Most Characters belong to DC Comics. I introduced Keith, Chris, and a few others, but the majority of the characters are from DC Comics, and this story is just fan fiction. The DC Comics homepage is http://www.dccomics.com. This story takes place roughly 8 years after the events of Our Worlds At War, the current DC Comics Crossover.
The Silver Sentinel
by: Becca Reed, 2001
Chapter One
1:32 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
Night over New York City.
14 Million citizens of the World’s second greatest metropolitan area cowered in fear. Some, lucky ones who reached their barred, locked, and alarm-rigged shelters before the twilight came, lay hidden at home, feeling ‘safe’ within the warmth and comfort of their beds. Others, doomed to evening shifts and night-time train rides, raced like ghosts from the lighted sphere of one lamp post to the next, clutching to their briefcases, laptop hand bags, and purses with a desperate fear, stronger than iron. But everywhere across the human rat cage of the Big Apple, the people of the world’s second ‘greatest’ city cowered in fear of one thing:
Darkness.
For Darkness was everywhere.
Heavy darkness blanketed the filthy streets. This night-born pallor spread itself across the city’s Hoods like a cancerous disease, bringing with its nighttime blackness fog, dense fogs out of the east Bays that rose from the grimy flues of the Metropolitan Area’s untold production plants, deep within the protected bastions of the city’s Industrial hells, to choke the beaming lantern-post lights and glowing neon signs, dimming their brilliance and casting a thick and putrid shroud – putrid from the nasty chemical wastes spewed into the air by the same, loathed, Industrial abyss – that covered all things in shadow.
But this heavy Darkness, though it shrouded the city in its heavy opaquity, though it darkened the spirit, casting a shadow over the light of one’s heart, did not keep the city’s millions home in their beds. Did not cause them to huddle underneath their woolen quilts. Did not prompt the children’s nightmares, did not shake the heart, did not steal the breath. For this darkness paled, in light – most touching irony of all – of a second darkness, far blacker than the most lightless of Nights.
A Darkness of Evil.
For Evil was everywhere.
Like a phantom, wraithlike, it struck – and then vanished – before the police sirens were heard. Like a hydra, its many heads could grasp at as many varied targets. Like a cancer, it spread across the entire city, heedless of Hood Boundaries, Gangster Territories, or Police Districts. It could not be seen, smelt, touched, or heard – and it would not be stopped.
Now, Organized and Armed Crime in New York had existed even so far back as 300 years or more into the city’s nearly four-century history, and as such was nothing new. Mobsters had come and gone, petty Gangs could flower and fall literally over night, and by 2003 the Organized Drug Business in New York had reached the same kind of corporate success and influence boasted by only the world’s greatest companies – Microsoft, TransAm, PepsiCo. But none of these things were new to New York. None of these epidemics without a cure had ever so fully terrorized the city’s millions.
And none of these lay at the heart of the city’s newest villainy today:
Super-human crime.
It was the newest fad in the country – if, indeed, not the entire world – and it recognized no laws, no territorial boundaries, and no ‘code’ of ‘honor among thieves.’ Gangster punks could literally go to bed one night as healthy, normal young vagrants of society and awaken the next morning with an uncontrolled power over lightning – suddenly thrust into the whirlwind of Super-humanity without so much as a please, or a ‘by your leave’ – and without the kind of inspiration or heroic examples to follow that other Metahumans had been gifted with, they quickly turned their new found powers upon their enemies – and joined the growing ranks of Super-human criminals. But it didn’t stop at just super-powered hoodlums. Corporate business men could be held up at gunpoint only to discover – to their delight and their tormentor’s dismay – that under duress, lightning would shoot out of the palms of their hands. Suddenly the hunter became the hunted, and the strong that had been weak now preyed upon the weak, which had been strong.
Super-villainy. Often seen as an inelegant vehicle of expression for mankind’s basest desires: Anger, Fear, Greed, Aggression, Lust, and Revenge.
Need cash? If you can walk through walls – what bank security system could stop you from making a hefty withdrawal? Tired of your noisome neighbors? Kick them out – and into the bay. Mad at society? Why not take it out – no longer with a popgun and some spray paint, but with iron fists, laser-vision, and even greater powers than these.
Now of course, where there would be evil there must also always be those of good nature, but New York’s Finest could not compete on this super-powered playing field. Nor could the conventional military forces. In some instances, nothing short of nuclear power could drop a super-human, and that, thank God, was a line the world leaders were not ready to cross just yet.
Just yet, anyway.
But, once upon a time, there’d been Superheroes with which the forces of good could combat those evil hordes. Once upon a time, costumed vigilantes had brought peace, order, and protection to the streets of the world. But that was a long time ago now in the minds of the people, and almost forgotten.
But once upon a time, in response to public outcry and possessed of a mission to cleanse the earth of evil, otherwise average men and women across the Western World had emerged from the shadows, taking up identity-concealing costumes and championing the children of Man against the terrors of the Dark. Powerful champions of ‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way,’ (among other causes equally noble) dressed in colorful, inspiring costumes (except for some few Urban Vigilantes like the Batman) and working in tandem with the police forces and the government to bring justice to the world, the Supermen had been revered as symbols of humanity’s best.
But that … was a long time ago now. And as has been already said, almost forgotten.
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1:47 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
‘Charlie 327, this is NYPD-HQ, over.’
The small blue-and-white police car cruised slowly over the dirty grantie of 2nd Avenue in Kings, its lights dimmed. Two uniformed Police Officers – a white cop driving, a black cop riding shotgun – sat in the darkened cab of the vehicle, and as the police-band radio crackled, the dark-skinned officer reached out a hand and took the radio. The radio’s transmit button clicked once as the Officer pressed it.
"NYPD-HQ, this is Charlie 327, riding the 2nd Avenue. You are 5-by-5, over."
Both of the men inside the older, ’97 Model cruiser were sweeping their eyes slowly from side to side along the street, and the car itself hardly seemed to be moving, rolling as very slowly and very lethargically over the ground as it was. High-beams outshone the lamp post lights, casting more brilliance down the remote street than it had seen in many a night.
Each man felt a twinge of fear. No, that’s wrong – it was more than a twinge. It was full-blown, barely-contained, heart-throbbing panic. But then, they were, after all, on the trail of one of the world’s most ruthless, most sinister Super-villains, a homicidal maniac who styled himself: "The Reaper," who wore a long, tattered robe of black cloth, and bore a magical scythe, to boot.
‘Charlie 327,’ the voice from the Police Band carried on, ‘report sightings of Super-villain designate: ‘The Reaper’ at your location, over.’
"NYPD-HQ," the black man replied as he continued to scan the shadowed streets with his eyes, "No sightings of Super-villain designate: "The Reaper" at location Charlie 327, Over."
"Holy …Tommy – lookit!" Even as the Black Officer, born Thomas Green, finished hanging up the Police Radio Mic, the white policeman sitting beside him shot out an arm and yanked his partner’s head around as the patrol car screeched suddenly to a halt. "– is that what I think it is?" Tommy’s head bucked from the screeching suddeness of their halt – and then his eyes flashed up.
There – standing in the road just in front of the Patrol Car, stood a tall and menacing form with his back to the Police Cruiser, a figure clad all in heavy, black rags. It seemed human, or at least humanoid, though it was hard to make that call with any surety, what with its bent posture – leaning, as if weary or bent with many burdens, upon the strength of a tall wooden staff. The rags were just that – ragged shreds of clothing that covered the form from head to toe, solid black except for the hood, long and heavy, obscuring the face from view, which draped over the figure’s head – that cloth seemed more greyish.
"Marymotherofgod," Tommy gasped, clutching frantically at the radio-mic as the shrouded figure turned its hidden, hooded head their way. It sniffed, as if tasting or scenting the air once, then began to amble forward slowly, still leaning upon the wooden staff, hobbling its weary way over to the Patrol Car. A passing night breeze ruffled through The Reaper’s outer cloak, causing it to billow out behind him like some terrible nightmare bat’s wings.
Inside, the two officers seemed almost paralyzed with terror – not just any old fear …. Pure TERROR. The caucasian Cop, Officer Richard Fremin, whose already pale, Ivory-white complexion had now drained completely of color, pawed ineffectually at the steering column, but did not seem capable of controlling his own body, or moving the car.
"Tommy," he whispered sidelong to his partner as he continued to stare – wide-eyed and unblinking – at the ghoulish figure, (Right out of a Halloween Terror Tale,) picking its old, bent way across the ground toward them, "is that –,"
He never finished. The Reaper took that particular moment to fix his face – and whatever eyes were hidden beneath those oppresive grey folds of his hood (Hidden or not, the officers could feel those eyes boring into them, boring right through them, through their eyes and chests, and into their very souls.) – on the those of the paralyzed, terror-gripped men in the car, and held their eyes with his own. Neither men dared so much as breathe.
It was unclear as to what – precisely – the demon-villain was up to, at first anyway, but Tommy felt – if felt is the right word – as though he was being appraised – just like a piece of meat.
But after a moment, all doubt vanished from Tommy’s mind. The hideous creature before the two men raised a cloaked arm and spared a moment’s fleeting consideration for the chunk of blood-soaked white flesh still in his left hand – ‘No, not hand, Talon – look at those claws!’ Tommy thought – and then threw it aside, refocusing his hungry gaze on the Policemen.
Paralyzing Terror suddenly became Frantic Panic in the police car.
"NYPD-HQ!" Tommy bellowed into the Radio, as he threw himself back in his chair and tried to squirm away from the oncoming figure, "Reporting Sighting of "The Reaper" at area Charlie 327! Request Immediate Backup, over!!"
The hooded figure, looking unsettlingly like the image of a medieval hangman or executioner, cocked its shrouded head to the side, as though it could hear Tommy shouting into the Police Band Radio, and was curious about the sound coming from the Radio. It seemed to sniff the air again.
‘Charlie 327, this NYPD-HQ. Confirm sighting of Super-villain designate: ‘The Reaper,’ at location Charlie 327, over.’
Tommy happenned to be staring straight up, out of the patrol car windsheild, gazing mutely at the head of the demon as the return call from Police Headquarters came through, and he saw the head of the unholy visage swing back down towards the car, as if it had been listening in on the call, considering a course of action, and had suddenly reached a decision. The heavy grey folds of the hood swung down toward Tommy’s line of sight, and a sickening sense of dread enveloped Tommy’s soul as he caught sight of two pale green eyes staring out of the hood –
At him.
And then it started.
With the ringing sound of metal scraping across granite concrete, the Reaper turned head-first toward the car, and the bottom, hidden end of the wooden prop swept up into his hands, as the ghoulish villain crouched down, preparing to spring from his knees. The two Officers managed to catch sight of a shining scythe-like blade of what had to be steel, just a second before the evil menace rocketed off of the ground, and straight towards the car, shooting through the air like a preying blood-raven.
It was hideous as it came on, its rags of shreaded cloth flapping about in the wind as it bore down on them, and its landing, heavy and with the sounds of crunching metal, rocked the car violently. Tommy had thought, as the Evil came at him, that he could see the terrible, ghastly face beneath that hood as it came on, its jaw hanging wide open and terrible, rotting scraps of flesh hanging off of whatever that being used for a face. He’d heard a horrid, inhuman howl of senseless rage and torment ring out in the alleyway, and then the Creature had been on top of them, hideous, talon-like feet digging into the front hood as the Creature raised up to its full height, holding the scythe aloft.
"SHITFUCKINGCHRIST, MAN!" Richard was screaming, digging at his hip for his sidearm. Tommy was still pawing at the radio. Sweat beaded on the faces of both men.
"Confirm, confirm!" he shouted into it, cowering back against his seat as the gleaming scythe blade crashed through the metal roof, and with an unholy screech of metal ripping apart metal, tore a heavy gash in the roof of the Police Cruiser. "He’s right on fucking top of us! Get back up NOW!"
"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!" Gunshots rang out beside Tommy, and the black policeman turned his head to see his partner pelting the Creature with lead. Shot after shot rang out, but the towering hulk seemed unfazed. The bullets seemed to vanish in the heavy mass of black robes, without sign or trace upon The Reaper’s body. Twice and again his monstrous scythe ripped holes in the roof of the car, until its shreaded, monstrous corpse-head face was staring down at the white man.
It growled. A half-curious, half-feral sound.
"Fuck!" Richard tossed his now-empty gun aside and turned his head to shout at Tommy. "Get the fuck out, man, go now-!" Schviing! Tommy blinked twice, and shook his head against the feel of soft, warm liquid splashing against his face, but he couldn’t blink away the image of his partner – headless, and he couldn’t help but watch the headless corpse slump forward onto the wheel. The scythe had cut clean through his neck, and left only the stump behind. The head lay somewhere at the dead man’s feet.
Tommy heard a low growling sound above him and felt more warm liquid dripping onto his neck. He should have been panicked, but instead he felt a curious sort of calm – resignation, perhaps – as he raised his head and stared straight into those horrible green eyes. Out of the corner of own, he could see the scythe’s deadly blade, now covered in warm, red blood.
Schviing!
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1:57 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
Not far away, on 29th Street in Kings, another policeman was making rounds along the various streets, when he overheard the Police Band crackling about The Reaper’s latest sighting, and he instantly leapt into action. But not instantly to the aid of his fellow policemen.
There were two reasons for this, as there were two distinctions which set apart his evening patrol from that Tommy Green and Richard Fremin. And these two sets of two … happenned to be one and the same.
Confused yet? Don’t worry, for it shall be explained.
The Officer – actually a Captain – patrolling the 29th Street in Kings was off-duty, and out of Uniform. He was also on foot, and Charlie 327, even in Kings, was too far to walk – too far to make any difference anyway.
But Officer Reynolds intended to get there anyway. Not by conventional means of course, but then, Reynolds was hardly what one would call a ‘conventional’ man. In fact, on many occasions … Reynolds was hardly what one would call … a man.
The tall officer – whose first name happened to be Christopher – swung brown eyes up and down the street, looking for the nearest non-descript restroom facilities, or in fact, any little hidden closet or wall. A cruel, late autumn breeze had – thankfully – kept the streets mostly clear this evening, but there was nowhere in plain sight that afforded even the illusion of privacy. 29th Street was a very public and open place.
Why, oh why? Chris wondered to himself as he noted a small, open air telephone booth not far away, Metropolis has private phone booths. Why not New York?
Finally, Chris’s eyes settled on the broken door of a sub-street-level apartment not far from where he was standing. Remnants of shattered glass and police tape were scattered about the building, witness to the vandalism that went unchecked in modern New York, and broken window panes provided a bit of a view into the off-limits rooms beyond the ruined door, but …. It looked like there might be some chance – a small chance, at the least – that Chris might find privacy down there.
Another crackle emerged from the radio as Police Headquarters attempted to make contact with its two men – and Chris grimaced when no reply came. He instantly made up his mind and – damn the consequences – raced across the sidewalk distance between him and his hide-away of choice, and darted inside the door.
He’s gotten faster since I last fought him, He thought to himself as he hurried down the glass and dirt covered stairs, and he must be nearly starved – Lord knows I’ve had him locked away in that Null-Pocket long enough. He reached the bottom of the stairwell and looked around, before ducking into the shadows under the staircase. This could turn out to be a real mess. If he’s gotten any stronger since our last fight – or, Heavens, even just a little hungrier – this could well turn out to be a battle I’m not capable of WINNING.
That thought struck him cold, but he shook off the fear and worry and concentrated on the task at hand. Standing in the shadows under the stairwell, he closed his eyes and made tight fists, clenching them with the effort he was putting into this. From somewhere deep within his soul he began to summon the mystic energies he depended upon to bring about the coming metamorphosis.
He swayed suddenly as the change began, and felt an almost-imperceptible tingle envelop his body the silvery magics of the Moonmagik began to envelop him.
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2:08 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
When he emerged again from the ruined apartment rooms beneath the street level, no one would have recognized the Chris Reynolds who had descended INTO the Sub-level Room as the same Chris Reynolds who emerged three minutes later.
For one thing, the name on the driver’s license no longer read Christopher Reynolds.
It read Christine.
And SHE was beautiful.
Tall and leggy, Christine Reynolds possessed a shoulder-length mane of shiny, crimson-red hair that framed an angel-innocent face and eyes of jaded green. She was nearly 6’1" in height, which was surprisingly tall for a woman, but fit with the muscular, if elegant figure she bore. Lean, and not overly curvaceous, her athletic body was garbed in a deep, dark maroon bodysuit, over tights of glossy black that ended in 3 inch heels on her feet. A golden belt crossed her slim hips. Her arms were uncovered up to her sleeveless shoulders, except for a long black glove on the right hand that extended up to her elbow. Her athletic, B-cup chest was somewhat on display as a result of the plunging v-neck collar, but 3 golden ties kept the uniform from being indecent. And finally, a long and gorgeous cloak of dark maroon hung from her neck, broached over the right shoulder by a tiny pin.
Her public moniker was Shadow Moon.
She was a super-heroine.
Most bizarre though the nature of his/her powers may have seemed to the general public – if he/she ever deemed to tell them, which was unlikely – Christopher/Christine Reynolds had long ago accepted the cruel twist of fate that left him forever suspended between two genders. In his male alter ego, Christopher was a good and noble Police Captain, and the instructor of several martial-arts and self-defense classes. But in her female alter ego, Christopher became Christine, calling on the power of an ancient Magic Order of which he/she was the last descendant, a Magic Order known to have developed "Moonmagiks." These magics were very powerful, though not at all of the typical brand pop-culture was enamored of. There was no spell casting, but instead, a control over physical and mental powers that far surpassed human norms. As Shadow Moon, Christine possessed super-strength, super-speed, super-senses, super-agility, power of flight, telekinesis, psionic powers, and even some limited telepathy and empathy, all of which were well into the Justice League’s class.
Discovering his heritage and powers at puberty had been both a blessing and a curse to young Christopher. As a boy, he’d cherished his Superhero Idols (Superman, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman) and unlike some other youngsters, he realized the NEED society had for such guardians. For him, unlike other youngsters, his envy of the Superheroes was not so much a craving for power as it was a desire to be able to HELP people, on that kind of a global level. The ONLY drawbacks to his powers, so far as he could tell, were the gender changes, which made it impossible for Chris to ever fall in love or have close friends, but he didn’t mind so much. He was able to HELP people, and THAT made everything worthwhile.
Shadow Moon turned her head in the direction of Charlie 327, and thought-cast about, looking for signs of The Reaper’s passage – panicked civilians, dying civilians, anything that might indicate to her where her enemy could be. Her limited telepathy and empathy made it impossible for her to pinpoint any one mind, even one as powerful as The Reaper’s, but she was MORE than capable, through a unique combination of her empathy and telepathy, of feeling the wake of fear and terror and death that followed in his footsteps.
There. The dying essences of two policemen hung about the ruins of 2nd Avenue, and terrified, wailing citizens were locked in doors all along the street. He HAD to be there.
Shadow Moon crouched down for a moment, bending at the knees, and then shot away into the sky, hot upon the trail of her prey.
I only hope, she said to herself (in a decidedly feminine mind-voice), that when I get there – I don’t end up becoming the prey, myself.
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2:27 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
‘…and so the city sleeps, uneasily, huddled in their beds for yet another night, desperately fearing the coming of a hideous and sinister monster. And where are the Heros? Where are our Guardians of less than a few years ago? Only a few remain today – are they still the Sentinels of Society? Our hopes for the future? Our protectors? Or have they become only silent harbingers of doom yet to come? When will the next ‘Tiberius’ strike? When will the next ‘Doomsday’ come among us? … And who will be left to oppose him, when he comes?’
"Keith, could turn that noise off?"
Keith didn’t even bother to look up from the pages lying on the counter before his eyes, but he leaned across the counter of his apartment building’s ground-level café: the "Crown Jewels," and switched off the aging box radio owned by the café’s manager with the grace of long habit. 48 years old, Ralph Quarren had lived all his life in the Big Apple, and paid no more heed to Meta-human crime reports and the media bashing of the Super-heros than he did to the Met’s failing ball club.
He did, however, make a fine cup of coffee, and that was what kept Keith, a young, 21-year old and aspiring author, awake in the late hours of the night, pouring over the day’s typed manuscripts with a heavy hand and a (very) critical pen.
"Metahumans." Ralph snorted good-naturedly as he swept out of the backroom with the new pot of coffee. "You know what? In all my years, I’ve never even seen one."
Keith raised his eyebrows at that, and looked up from the papers beneath him, setting his pen down. He’d been a great fan of super-heros when he was growing up, and was still today.
"You’ve never seen Superman or Lantern, Ralph?"
"Well," Ralph made a sort of pondering noise as he poured Keith his 5th cup of Irish Coffee for the evening. "Maybe Superman, once, a long time ago. But no – I’ve never seen the Lantern."
"Huh." Keith stirred the dregs in his previous cup of coffee – cold now – and tried to remember all the times he’d seen Superman or the Lantern. It had been quite a few, he remembered that much, at least. Lantern had been a regular visitor to his High School when he was growing up, 7 years ago, and even Superman had stopped by once for an interview.
"What about you, Keith? Have you ever seen Superman or Lantern?"
"A couple times," Keith confessed softly, reaching up to sweep long, rakish blue-black hair out of his eyes – a nervous habit of his - and then taking the steaming cup from Ralph’s cupped hands. Talking about Superheroes was not something Keith enjoyed much of the time. Not to say that he wasn’t an admirer of the Superheroes, he was so very much, but it was the extent of his admiration that kept him from speaking up. Most people found that kind of admiration for Super-heros misplaced in today’s world, considering the inability of the Super-hero community to put a final end to the war on crime, even 8 years after Tiberius. So Keith kept his mouth shut, most of the time, though in his heart he always longed to be up there with the Superheroes, chasing through the sky. He knew it was nothing more than a Pipe Dream – but it was a nice pipe dream.
Ralph nodded absently, and despite having just told Kyle to switch the thing off, he turned back to the radio and began to fiddle with it, looking for a late-night recap of the evening talk show he’d come to love so much – Lucy and I – and muttered under his breath.
"Hardly know what the use of being a superhero is these days, anyway. Not their fault they’re outnumbered and woefully outmatched, is it?" He waited a half-moment, still fiddling with the channel settings, and Keith was tempted to answer, but he thought better of it. He knew Ralph, and he’d seen him drop into a muttering sort of self-talk enough times to know the question was not directed at him.
"After all," Ralph continued, frowning at the static-filled reception he was getting from the old radio, "more’n’enough of them Heros – they just end up dead. And what good is being a hero, if you just end up dead?"
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2:47 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
Christine impacted against the wall with a sort of sickening crunch of bones and a gasp of pain, and the sound of brick and mortal being chipped away by the power behind her landing there, and then sunk to the ground below. She left a gruesome trail of blood behind her, staining the white marble bricks. She swayed dazedly into a seated position for a few moments, trying heroically to clear her head and get back up again, but she just didn’t know if she could anymore. She was tired, drained, and hurt in more ways than she could count. Blood seeped angrily from a half-dozen cuts and scrapes, and bruises lined her body – including one particularly bloody, puffy bruise on her right cheek, where The Reaper had landed a solid hammer of a blow.
He – he’s … so much stronger … now, she thought haltingly to herself, her thoughts coming slow and painfully, just like her breaths, it’s not … just hunger – either. Somehow – somewhere … he’s gotten stronger than he was before.
A low, throaty growl menaced her from across the street, and Shadow Moon raised a bloodstained hand to sweep sweat-dampened red hair out of her dirty, grimy face, blinking her eyes to try and focus on the shadowy figure she fought.
The Reaper.
She hadn’t even HURT him all that badly yet, and she knew it – to her very great dismay. At best, all she’d managed to do was fully attract his attention, taking the pressure off of the innocents, and putting her in harms way yet again. All second nature, all completely in character for her, but also – saddeningly – all she wrote.
She tried to stagger up, clutching at the wall for support, but she swayed on her unsteady feet, and stars swam before her eyes. All up and down the street, the evidence of her brave and noble stand against the monster was evident – in fires, in rubble of brick and concrete, in overturned cars, in smoky, blackened marks upon the building walls – everywhere. But nothing she’d thrown at this monster had stopped him – and nothing she could think of would save her now.
She had just about leveraged herself into a weak, standing position, her chest heaving from the effort and her head swimming in dizziness, when a tall, hideous shadow loomed over her. With a feeling of resignation, and a sigh of unbreakable determination, she gathered all her energies for one last strike, pulled all the ethereal power she could muster into her arms, looked up from her stooped position into The Reaper’s hungry, hideous eyes, and flung herself at him, fists cupped together in one locked, hammering blow that crashed down upon the Reaper’s head and drove him headfirst to the ground, and toppled her down on top of him. Energy rushed out of her and into the powerful blow, and though she heard the implacable enemy groan in sudden pain, she herself lost consciousness.
For but a moment. Within seconds she found herself lying on the ground, dazed, at the end of her strength, and drained beyond the capacity to even go for help, but then she remembered the painful groan the Reaper had made as he crumpled.
She dared to hope – then – that she’d finally managed to take him down. She felt bunched, loose cloth under her as she panted desperately for air, and rolled over – hoping and praying that she’d at least bought herself a respite – but her hope turned to ashes when she saw that the bunched, shredded cloak beneath her – was her own.
The Reaper had already rolled away, and was rising quickly – if somewhat dazed – to his feet, his soulless, hungry eyes fixated on the shattered form of the woman lying beneath him. He snarled in a mix of anger, pain, and hunger, and raised his scythe above his head, ready to bring it down.
Christine looked up at the sound of the Reaper’s snarling voice, and made her peace with God. She saw the blood-crusted blade of the scythe as it hovered above her – and for stubbornness-sake she tried valiantly to leverage herself up one more time – gasping for air and for pain as she did so – but she had no where to go, and no strength to go with. As the blade sang through the air, she closed her eyes.
She felt only a whisper of a touch across her belly, then the debilitating loss of blood, energy, and life force. With a final act of immortal determination she clutched at the Reaper’s cloak, and then the darkness took her.
Her last sensory impression as she fell into the black was the voice of a man calling at the limits of her fading hearing.
"…Hey, ugly!…up here!" . . .
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2:57 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
Keith walked slowly down the 2nd Avenue, a light breeze stirring his loose, rakish mop of black hair, and his hands jammed deep within his coat pockets.
It was just too damn cold!
Especially tonight. Something just felt cold – heartless, even – about the weather this evening, something not natural. It tickled at the back of Keith’s mind, but like a million other oddities and queer feelings in Keith’s life, it was paid no mind.
This was his favorite part of the evening – this wall around the block at 3 A.M. Usually, the streets were so deserted and quiet that he could get some real constructive thinking done for a half-hour or so, before drowsiness claimed him and he made his way to his crypt of a bedroom, there to sleep till noon. Sometimes he closed his eyes as he walked, sometimes he just sat on a bench and stared at the clouds or the stars or the moon. Sometimes he walked in the rain. But he never missed his evening walk.
Tonight, his mind was far away, drifting on a tangent of some fantasy world he was desperate to put on paper. It was his second attempt at publishing a novel – the first was hung up in a publishing house waiting for a ‘proper and pre-planned release date’ that seemed to never come – and before he handed the manuscript over to an editor, he wanted to make sure of himself, of his story, of his fantasy. And so, the late evenings spent at Ralph’s café, pouring over manuscripts and brutalizing the paper with a heavy hand and a critical pen. Sometimes he had a productive evening when he could take pride in a chapter or a scene, sometimes – like tonight – he wondered whether he was meant to be a writer at all.
And so, deep in his thoughts, Keith wandered around the corner of 32nd and 2nd, and without knowing it, walked into hell.
The ground suddenly buckled, sending Keith backpedaling toward the ground, shocked and stunned. He hit the ground on his back, hard, and wheezed as the breath rushed out of him, blinking at the stars swimming above his head for a good long minute or two. He had no idea what was going on, but beneath him, the ground was continuing to shake.
Finally, after the stars had faded and the breath returned to him, Keith rolled over off of his back, and on to his stomach, and with a grunt of pain, heaved himself upward into a sitting position, looking about him for the source of the poundings and the shakings.
What he saw he could hardly believe.
Two figures were having at it in the center of the street, not far up ahead of him, and fairly easy to make out. One, a tall, monstrous shape in black tatters and bearing a wicked-looking staffed scythe, was being flung around the street by a more man-height figure in black and white lycra. Green flashes of light bathed him and the black robed figure now and again when he scored a decisive hit upon the monster, and even from two blocks away Keith could see that it was The Lantern.
Enraptured by the sight before him, Keith hardly felt himself running forward, staying alongside the walls of the buildings, and well out of the way of the gladiators. Here was one of his childhood fantasies come to life – a real Superhero battle, right before his eyes. The last one he’d seen had been nearly 10 years ago, broadcast live from Metropolis as Superman had squared off with, taken down, and been killed by the extra-terrestrial monster known as "Doomsday." That had not been a pleasant fight to watch – Keith had wept tears like a baby or a little girl for more than half of the fight, foreboding unhappily that Superman was going to die, and hating every minute of it.
This was different. This was something else entirely. Green Lantern – GREEN LANTERN – was having a very easy time of things, not even bothering to construct any of the emerald devices he usually bore with him into combat. He simply hauled off and pounded away at the robed figure before him, battering him back step by step by step. Whenever The Reaper went down, the ground shook hard, concrete chunks flew, and each time it seemed to take the monster longer and longer to get back up. But none of this fazed the Lantern. He continued to lay into the creature with solid blows from his emerald-clad fists, as if intend on beating the monster to the ground.
Keith suddenly marveled at that, now standing less than half a dozen feet from a overturned car and a flaming pile of debris, and only a few dozen from the Gladiators himself. From what Keith had learned of The Lantern growing up, the resident hero/protector of New York rarely resorted to serious violence, and even more rarely to a simple, one-sided beating. The young author’s eyebrows leapt in surprise when, after dealing out a particularly savage blow to the head that sent the Reaper to the street, the Lantern had waded in on his downed opponent and summoned from the air a mighty hammer of emerald energy.
The Reaper was almost motionless beneath the Lantern, barely crawling away now, but the Lantern slammed his hammer down on the beaten monster’s back again, and again, and again, and still yet again, until the horrible creature finally stopped moving all together. There was a silent half-moment when the Lantern seemed to consider the Hammer for a moment – perhaps pondering yet another round of savagely beating the unconscious villain at his feet – before banishing it back into the ether and air.
Keith stepped forward a few paces, wondering with a writer’s in-born inquisitiveness what could have brought such a noble hero to this pass of vengeful anger, and then leapt in startled wonder at the sight before him, just beyond the wreckage of the overturned car – and not far from where the Lantern stood.
And then he KNEW what had brought the Lantern’s anger on.
Lying at his feet, just beneath him, was the shattered, broken, and bloodied corpse of the Big Apple’s most beloved hero – the lovely Shadow Moon. Her eyes were fluttering, and her breath was still coming in raspy, gurgling tones, but it was clear that she would never rise again. Keith felt horrible anger well up in his heart, and a desire to walk himself across the street and take his OWN vengeance out on The Reaper swelled up in him. He couldn’t help himself. Thinking of all the innumerable times that Shadow Moon had pulled a kid from the Bay, saved a cat from a tree, given her time and powers to those weaker than her, or even just showed up at a HIGH SCHOOL for a special assembly, flashing her brilliant smile and heroic, can-do attitude …. And now she would never do it again.
He’d just about made up his mind to go over there and take this anger out on The Reaper himself when he felt a light pull on the ankle of his trousers.
Keith looked down in shock, and sunk quickly to his knees when he saw that Shadow Moon was reaching out to him. Whether it was for comfort, not wanting to die alone, or just to say something, he didn’t know – but she should not die alone, unanswered. And she would not.
"Yes?" he asked softly as he sunk to his knees beside her, taking her hand in his and caring nothing for the blood soaking his trousers and shoes. "Please, don’t try to strain yourself – just take it easy."
She shook her head vaguely, and gripped his hand in hers, tugging on it. Acting on impulse, and just …. Feeling… like she wanted him nearer, he bent down and looked deep into her green, pain-filled eyes.
In that moment, he would have done anything to take that pain away.
"I – ah – I," she gasped, trying to speak, and coughed on her own blood. Keith helped her into a better sitting position, but continued to try and calm her down. "Please," he said, "don’t talk, just relax."
"No!" She gasped, and then shut her eyes and squeezed them tight. Keith watched her with great interest, hardly noticing the pain as she squeezed her hand tightly in his. For what happenned next was … simply … beyond words.
Silver began seeping out of her wounds, running down and mixing into the pools of blood around her body, silver liquid that seem to shimmer whenever a moon-beam peirced the clouds above. It pooled at his feet, soaking into his trousers, joined with the rest of her blood, but he no longer cared. A silvery-grey mist seemed to form about her face, and the pain stole away from it, and peace returned.
She smiled – a slow, sad smile – and then brushed a tender hand across his face. She took a deep breath, and then spoke – but when she spoke, it was soft, unlabored, and gentle.
"I am sorry, it must be you…"
Keith’s brow knit together in confusion, and he blinked his eyes quickly, ignoring the flash of uncomfortable pain from the cut she’d left on his knee.
"It must be me? … what, It must be me … what? I don’t understand…"
Her smile faded, and a sad look settled over her face. She snaked a hand around his neck and pulled her closer to him, almost as if to whisper to him her last words – for Keith could see that calm and peaceful as she was, the life was draining from her face.
"I know you never asked for this," she whispered, ever word growing fainter, "but I have no other choice."
She took his right hand in hers and steepeled them together, her fingernails pressing into each of his four fingers and thumb. And then, with a slight press of inhuman strength, she broke the skin on those hands, and Keith gasped in sudden shock and pain. But her hand around his neck held him steady, and her hand grasping his made it impossible to pull his hand away, and he watched in stunned silence as she lowered his hand to the pool of silvery blood, and pressed his five open cuts into the blood. Keith’s eyebrows reached new heights as he struggled to pull away, but when a passing glance showed her face completely drained of all color and her eyes fluttering weakly, he gave in, and let her pull him close one last time.
She leaned up, and off the ground, and with the last of her strength, she whispered in his ear.
"Don’t let it end this way …."
And the she fell back, limp and light in his arms, and with one last look at her face, he knew she was gone. He brushed a hand across her eyelids to close them, and then laid her body on the ground, staring mutely at her in uncomprehending confusion.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
3:17 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. November 27th, 2008
A hand settled upon Keith’s shoulder, and he all but leapt in sudden startlement, looking up in shock and surprise, his heart firmly lodge in his throat. And when he saw the man standing above him, there, the powerful visage of the Green Lantern, his heart threatened to fly out his mouth.
He just stared.
"Is she gone?" The Lantern asked gravely, nodding at the still figure of the Shadow Moon. Keith stared blankly at him for a moment longer, but then his mind caught up, reality set in, and her turned back to the dead woman before him, nodding.
"Yes." He said, simply. After all, what else was there to say?
He heard the Lantern sigh behind him, and then, to his bestartled amazement, saw him actually crouch down on the ground next to him. Keith watched, rapt with fascination, as the Lantern brushed a hand over her lips, and then touched them to his own.
"She was a good woman," he said at length, brushing a finger underneath the green visor and wiping away a tear, "and a good friend."
Keith nodded.
"She’ll be missed," he ventured, then went further, his curiosity piqued, "What happened to the Reaper?"
Keith couldn’t see beneath the mask, but he could have sworn the Lantern’s eyes suddenly grew cold and hard. His voice surely was.
"He’s been put away. And this time he wont be escaping."
Again, for the umpteenth time that evening, Keith’s brow furrowed in confusion.
"How – " he started to ask, before a deep, powerful voice behind him interrupted him.
"The Phantom Zone. A Kryptonian Prison. Completely inescapable."
Keith swung around, and just about died.
Superman!
The Man of Steel, looking as hale and healthy as ever, unaged and unchanged in any way, turned soft, gentle eyes upon the young man before him.
"Did she say anything as she died, son?"
"Ye-yessir." He breathed softly, stunned and shocked beyond words.
The Lantern looked over, his gaze hard and cold.
"Tell us." He said.
Keith rocked back on his heels, and looked back and forth between the two men.
"She said ‘Don’t let it end this way.’"
The Lantern’s eyes grew noticeably cold at that point, and he looked intently at the Man of Steel, who, on his own part, had sighed and turned away, hands resting on his hips as he stared up into the sky. After just a few short moments, he spoke, and when he spoke, Keith heard in his voice all the Steel and unyielding power of that voice.
"It wont."
© 2001
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