Barry Allen had always thought that running on water would be cool. Like, superhero-movie-poster cool. What he hadn't considered was how much it would feel like his legs were being attacked by a thousand angry bees while simultaneously trying to sprint through cosmic Jell-O.
His feet hammered the river's surface, each step sending up plumes of spray that caught the lightning crackling around his body. The bomb strapped to his wrist had moved past "urgent beeping" and straight into "car alarm having an existential crisis" territory. His lungs felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton balls. His calves screamed protests that would make a death metal band jealous. Even his eyelids somehow managed to burn, which Barry was pretty sure violated several laws of biology.
"Okay, okay, okay—I've got it!" Cisco's voice crackled through his earpiece with the kind of manic enthusiasm that usually preceded either brilliant breakthroughs or spectacular explosions. "I think I've got it!"
Barry groaned between ragged breaths, his voice coming out in staccato bursts. "Not exactly... the pep talk... I was hoping for... Cisco..."
"No, no, listen to me, mi hermano!" Cisco's voice pitched higher with excitement. "You're near the old Mason Point lighthouse, right? Like half a mile east of your current vector? Please tell me you can see that creepy, Stephen King-looking tower of doom!"
Barry squinted through the fog that clung to the river like a bad hangover. Sure enough, a crooked, looming silhouette rose from the rocky shore ahead—a lighthouse that looked like it had been abandoned since the last time someone thought strapping a bomb to a speedster was a reasonable Tuesday evening activity.
"Yep," Barry panted, "I can see it. And I already hate where this is going."
"Oh, you're gonna love this," Cisco said, completely ignoring Barry's tone. "Here's the play, and it's gonna be like the most insane game of interdimensional hot potato you've ever played. You vibrate into the lighthouse—and I mean really vibrate, like find that sweet spot frequency that'll let you carry the bomb with you into the structure. Then—and this is the crucial part, so don't zone out on me—you shift your vibration to pass through the bomb itself and leave it inside the lighthouse while you phase out the other side. It's like molecular sleight of hand!"
Barry stumbled mid-stride, nearly face-planting into the river in a way that would have made every superhero blooper reel in existence. "You... you want me to play Operation: Lighthouse Edition? Cisco, that is insane. That is cartoon-level insane. Like, 'Wile E. Coyote builds a rocket sled and tries to catch the Road Runner using nothing but ACME dynamite and questionable physics' insane."
"Yeah, well," Cisco shot back with a laugh that sounded only slightly unhinged, "you're my very fast, very unlucky cartoon coyote, so suck it up, buttercup!"
"You do realize," Barry said, dodging a chunk of driftwood that had the audacity to be in his path, "that if I mistime even one vibration by even a nanosecond—and I mean one nanosecond, Cisco—I'm going kaboom with the lighthouse, right? We're talking about quantum-level precision here while I'm running on water with a bomb that's apparently auditioning for the world's most annoying alarm clock!"
"Buddy," Cisco said, his voice taking on that particular tone he used when he was about to say something simultaneously encouraging and terrifying, "you already have one foot in kaboom territory. At least this way you've got a shot at keeping all your limbs attached to your torso in their current configuration."
Barry gritted his teeth so hard he was surprised he didn't crack a molar. "Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you so hard that you'll think Paranormal Activity was a romantic comedy."
"Dibs on your action figure collection," Cisco replied without missing a beat. "Especially that limited edition Jay Garrick figure. That thing's gonna be worth a fortune on eBay."
Barry muttered something that would have made his mother wash his mouth out with soap, then veered toward the lighthouse. Lightning sizzled around him like angry fireflies, and water exploded into mist beneath his boots as he pushed his speed to levels that made his previous "really fast" look like a leisurely Sunday jog.
The lighthouse loomed closer, its windows dark and broken, like empty eye sockets staring out at the river. Barry could practically hear the building groaning, probably wondering what it had done to deserve being the target of superhero-related property damage.
Behind him, in the shimmer of a passing window reflection on the water, Mirror Master's face appeared again, smirking like a guy who'd just figured out the punchline to a joke that everyone else was still trying to understand.
Barry growled through gritted teeth, "Not tonight, Sam," and kicked it into overdrive.
The Speed Force responded like a faithful friend, wrapping around him in crackling yellow lightning. The world slowed to a crawl around him—the water droplets hanging in the air like tiny crystal sculptures, the fog moving like lazy smoke, even the bomb's beeping stretching into long, droning notes.
"Cisco," Barry said, his voice steady now in the strange calm that came with extreme speed, "I'm going to need you to talk me through this step by step. And I mean every step, because I'm about to attempt something that's probably going to end up in either the superhero hall of fame or the Darwin Awards."
"Copy that, speedster," Cisco replied, his voice suddenly all business. "First things first—you need to match the lighthouse's molecular resonance frequency. Think of it like tuning a guitar, except the guitar is made of stone and mortar, and if you hit the wrong note, you explode."
"That's... surprisingly helpful," Barry said, approaching the lighthouse at a speed that would have impressed a jet pilot. "In a deeply terrifying way."
The lighthouse rushed toward him, and Barry Allen, the Flash, fastest man alive, prepared to either save Central City or become the universe's most spectacular firework display.
Either way, it was going to be one hell of a light show.
---
The lighthouse loomed up fast—a big, crumbling monument to bad planning, worse weather, and apparently the universe's twisted sense of humor. Barry zipped up the rocky shore, trailing sparks and wind shear that would have made a NASA engineer weep with joy, and in one impossible motion that defied approximately seventeen laws of physics, threw himself at the outer wall.
His molecules started to hum, to blur, to flicker like a TV with bad reception. The feeling was always weird—like being dissolved in cosmic soda water while simultaneously being reassembled by a caffeinated quantum physicist.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "phase into the wall, carry the bomb, don't phase the bomb... don't phase the bomb... seriously, Barry, do NOT phase the bomb."
It was like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach while juggling flaming torches and reciting the periodic table backwards. In Latin.
And then he was inside the lighthouse, the world going grey and solid and vibrating all at once. The walls groaned like an old man getting out of bed, the air sharp and cold enough to make his teeth ache, the bomb on his wrist wailing at maximum panic-mode like a smoke detector that had just discovered fire.
"Cisco," Barry said through gritted teeth, "I'm inside the lighthouse, and this place smells like dead fish and broken dreams. Please tell me you have some kind of scientific pep talk ready."
"Oh, I got your pep talk right here, mi amigo," Cisco's voice crackled with nervous energy. "You're currently existing in a state of quantum superposition that would make Schrödinger's cat jealous. Your molecular structure is literally dancing between dimensions right now. Try not to think about it too hard, or you might accidentally phase into the Earth's core."
"That's... not helping, Cisco."
"Right, sorry. Focus on the bomb, hermano. You need to adjust your vibrational frequency to match the lighthouse's molecular density, but keep the bomb at a different resonance. Think of it like... like trying to separate cream from coffee using nothing but willpower and really good timing."
Barry took a deep breath, which was surprisingly difficult when your lungs weren't entirely sure which dimension they belonged to. "Alright, Barry," he whispered to himself, "time to be smarter than a bomb. For once. No pressure. Just casual molecular manipulation while running on fumes and terror."
He adjusted his vibration—enough to let the molecules of the lighthouse push through him like he was made of very fast, very anxious mist—but not the bomb. The sensation was like trying to hold onto a dream while waking up, if dreams were made of explosives and poor life choices.
Pain shot through his arm, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire while getting a root canal. The bomb felt impossibly heavy, like it was made of condensed gravity and bad decisions.
"Almost there..." Barry grunted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. "Cisco, talk to me. Tell me something science-y and reassuring."
"Okay, okay," Cisco's voice pitched higher with excitement mixed with terror. "Fun fact: you're currently manipulating matter at the subatomic level using nothing but concentrated willpower and the Speed Force. If we could bottle this process, we'd revolutionize everything from transportation to pizza delivery!"
"Pizza delivery?" Barry gasped, feeling the bomb starting to slip from his molecular grip.
"Focus, Barry! The bomb is starting to decouple from your vibrational matrix. You're doing it, man! You're literally defying the fundamental forces of the universe!"
The bomb slipped. Barry felt it drag against his skin as it stayed behind—a little metallic ghost clinging to the lighthouse wall like a really dangerous piece of supernatural furniture.
"It's working!" Barry shouted, probably louder than necessary. "The bomb is staying put! I repeat, the bomb is staying put and I am not exploding!"
"Go!" Cisco's voice exploded in his ear with the force of a thousand suns. "GO GO GO! Get out of there before that thing turns the lighthouse into the world's most expensive firework!"
Barry phased through the far side of the lighthouse—and ran.
He didn't look back. Couldn't. Every atom in his body screamed for speed, for distance, for survival, for maybe a nice vacation somewhere without bombs or interdimensional criminals. The Speed Force wrapped around him like a protective blanket made of lightning and determination, propelling him forward faster than he'd ever run before.
Behind him, light flared—not just light, but the kind of light that probably had its own gravitational field. A noise like the end of the world having a really bad day ripped through the air. Glass shattered with the enthusiasm of a percussion section. Stone flew like it had suddenly remembered it could defy gravity. Waves kicked up like fists of water, angry and wild and definitely not following any reasonable laws of fluid dynamics.
The blast wave roared past him, hot and wild and carrying the distinct scent of "things that used to be a lighthouse." Still he ran, his feet barely touching the ground, sparks flying from his heels like he was some kind of caffeinated comet.
He ran until the heat faded and the shockwave passed, until his lungs remembered how to process normal, non-exploding air.
Then he finally skidded to a stop—on a stretch of sand at least three miles downriver, chest heaving like he'd just sprinted to the moon and back, knees weak enough to make a newborn giraffe look stable.
His comm crackled with the beautiful sound of static that meant he was still alive and his equipment still worked.
Cisco's voice—equal parts relief, awe, and barely contained hysteria—filled his ear.
"Barry... holy crap, man. That was..."
"Yeah," Barry rasped, collapsing into the sand like a marionette whose strings had been cut by a very tired puppeteer. "Yeah, I know. Don't say it."
"...legendary," Cisco finished anyway, his voice cracking with emotion. "Dude, you just pulled off something that shouldn't be possible even in a universe where I regularly build devices that shoot freeze rays and communicate with gorillas."
Barry let out a weak laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. "Buy me a burrito and we'll call it even. Make it two burritos. With extra guac. And maybe some of those little lime wedges that make everything taste like happiness."
"Deal," Cisco said, and Barry could practically hear him grinning through the comm. "With extra guac, extra lime, and maybe some of those fancy chips that cost more than my first car. You earned it, Coyote."
Barry closed his eyes and let the waves crash in the distance, the smell of smoke and salt and ozone clinging to the air like the aftermath of the world's most expensive science experiment. His suit was probably singed, his hair was definitely a mess, and he was pretty sure he'd lost at least three years off his life from stress alone.
But somehow—somehow—he'd pulled it off.
And next time he saw Mirror Master? Oh, the payback was going to be glorious. Barry was already planning something involving mirrors, interdimensional portals, and possibly a very large quantity of silly string.
After the burritos, of course. A superhero had to have priorities.
—
Location: Abandoned Kord Mines, Outside Coast City
Time: Just before everything goes spectacularly wrong
Status: One Green Lantern about to have the worst day of his career
Hal Jordan had always figured that being a test pilot prepared him for pretty much anything. After all, when you've survived experimental aircraft that had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding mid-flight, how hard could saving the universe be?
Turns out, the universe had a twisted sense of humor.
"Okay, ring," Hal muttered as his boots crunched over the abandoned mine rails, his power ring casting an eerie green glow that made the shadows dance like they were planning something unpleasant. "Please tell me this isn't another one of those 'mysterious distress signal that's obviously a trap' situations."
The ring, being a ring, didn't answer. Which was probably for the best, because Hal was pretty sure he wouldn't like what it had to say.
The message had been textbook villain bait: *Hostages trapped in unstable mine. Time running out. Come alone.* It might as well have been signed "Definitely Not a Trap, Love, Your Friendly Neighborhood Supervillain."
But here's the thing about Hal Jordan—he'd never met a trap he couldn't charm his way out of. At least, that's what he told himself as he descended deeper into what was clearly going to be a very bad day.
"Don't worry, folks," he said to the empty tunnel, his voice echoing back with what sounded suspiciously like doubt. "Guy Gardner might take his sweet time cracking jokes, John Stewart might want to analyze the situation for three hours, but good old Hal Jordan? He gets results."
The mine seemed to swallow his words, leaving behind only the sound of his footsteps and the increasingly obvious feeling that something was very, very wrong.
The air smelled like copper pennies and burnt coffee—never a good combination in Hal's experience. And the shadows weren't behaving like proper shadows should. They were too thick, too... eager. Like they were waiting for something interesting to happen.
"I really should have called for backup," Hal admitted to himself, then immediately shook his head. "No, no, no. You're Hal Jordan. You don't need backup. You ARE the backup."
This was what his flight instructor would have called "dangerous overconfidence." Of course, his flight instructor had never had to deal with intergalactic space criminals, so what did he know?
The deeper Hal went, the more his ring seemed to dim. Not malfunction—just... reluctant. Like it was as uneasy about this whole situation as he was.
"Come on, ring," he whispered. "We've been through worse than this. Remember that time with the giant space kraken? Good times."
When he finally reached the main chamber, Hal's blood turned to ice water.
A dozen people. Tied up with enough rope to stock a sailing ship. Bombs strapped to their chests like the world's most morbid Christmas ornaments. And on the far wall, a timer ticking down from three minutes with all the cheerful enthusiasm of a countdown to doom.
"Oh, come ON!" Hal shouted, already willing his ring to form cutting constructs. "Seriously? Bombs? What is this, some kind of action movie from the eighties?"
The hostages screamed—which was reasonable, all things considered—while the walls began to groan ominously. Dust rained from the ceiling like the mine was politely clearing its throat before collapsing.
Hal poured every ounce of willpower into his ring, creating energy saws, protective barriers, anything that might help. But no matter how hard he tried, the wires wouldn't cut. The bombs wouldn't budge. It was like trying to fight smoke with a baseball bat.
"Hang on!" Hal barked, sweat streaming down his face. "I've got you, okay? You hear me? I've GOT you!"
But the timer hit zero anyway.
The explosion was everything Hal had nightmares about—fire and screaming and the horrible, crushing knowledge that he'd failed. The faces of the hostages burned into his memory as they vanished into dust and flame.
And then—
Nothing.
The chamber was quiet again. Empty. No bodies, no blood, no timer, no bombs. Just Hal Jordan, on his knees, staring at bare rock and wondering if he'd finally lost his mind.
"Well done, Jordan."
The voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk—smooth, cultured, and colder than space itself. Hal's head snapped up, and there he was, stepping out of the shadows like he'd been waiting for his cue.
Sinestro.
If evil had a fashion sense, it would dress exactly like Sinestro. The yellow and black uniform was perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle in sight, and his posture screamed 'I could conquer your planet before lunch and still have time for tea.' His eyes glinted with the kind of intelligence that made you check your pockets to make sure your wallet was still there.
"You tried," Sinestro said, his voice carrying that particular British accent that made everything sound like a backhanded compliment. "I'll give you that. You really, truly tried. And you failed. Spectacularly."
Hal staggered to his feet, clenching his fists. "You son of a—"
"Tsk, tsk." Sinestro raised one perfectly manicured finger. "Language, Jordan. There are standards to maintain, even in defeat."
"Those people—" Hal started, but his voice cracked like a teenager asking someone to prom.
"Were never real," Sinestro finished smoothly. "Fear gas, courtesy of our mutual friend Doctor Crane. Fascinating substance, really. It doesn't just make you see things that aren't there—it makes you feel the weight of every failure, every doubt, every moment you've ever wondered if you're good enough."
Sinestro began to circle him like a shark who'd found something particularly tasty. "Tell me, Hal—how many more? How many more people will you let die because of your recklessness? Your arrogance? You wear that ring like it's some kind of cosmic participation trophy, but you and I both know the truth."
Hal's ring flickered, dimming slightly. Which was about as reassuring as a smoke alarm going off during dinner.
"You want to know what I see when I look at you?" Sinestro continued, his voice soft but sharp enough to perform surgery. "I see a man who confuses bravery with stupidity. A man who thinks being fearless means ignoring danger instead of facing it. You're not a hero, Jordan—you're a disaster waiting to happen."
"That's not—" Hal began, but the words died in his throat.
"You know what the difference is between us?" Sinestro leaned closer, close enough that Hal could smell his cologne—something expensive and probably made from the tears of conquered worlds. "I understand fear. I harness it. I make it serve me. But you? You pretend it doesn't exist, and that makes you the most dangerous kind of fool."
Hal's ring dimmed further. He could feel the doubt creeping in like fog, cold and suffocating.
"They deserved better than you, Jordan," Sinestro whispered. "They all did."
And that was it. The breaking point. The moment when all of Hal's swagger and confidence crumbled like a house of cards in a hurricane.
Hal looked down at his ring—the ring that had chosen him, that had made him part of something bigger than himself—and suddenly it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Maybe..." Hal's voice came out as barely a whisper. "Maybe you're right."
With a hollow laugh that sounded more like a sob, Hal slipped the ring from his finger. It glowed faintly in his palm for a moment—like it was trying to remind him of all the good they'd done together—and then clattered to the ground with a sound like breaking glass.
Sinestro watched with the satisfaction of a cat who'd just caught the world's most elusive mouse. "You made the right choice," he said simply. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet."
The mine began to groan and crack around them, dust filling the air as rocks tumbled from the ceiling. But Hal didn't run. He just stood there, staring at his empty hands, and let the rubble fall.
Because for the first time in a long time, Hal Jordan believed every word Sinestro had said.
And as the darkness closed in, Sinestro's voice was the only thing left in the crumbling mine:
"Fear always wins, Jordan. Always."
---
The mine was dying around them.
Actually, "dying" was probably too gentle a word. The mine was having a full-blown temper tantrum, complete with groaning timbers, shuddering ground, and dust pouring from the ceiling like the world's most aggressive snow globe. Somewhere in the chaos, Hal Jordan knelt in the rubble, staring at his empty hands like they belonged to someone else.
Sinestro, meanwhile, looked about as concerned as someone watching paint dry. Which, knowing Sinestro, was probably exactly how he felt about the whole situation.
"You know," Sinestro said conversationally, stepping over a fallen beam, "I do believe this mine is going to collapse any moment now. How terribly inconvenient for you."
Hal didn't even look up. "Yeah, well. Story of my life."
"Indeed it is," Sinestro agreed. "Though I must say, I expected more groveling. Perhaps some desperate pleading for your life? I'm almost disappointed."
That's when the universe decided to get interesting.
CRACK.
Not the sound of rock splitting or timbers giving way. This was something else entirely—like reality itself had just developed a serious structural problem. The air in the mine shimmered, then tore open like someone had taken a cosmic can opener to the fabric of space.
A swirling vortex of black and crimson energy erupted into existence right there in the mine shaft, crackling with lightning that definitely hadn't been there in any meteorology textbook. The temperature dropped about twenty degrees in half a second, and suddenly the air tasted like ozone and impending doom.
And out of that tear in reality stepped something that made Sinestro's dramatic entrances look like amateur hour.
He was tall—probably six and a half feet without the boots—and built like someone who'd been personally trained by the god of "you really don't want to mess with me." His armor was black dragonhide that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, with glowing crimson veins running through it like a heartbeat made visible. On his chest blazed a crimson symbol that looked like it had been borrowed from a particularly ominous fairy tale—three shapes intersecting in a way that made you think of things like "death" and "mastery" and "really bad news for your enemies."
His black cloak didn't just flutter—it billowed with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested it had its own weather system. His hood was drawn low, hiding most of his face except for two glowing crimson eyes that burned like dying stars.
He didn't just appear. He announced himself to the universe, and the universe apparently decided it was probably best to pay attention.
"Eidolon," Sinestro said, and for the first time since this whole mess had started, he sounded genuinely surprised. "How... unexpected."
The Wizard turned those glowing eyes toward Sinestro, and when he spoke, his voice carried the kind of British accent that could make a grocery list sound like a threat to your continued existence.
"Sinestro." The name came out like he was tasting something unpleasant. "I see you're up to your usual tricks. Fear gas, manufactured hostages, psychological torture. How delightfully... predictable."
"I prefer to think of it as efficient," Sinestro replied, but he'd taken a step backward. Which, considering this was Sinestro, was probably the equivalent of a normal person running away screaming.
Eidolon raised one black-gloved hand, and the debris choking the tunnel simply... stopped. Massive boulders, twisted metal, clouds of dust—all of it froze in midair like someone had just hit the pause button on gravity. His crimson veins flared brighter, and the air around him crackled with the kind of magic that made your teeth ache.
"Fascinating though your little therapy session is," Eidolon said, walking through the levitating wreckage like it was a perfectly normal Tuesday, "I'm afraid I have to cut it short."
He crouched next to Hal, who was still staring at his empty hands with the glazed expression of someone who'd just discovered his entire worldview was made of cardboard.
"Hal," Eidolon said, his voice gentler but still carrying that edge of absolute authority.
Hal blinked slowly, like he was coming out of a trance. "Oh. Hey there, Death Wizard." His voice was hoarse, cracked. "You're looking extra terrifying tonight. New cloak?"
"It's the same cloak I've had for a year," Eidolon replied dryly. "You're just seeing it through a haze of self-pity and psychological manipulation."
"Ah." Hal nodded weakly. "That explains the dramatic entrance."
"I don't do anything that isn't dramatic," Eidolon said matter-of-factly. "It's a professional requirement."
He slipped one arm under Hal's shoulders and hauled him to his feet with the kind of casual strength that suggested he could probably bench press a small building if he felt like it.
"You know," Hal said, leaning heavily against him, "most people would have led with 'Are you okay?' or 'What happened?'"
"Most people," Eidolon replied, "are not dealing with a man who just threw away the most powerful weapon in the universe because his feelings got hurt."
Hal winced. "Ouch. Low blow."
"I specialize in low blows," Eidolon said. "Now, where's your ring?"
Hal gestured weakly toward the rubble. "Somewhere in there. Probably under a rock. Being... ring-like."
Eidolon extended his free hand toward the debris and said, in a voice that brooked no argument from the laws of physics: "Accio ring."
Hal's power ring shot through the dust like a green bullet and smacked into Eidolon's palm with a satisfying thunk. He examined it for a moment, then slipped it into a pouch on his belt.
"Hey," Hal protested weakly. "That's mine."
"Not anymore," Eidolon replied. "You forfeited ownership when you decided to have an existential crisis instead of thinking rationally."
"I was thinking rationally!"
"You were thinking like an idiot," Eidolon corrected. "There's a difference."
Sinestro, who'd been watching this exchange with the expression of someone who'd just discovered his elaborate plan had a fatal flaw, cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt this touching reunion, but I do believe we have unfinished business."
Eidolon turned those glowing eyes toward him, and Sinestro actually took another step backward.
"Our business," Eidolon said in a voice that could have frozen molten lava, "is quite finished. You've had your fun, Sinestro. You've played your little mind games, proven whatever point you were trying to make. But now you're in my way."
"And what exactly," Sinestro said, trying to regain some of his earlier composure, "do you intend to do about it?"
Eidolon smiled. At least, Hal assumed he was smiling—it was hard to tell with the hood and the glowing eyes and the general aura of impending doom. But there was definitely something happening under that hood that suggested amusement of the very dangerous variety.
"I'm going to do something you've never understood, Sinestro," Eidolon said. "I'm going to ignore you. Because you're not worth my time."
And then—without so much as a dramatic gesture—Eidolon rose into the air.
Not flew. Not levitated. He simply decided that gravity was more of a suggestion than a law and acted accordingly. His cloak billowed around him like he had his own personal wind machine, and lightning crackled at the edges of his hood.
"You know," Hal said as they soared upward through the hole Eidolon had apparently made when he arrived, "you always make an entrance."
"It's important to establish the proper tone," Eidolon replied. "First impressions matter."
"What about last impressions?"
"Those matter too. Which is why I'm going to make sure Sinestro's last impression is of you walking away from his pathetic attempt at psychological warfare."
Below them, the mine finally gave up its structural integrity and collapsed in a thunderous roar that sounded like the earth itself was having a disagreement with geology. Dust and debris belched into the air, but Eidolon's cloak cut through it like it wasn't even there.
"You know what the best part about this whole situation is?" Eidolon said as they cleared the hills and Coast City's lights spread out below them.
"What's that?"
"Sinestro just spent all that time and effort breaking you down, making you doubt yourself, convincing you that you're not worthy of the ring." Eidolon's voice carried a note of genuine amusement. "And now he gets to watch you fly away in the arms of someone who's infinitely more terrifying than he is."
Hal chuckled weakly. "You're not that terrifying."
"Hal."
"Yeah?"
"I once made an entire army of demons surrender by politely asking them to reconsider their life choices."
"...Okay, you're pretty terrifying."
"I prefer 'intimidatingly competent,'" Eidolon said. "But I'll take what I can get."
They landed on a quiet stretch of highway outside Coast City, where the League's medical team was already waiting. Eidolon set Hal down gently, then straightened to his full height, those crimson veins still pulsing faintly through his armor.
"Right," he said, pulling the ring from his pouch. "Let's get this sorted."
He held the ring out to Hal, who stared at it like it was a particularly complicated math problem.
"I'm not sure I should—"
"Take the ring, Hal," Eidolon said patiently. "You're having a crisis of confidence, not a crisis of character. There's a difference."
"But what if Sinestro was right? What if I'm not—"
"Sinestro," Eidolon interrupted, "is many things. He's intelligent, powerful, charismatic, and completely ruthless. But he's also wrong about you. Do you know how I know?"
Hal shook his head.
"Because I've worked with you for three years. I've seen you save planets, protect the innocent, and make impossible choices that would break lesser men. You're not perfect, Hal. You're reckless, overconfident, and you have a tendency to act first and think later. But you're also brave, compassionate, and willing to sacrifice everything for people you've never met."
Eidolon held the ring closer. "Sinestro preys on doubt and fear. He finds the cracks in your confidence and wedges them open. But doubt isn't weakness, Hal. It's what keeps you human. It's what makes you better than he is."
Hal stared at the ring for a long moment, then slowly reached out and took it. The moment it touched his finger, it blazed with green light, and suddenly he was standing a little straighter.
"There we go," Eidolon said with satisfaction. "Much better."
"Thanks," Hal said quietly. "I... I needed to hear that."
"I know." Eidolon turned to go, his cloak already starting to billow in preparation for another dramatic exit. "Try not to let megalomaniacal space dictators get into your head next time."
"I'll do my best," Hal called after him. "Hey, Eidolon?"
The Death Wizard paused. "Yes?"
"Thanks for the rescue. And the pep talk. And for not making me feel like a complete idiot."
Eidolon's hood turned slightly in his direction. "You're welcome. Though I reserve the right to make you feel like an idiot at next Tuesday's team meeting."
"Fair enough."
And with that, Eidolon vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only a faint shimmer of crimson magic and the distinct impression that somewhere out there, Sinestro was having a very bad night.
Hal looked down at his ring, glowing steadily on his finger, and smiled.
"Okay, ring," he said. "Let's go home."
---
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