manic look in his eyes. I'm on my feet instantly. He's a brawler, but I'm way better. That said, I'd rather not trash the place.

"What do you mean?" I ask, but I know it's disingenuous. We both know full well what he's talking about.

"I can't stop thinking about it," he says, gibbering now. "Bellatrix is coming for Harry, and I take the curse meant for him. But I'm not dead, am I? I'm here. Is this death? Is this Hell?"

He takes another swing, but this time I block it.

"I don't know," I say. "I don't know what it is. Maybe it's some sort of ..." I'm interrupted by another punch.

"IT'S ALL A LIE!" he shouts, swinging wildly now. "TAKE IT BACK!!!! TAKE IT ALL BACK!!!"

"I can't, I say, arms up now to block each punch, but unwilling to retaliate, which is wearing me down. "I can't. I don't know what's happening, either.

"Sirius falls to his knees then, weeping.

"There's no  magic here. Or there is, but I can't use it. I can't use magic, and I don't if Harry's all right. I don't know if he's alive. I can't help him, and I don't know what I am without magic."

"You're a copper," I say, leaning down and trying to think what Hunt would say. "And I am, too. Whatever else, whoever else we are somewhere else, that's the truth right now."

And then, for a moment, the world turns white. It's not just a blinding light, it's almost as though, for a moment, we no longer exist. I don't have language for it. It's like being nothing at all for a moment. When it passes, Sirius and I are on our feet, and aside from the knocked over furniture, it's as though nothing's happened at all. We head downstairs for some breakfast before heading down to the station. We talk about the case, and how there are uniforms canvassing the group's known haunts.

The station's abuzz when we arrive. Sarah Jane's managed to somehow get a rush on the lab report, and my hunch was correct: Bloodstone's pills are basically sugar. That's probably not enough to make him flip out and kill a friend, but I know someone who's really good at manipulating people, don't I? Now that I have an idea on motive, as crazy as it is, I send out cops to look for Max.

Hunt doesn't look pleased with me, but he's willing to give me the benefit of the doubt."You'd better be right about all this, Nancy," he says, but his heart doesn't seem entirely in braiding me up this morning.

"It will be, sir," I start to say, and then correct myself. "Guv."

Hunt smiles.

"Aye," he says, "Now you're getting it."And there's a knock on the door of the office. It's Etta, and her smile lights up what's been an otherwise lousy morning."Guv, DI Kord?" she says, "We think we've found them."

Part Sixteen: This Shadow of Mine

As it turns out, Braddock's father is on the board of a charity that looks after several area redundant churches in the heart of London – old churches which are kept in shape and which people visit, but don't hold regular services anymore.

"The Braddock family's been working on turning it into a homeless shelter," says Etta, "and there are some food pantry events and such still run out of it. The missing kids have done some work there, so while we were waiting on a warrant, we began casing the neighborhood."She smiles brightly.

"Nara McKenzie and the Bashir twins have all been seen at local stores."Hunt's smiling now, too.

"All right," he says, "let's bring home our fugitive rich kids," and then sort out the rest back here at the station, what do you say?

"Unfortunately, this means riding again in Hunt's car, which means I almost lose my beans-and-eggs breakfast. We arrive first, with Etta and a handful of uniform officers on our heels. They secure the area while Hunt and I prepare to go in.

"I'm not expecting them to be dangerous," I say, as Hunt checks his gun. "They're just scared kids."

"Aye," he says. "Scared kids do the stupidest things, though, right?"I can't really disagree with that, and I check my own pistol, although I've never really liked guns. Indeed, I didn't even realize I'd been issued one, but like so much else here, there it is. We head into the church, and I notice that Hunt crosses himself as we cross the nave to a utility panel on the other side that gives access to a basement storeroom. Quietly, We open the door, but suddenly, a shot rungs out from downstairs.

We abandon stealth, and rush down the stairs, to see a boy who can only be Cullen Bloodstone bleeding out on the floor. Above him stands Max Lord, a smoking gun in his hand. Beyond him are our missing kids, alive, but not stupid enough to rush the armed lunatic.

"Ted," says Max, pleasantly, gun pointed

at the kids. "Glad you could join us. Please, drop your weapons."Without  a moment's hesitation, Hunt and I throw down our guns. Hunt can't believe what he's doing, and is swearing a blue streak as he does it. I take a good look at Max, and see his nose is bleeding, a tell-tale sign that his power is working.

"How much do you remember," I ask him, and for a second the man I know seems to rear his head from inside the teenage boy.

"Only bits and pieces," he says. "I remember shooting you. I remember Diana snapping my neck."

"Diana got you!?!?!" I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too excitedly. Max just shrugs.

"Can't win 'em all, right?" he says. "But then I woke up here, and I was a teenage boy at a school I never attended, and it didn't take me too long to figure out that I was surrounded by heroes from other alternate universes, and that they didn't really remember their own pasts, they were just pantomiming what they did in the real world."

A shadow falls across Hunt's face as Max talks, but I can't really read what he's thinking. How much of what's going on around us does Hunt really know? I try to step toward Max, but can't.

"How long have you had your powers back?" I ask, and Max smiles the smile that sold billion-dollar companies, which looks really weird on a teenager.

"Pretty much instantly. I've been here for a couple weeks, and my powers and memories resurfaced quickly. That doesn't seem to be the case with anyone else, but if I control people, I can make them tell me about who they were before.

"He waves a hand at the mind-controlled teenagers."These kids are from a world like ours. A world with superheroes, only most of the teen sidekicks get sent to boarding schools. How smart is that? Think how many fewer Robins Batman would have gone through if there was someplace to send them instead of the Teen Titans. I mean, really."I take a breath and struggle to move again, but it's no use. Looks like it's the same for Hunt and the kids. Awkwardly, Braddock and McKenzie move forward and pick up mine and Hunt's guns, and then point them at their friends."Don't do this, Max," I plead. "Whatever else, they're just kids. You've already murdered two of them."

"I HAVEN"T MURDERED ANYONE!" he shouts, and then regains his composure. "Not here, anyway. The two I killed weren't real. You see, not everyone here's a person. Some are just... I don't know. Space fillers. These kids" – he waves to the mind-controlled teenagers – actually all died in their real world. They were all killed by a supervillain called Arcade. The two that died here actually survived that. Weird, huh? I think this place creates people it needs to help the souls that come here move on."Hunt is glowering now, is eyes near-glowing with hate.

"For a second, I thought you were here to help me move on. But I don't think that's it. I think I'm supposed to be the serpent in the garden. You're all here to be redeemed. I'm here to see you all damned."

The room fell silent, a deathly quiet soon shattered by gunfire.

Part Seventeen: Head Like a Hole

My name is Ted Kord. I was once a superhero called the Blue Beetle. I was not the first to go by that name, and I hope I won't be the last. This is the story of how I died, and what came afterward.

The story of my death didn't really begin with me. It began with other superheroes, and their failures, and the lines they had to cross to protect themselves, the people they love, and sometimes the entire world. Until you put on a costume and fight supervillains and intergalactic tyrants and whatever, you don't really understand the toll it takes on you. When you begin, you think the world is going to reward you for being a hero. And it does. There are days you wake up and you can feel the lives that you have saved. They echo across the sky like a symphony. It's easy to lose track of that, though, because the price for that song is so steep.

My friend Booster Gold and I laughed our way through our adventures until no one took us seriously anymore, and soon we were kicked to the margins of the superhero social scene. But it didn't really begin with us. It began with Superman dying in a fight that almost killed me, too, and with a city the world's surviving heroes couldn't save. And it began later, too, with a split between Batman and the rest of the Justice League that lead to him no longer trusting them, and building a satellite to stop them if they got out of line.

And it started with Max Lord. My friend Max Lord, who drained my finances dry to pay for a secret operation, and who stole the satellite from Batman, and who, when I confronted him,shot me in the head. I hear I was avenged, that Wonder Woman finally stopped him, but that doesn't really matter. What matters is that, when I went to all my superhero friends for help, they were too wounded and distrustful of one another to take a second to help me when I asked. And I forgive them for that. I understand now how much all of them were paying for the privilege of saving other people's lives. From this side of the divide, I can see how damaged they were, and how much my death and its repercussions hurt them further.  I wish I could tell them how much I still love them, how much I've always loved them.

But Max shot me in Zurich in 2005, and I woke up as a policeman in London in 1990. At first I thought I was crazy, or hallucinating all of this while in a coma. And then I figured that I had traveled in time. Now I know this is something else entirely, a chance to... I don't know. Redeem myself? Balance the scales? Make peace with my death before I move on? I'm not sure yet, but Max is here, too. He's a teenager here, and he's murdered two children, and is about to murder more, and there's nothing I can do to stop him.

I think I may be in Hell. I think that, whatever happens next, I can never go home again.

Part Eighteen: Blaze of Glory

Max laughs hysterically as Braddock and McKenzie pick up my and Hunt's guns and turn to face the Bashir twins. They fire, and the Egyptian kids fall to the ground. Then, they turn and face each other. I'm screaming. I think Hunt's screaming, too. Max is enjoying this. He stops, and has Hunt and I walk the rest of the way down the stairs, the two blonde teens training their guns on us, while the other two teens bleed out onto the floor.

"All right, then," says Hunt, who's been uncharacteristically silent this whole time. "I think I'm done with the Bond villain claptrap. Go ahead and get it over with."

Max is about to continue gloating, when several things happen at once. First, Tim Bashir's body disappears from the ground, and Katy rises unsteadily, a glow pulsing from her hand. As if by magic, the guns in the other teens' hands unravel. Max shouts for her to stop, and she does, but it's too late. A gun goes off from the top of the stairs above us, the bullet blasting Max's shoulder, and he screams in pain. Reflexively, I look up, and see Etta with a smoking gun, uniformed officers behind her.

Hunt doesn't hesitate, and tackles max to the ground, landing punch after punch until Max gets just enough concentration to order the teens to grab him and pull him off him. Which leaves me, and this time, I don't hold anything back.

The first punch I land on his jaw is for Booster, and the second is for Beatriz and Guy... the people who never gave up on me. The next is for Bruce, J'onn and Clark, the ones I wish I had a chance to fix things with, to forgive in person. The next is for Barbara, and for stupid hope, and the next punch is for Diana, and gratitude. And the last is for me. I realize I'm crying with each punch, and by the time I stop I'm drenched in tears and blood.

Max's face is a bloody pulp. He's alive, but only barely. He still looks like a skinny teenager, and part of me can't help but forgive him. In some other world, this was a teenager who lost his father and tried to use his business acumen to be a hero. And then the heroes failed him, and he became something else.

The kids are shaking. I look at Katy Bashir, and marvel."I ..." she stutters... "I remember everything. We're dead, aren't we?"

I nod, and Hunt nods. I can't see what Etta and the other cops above her are doing.

Katy Bashir shimmers, and suddenly where there was one young woman, there are now two wounded teenagers.  They both fall to the ground, and the other two teens fall to their knees and embrace their friends. They hold each other and cry, and are engulfed by a bright, white light. It's so bright I have to cover my eyes. When I look back, all four kids are gone, as is Bloodstone's body.Then I look at Max, and for a second he stirs, and looks me in the eye, and all I can see is hate. I start to say something, but he gurgles, and a pit seems to open beneath him. The memory of that is hazy. I recall heat, and screams, and then darkness. And afterward, he was gone, and we were all upstairs, and all we knew was that it was over. Well, mostly.

Part Nineteen: Strung Out in Heaven's High

As a group, we sort of turned and left the church basement in silence, filing out of the building and into the street. Etta turned and looked at me, squeezed my hand, nodded, and returned to the station. Hunt and I drove back in silence. It must have been serious, because he kept to the speed limit and obeyed traffic laws.

Hunt went straight into his office and closed the door behind him. Sirius Black looked at me, and then averted my gaze. Sarah Jane smiled sadly,, nodded, and then returned to some but of paperwork or other. No one was talking about it. No one was talking.

I went to Hunt's door, knocked, and then opened it before he could reply. He had a bottle of cheap whiskey out, and was pouring himself a glass. He gestured for me to take a seat. He pulled another glass from his drawer, and poured one for me. It was awful, but I sipped it anyway.

We sat in silence, and finally, he said, "Kids. It shouldn't have been kids. How old were they? 15? 16?" I shook my head that I wasn't sure. "It's not right," he said. "It's not what I signed on for."

"Does that mean you're looking at retirement, DCI Hunt?"

I looked up, and Vale was standing above us, arms folded, peering down on us... his eyes sharply attentive, but not devoid of compassion. Hunt offered him a glass, but he declined.

"How long have I been doing this, Marv?" he asked.

"Longer than I have," said Vale. "Time's relative, but I'd say 60 years, give or take."

"60 years," said Hunt. "Blimey."

"Your pension's fully vested, Gene," said Vale. "You've more than earned your retirement."

'Will I see them?" asked Hunt. "Skelton and Carling? Sam Tyler? Alex Drake?"

"That's not for me to know," said Vale. "All I can say is that you've earned a rest."Hunt stood, and took one last swig of whiskey.

"All right, then, DCS Vale," said Hunt. "Consider this my notice."Vale moved across the office with an unearthly grace, clasping Hunt's hand. Hunt turned and looked toward me, nodded, and then opened the door to what should have been the rest of the police station, but behind it instead was an unearthly light. It was the same light I saw in the church. Hunt took a second, straightened his jacket, and began to hum lowly. Ashes to ashes... funk to funky... He was gone before he hit the next line, the door closed behind him.Vale looked down at the bottle on the desk, shrugged, and poured himself a drink. Then he looked at me, and I swear to God I could see the cosmos reflecting in those eyes.

"What's happening here," I said, finally. "Where am I?"

Vale laughed, but there was no derision. It was just hat big of a question, and I knew it as soon as I asked. After some contemplation, he spoke.

"A long time ago, there was a skinny police officer off in the North Country who wanted to be one of the tough guy coppers he saw in movies, but instead died a young and ugly death. But the force of his will, of his wish, was so strong, that in his death he managed to carve off a piece of the afterlife, a sort of purgatory where police officers who died with unfinished business could come, and work out their issues before they moved on. Some stayed days, some decades, but aside from Gene, all of them moved on."I sat in silence, listening to the story. It didn't seem possible, but like I said, I've seen impossible before. It doesn't really phase me.

"The funny part was," continued Vale, "is that Gene never knew that his tiny slice of Purgatory was attached to a larger piece of celestial real estate. There's not really a name for it. Call if Valhalla, if you wish. A place for heroes, and warriors to rest. And eventually, that world seeped into this one, and soon heroes, soldiers, superheroes and police officers from any number of realities began to find their way here. But because this was Gene's world, when arrived, they took on whatever role was available. Usually, they became coppers. Gene helped them move on to where they needed to be."

I mulled the idea."Why do I remember everything?" I asked.

"Oh," said Vale. "Everyone remembers. It's just, for most people, it's easier to forget, to lose yourself in this place's narrative. Even Gene forgot, most of the time. When you go out that door again, everyone will remember a somber, grisly case, but one that's over and solved. Gene will have retired. They'll remember a party. They'll all be curious to see how his replacement will work out."

"Who's his ..." I began to ask, but Vale just smiled like a Cheshire Cat."

It seems, Detective Inspector Kord, that we have a vacancy. Would you be interested in a promotion?"

Epilogue

My name is Detective Chief Inspector Ted Kord. A long time ago, I was a costumed vigilante called The Blue Beetle. That seems like a lifetime ago. Now I'm a cop, and I can't imagine being anything else. For a while, I thought I had to go home, that people needed me there. Turns out, home wasn't where I thought it was, and the place where I was needed was here.

 

 

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