Hal blinked in surprise. "How did you—"
"The Starheart is sensitive to other sources of green light. The moment you walked into that house, my ring started singing." Alan held up his left hand, revealing a ring that had been cleverly concealed during dinner. "Before we begin, I should probably drop the pretense."
Alan's form shimmered briefly, and suddenly the elderly man was gone. In his place stood someone who looked to be in his late forties, his hair brown instead of white, his posture straighter, his face free of age lines. Only his eyes remained the same.
"The Starheart allows for certain adjustments to appearance," Alan explained, noting Hal's surprise. "Useful when you've been around as long as I have and need to maintain a low profile."
"K'rok was right," Hal said, shaking his head in amazement. "There really is another Green Lantern on Earth."
"Technically, I'm not a Green Lantern. Never was, officially. My power comes from a different source entirely." Alan took one of the chairs, gesturing for Hal to do the same. "The Starheart is older than the Guardians, older than their Corps. It's a fragment of the original creation, containing the first green light of willpower that ever existed."
He held up his left hand, revealing a ring similar to Hal's but noticeably different. Where Hal's ring was sleek and technological, Alan's had an organic quality, as if it had grown rather than been forged.
"I created this ring myself, actually. Back in 1940, when I was a young engineer serving as a lieutenant in the Army." Alan's expression grew distant with memory. "I was investigating a railway accident in the Midwest when I discovered what appeared to be a meteorite fragment embedded in a support beam. Green, about the size of a baseball, giving off a faint glow."
"A meteorite?"
"The Starheart, though I didn't know what to call it then." Alan's fingers traced the ring unconsciously. "As I approached it, the object changed, melted and reformed. It spoke to me, not in words but in concepts, images. Showed me that it had been part of something larger, a lantern of some kind, and that it had traveled vast distances."
Hal leaned forward, fascinated. "It chose you?"
"In a sense. It showed me how to shape it, how to focus my willpower through it. I was an engineer by training, so I crafted it into a ring using techniques it somehow taught me. One day I was designing radio equipment for a broadcasting company between my Army duties, the next I was wielding cosmic power and creating impossible structures out of thin air."
"You were part of the war effort?"
"Part of it? Son, there were times when I practically was the war effort." Alan's expression grew distant. "HYDRA had weapons and artifacts that conventional forces couldn't handle. They were tapping into cosmic energies, summoning creatures from other dimensions, building devices that shouldn't have been possible with 1940s technology."
"And the government just let you help?"
Alan laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Let me? They practically drafted me the moment Colonel Phillips and military intelligence figured out what I could do. Howard Stark was fascinated by the ring within hours of our first meeting, and suddenly I was classified so far above top secret that my existence was compartmentalized away from everyone except a handful of people."
"That must have been overwhelming."
"It was. One moment I'm getting interrogated about why I didn't report the ring to my superior officers, the next I'm working alongside Steve Rogers and fighting alongside the most extraordinary people I'd ever met." Alan's voice carried genuine warmth. "I transitioned into journalism during the war as a cover, but my real job was using the ring to handle threats that conventional forces couldn't touch."
He stood, moving back to the window. "The Justice Society, they called us eventually, though that name was never used in public documentation. Me, Jay Garrick, Diana Trevor, Dr. Fate, a few others. We handled the threats that were too strange or too dangerous for conventional forces."
"What happened after the war?"
"We kept working. The threats didn't end with Hitler's defeat. If anything, they got worse." Alan's expression grew distant and pained. "We faced things that... well, let's just say some battles leave scars that never fully heal. We lost Steve Rogers in the final push against Schmidt, and I blamed myself for years. I should have been there with him on that plane, should have found a way to save him."
His voice grew heavier. "After that, we dealt with threats that pushed us to our absolute limits. Ancient evils that had been awakened by the war, entities that fed on the chaos and suffering. There were times when I nearly gave up the ring entirely, nearly walked away from all of it."
"But you didn't?"
"The team kept me grounded. Diana especially. She had everything to live for - Steve Trevor survived the war, and they got married right after V-E Day." Alan's expression softened with genuine warmth. "She got the happy ending she deserved. They had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. For nearly sixty years, she had the normal life she'd always wanted while still protecting people when they needed her."
His smile faded slightly. "Steve passed away in 2003. Cancer. Even with all her abilities, all the mystical knowledge at her disposal, there was nothing she could do. But she'd had decades of happiness with him, watching their family grow." Alan paused. "Rogers had instilled something in all of us - the need to do the right thing, to stand up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves. Diana just found a way to balance that with the life she'd chosen."
"So you all stayed active?"
"Through the fifties and early sixties, yes. But things started changing. The people we'd trusted, our allies in the government, they became more paranoid, more controlling." Alan's expression darkened. "Politics got in the way of doing what was right."
He was quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with painful memories. "The beginning of the end came when our headquarters was attacked. We lost good people that day. Friends who'd fought beside us for years." His voice became quiet, controlled. "But worse than the attack itself was what happened afterward. During the fight, one of our own - Adam Brashear, the Blue Marvel - had his mask torn off. The most genuinely heroic man I've ever known, and suddenly certain people in government knew he was Black."
Alan shook his head bitterly. "The public never knew about our exploits, never knew about Adam's heroism or sacrifice. But those southern politicians in the government who'd been tolerating our work as long as they could pretend we were all... acceptable to them? They couldn't stomach the idea of a Black man with that much power operating under their authority."
"What did you do?"
"We tried to fight it. Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, Steve Trevor, others who'd worked with us for years - they knew Adam personally, knew what kind of man he was. They believed he deserved better, but they were caught between their principles and political reality." Alan's voice carried old anger and disgust. "In 1963, President Kennedy, under enormous pressure from those same officials, asked Adam to retire from public heroics. Kennedy's hands were tied, or so we were told."
"Diana saw it coming from miles away," Alan continued. "She'd witnessed this pattern throughout human history. As she told Steve one night, 'They always fear those with the power to save them.' If that's how they treated one of the best among us, how long before they came for the rest of us?"
"So you disbanded?"
"We were disgusted. Adam retired gracefully, as he always did everything. But the rest of us realized that the world we'd been trying to protect no longer wanted us in it. Or rather, they wanted us only when it was convenient, only when we stayed in the shadows and never asked uncomfortable questions." Alan settled back into his chair. "We drifted apart. Diana focused on her family, though she never fully retired. Jay went into academia. The others found their own ways to contribute without the public scrutiny. I went back to broadcasting, used my civilian career to stay involved without putting on the costume. We stayed in touch, helped each other when necessary, but the days of public heroics were over."
"Until Superman changed everything."
"Exactly. When Superman revealed himself, when he showed the world that heroes could operate in the open again, it gave those of us in the shadows hope that maybe things could be different this time."
Hal processed this, thinking about his own recent experiences with media attention and government scrutiny. "And you've been watching me?"
"Since the moment your ring found you. The Starheart is sensitive to other sources of green light. When you first powered up, it was like a beacon going off in my consciousness."
"Why didn't you approach me sooner?"
"Because you needed to find your own path first. The ring chose you for reasons that had nothing to do with me or the Starheart. You needed to understand what being a Green Lantern meant before we could have this conversation."
"And what conversation is that?"
Alan leaned forward. "The one where I tell you that you're not alone. That Earth has had protectors before, and we're still here when you need us." He paused. "The one where I ask if you'd be interested in helping to rebuild something that was once great."
"You're talking about forming a team."
"I'm talking about forming a family. Heroes who trust each other, support each other, learn from each other. People who understand that the power we've been given comes with responsibilities that extend beyond just stopping the immediate threat."
Hal thought about fighting alongside Superman, Iron Man, Flash, and Aquaman against the Red Lanterns. The way they'd worked together, trusted each other despite being strangers. There had been something right about it.
"What would that look like?"
"I don't know yet. That's something we'd figure out together. But I do know that whatever's coming, whatever threats are building out there, we're going to need all the help we can get."
"Speaking of threats," Hal said, his expression darkening. "There are things you should know about what happened out there."
He told Alan about Sinestro's betrayal, about discovering his mentor had been secretly building his own Corps powered by fear. About the battle with Atrocitus and the Red Lanterns, the corruption of Ysmault, the cosmic entities that embodied different emotions.
"The worst part was realizing I'd been blind to it," Hal said. "Sinestro was my teacher, my mentor. I looked up to him. And the whole time, he was planning to overthrow everything the Corps stood for."
"That's not your failure," Alan said gently. "Betrayal by someone you trust isn't a reflection of your judgment. It's a reflection of their character."
"But I should have seen it. The signs were there. The way his own people feared him. The way he talked about control instead of protection."
"You saw a powerful, disciplined Lantern who got results. That's what he wanted you to see." Alan studied Hal's face. "What did you do when you discovered the truth?"
"I stopped him. We fought, and I won, but barely. He had decades of experience, and I had..." Hal gestured vaguely. "Instinct and stubbornness, I guess."
"Don't underestimate either of those. Sometimes they're more valuable than experience."
"Then there was Atrocitus. The leader of the Red Lanterns." Hal's voice grew heavy. "He wasn't wrong about the Guardians' failures. They created machines called Manhunters billions of years ago to police the universe, and those machines went rogue. They wiped out an entire sector, including Atrocitus's world and family."
"So his rage had legitimate roots."
"Yeah, but he let it consume him. Let it turn him into exactly what he claimed to be fighting against." Hal met Alan's eyes. "I managed to separate him from the cosmic entity that was powering him—something called the Butcher. Without that connection, he was just... broken. Defeated. The Guardians have him imprisoned on Ysmault now, the same world where his rage began."
"And Sinestro?"
Hal's expression darkened further. "Exiled to the Antimatter Universe. He went willingly, almost eagerly. Said it was exactly what he needed—a universe to reshape according to his vision of order." He shook his head. "Even in defeat, he was convinced he was right. That he'd return someday to prove it."
"How do you feel about that? About stopping your mentor?"
Hal was quiet for a long moment. "Terrible. Relieved. Guilty. Proud." He ran a hand through his hair. "All at once. Is that normal?"
"Completely normal. Stopping someone you trusted, someone you looked up to, should never be easy. The moment it becomes easy is the moment you stop being someone worth saving."
"I keep thinking about what Atrocitus said. About the Guardians being responsible for creating the very evil they claimed to fight. Makes me wonder what other secrets they're keeping; what other mistakes they've buried."
"Probably plenty," Alan said. "But that doesn't make your mission any less important. The universe needs protectors, even flawed ones. Especially flawed ones, because we understand what it means to make mistakes."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts.
"There's something else you should know," Alan said eventually. "About your father."
Hal tensed. "What about him?"
"I met him once. During a test flight program in the '80s. I was consulting on some communications equipment, and he was the chief test pilot." Alan's voice grew gentle. "He was a good man, Hal. He talked about his sons constantly, especially his middle boy who wanted to follow in his footsteps but was afraid of falling."
"I wasn't afraid of falling."
"No, but you were afraid of what falling might cost. The people you'd leave behind." Alan smiled. "Your father understood that. He said fear was just another instrument to monitor, like altitude or airspeed. Something to be aware of without letting it control you."
"He said that?"
"Among other things. He was proud of you, even then. Said you had the makings of a great pilot if you could learn to trust yourself." Alan paused. "I think he'd be amazed to see what you've become."
The words hit Hal harder than expected. "Thank you for telling me that."
"Don't thank me yet. There's more." Alan's expression grew serious. "I also knew Abin Sur. Not well, but our paths crossed a few times over the years. He was investigating what he called 'convergence points,' places where multiple possible futures intersected."
"Earth."
"Among others. But Earth was special because it wasn't just a convergence point, it was a focal point. A place where the outcome of the convergence could be influenced." Alan met Hal's eyes directly. "He believed that the crisis coming could be prevented or minimized if the right people were in the right positions when it arrived."
"And he thought I was one of those people?"
"I think he hoped you would be. But more than that, I think he believed Earth itself was key to the solution. Not because of any cosmic significance, but because of what humanity represents."
"Which is?"
"The ability to change. To grow. To choose hope even in the darkest circumstances." Alan stood, moving toward the study window that looked out over the Jordan family's backyard. "That's why the ring chose you, Hal. Not because you're fearless, but because you're willing to be afraid and still do what needs to be done."
Hal joined him at the window, watching the evening shadows lengthen across the lawn. "This thing with Abin Sur, what he believed about Earth being special—do you think he was right?"
"I think he saw something in humanity that even we don't fully understand yet." Alan's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. "The capacity to change, to grow, to choose hope even when everything looks hopeless. That's not common in the universe, Hal. Most species, once they reach a certain point in their development, they calcify. They stop evolving, stop surprising themselves."
The phone buzzed again. Alan's jaw tightened slightly, but he kept talking. "But humans? You're still writing your own story. Still capable of becoming something better than what you were yesterday."
"And you think that's what the Guardians need? That perspective?"
"I think it's what everyone needs." Alan turned from the window. "The question is whether you're ready to help provide it."
Buzz. Buzz.
"Popular tonight," Hal observed.
Alan pulled out his phone, glanced at the caller ID—Diana—and declined the call. "Sorry. Work never sleeps."
"In the journalism business?"
"Something like that." Alan slipped the phone back into his pocket. "The point is, Hal, you're not just a Green Lantern. You're an Earth Green Lantern. That distinction matters more than you might think."
"Because of the human perspective thing?"
"Because you'll approach problems differently than someone who's been part of the Corps for centuries. You'll ask questions they stopped asking long ago. You'll see solutions they've become blind to." Another buzz from his pocket, ignored. "That's valuable. Don't let them train it out of you."
The sounds of family activity drifted in from the living room—Tim's laughter, the soft murmur of adult conversation, the clink of dishes being cleared.
"Speaking of family," Alan said, "you should get back to yours. They've been through enough this week without you disappearing into cosmic philosophy."
"What about you? Sounds like someone really wants to talk to you."
Alan's expression tightened as his phone buzzed again. "It can wait until I'm somewhere more appropriate for that kind of conversation."
They moved toward the study door, but Hal paused with his hand on the handle. "Alan, this offer about working together—"
"Think about it," Alan said. "That's all I'm asking. The world's changing, and we need to be ready for what's coming."
When they stepped back into the living room, the scene had that comfortable end-of-evening feel. The warm glow from the table lamps cast everything in golden light, making it feel almost timeless. Jim was helping Steven gather his scattered Lego pieces while the boys were winding down from their post-dinner energy.
"Good talk?" Carol asked as Hal settled beside her on the couch, her hand immediately finding his.
"Yeah. Turns out there's more history to all this than I thought." Hal watched Alan across the room. The older man was chatting easily with Jessica, genuinely relaxed for the first time since dinner started.
"The boys have been asking about you since you got here," Jessica was telling Alan with a warm smile. "Especially after they heard about your work with aviation history. Tim's convinced he wants to be a pilot now."
Alan chuckled. "Flying's a good dream to have. There's nothing quite like it."
"Are you writing a book?" Steven asked, plopping down on the carpet next to his Lego collection. "About the old planes and stuff?"
"Something like that," Alan said, settling into one of the armchairs. "Though I spend more time talking to old pilots than writing these days. The stories they tell are worth preserving."
His phone buzzed. Alan glanced at it casually, saw Diana's name, and declined the call without much thought. She'd been checking in more frequently lately, probably just wanted to catch up on how everyone was doing.
"Must be fascinating work," Carol said. "Meeting all those veterans, hearing their stories firsthand."
"It is. Though sometimes I think I learn more from families like yours than from all my interviews combined." Alan's smile was genuine. "There's something about seeing how people build lives together, how they create something lasting."
Outside, a car engine rumbled to life—not the typical suburban purr, but something deeper, more powerful. Through the window, Hal could see sleek red curves and chrome that gleamed under the porch light.
"Sounds like my ride's here," Alan said, standing and stretching. "Guess that's my cue."
He made his rounds saying goodbye. A handshake with Jim, a hug from Jennifer, ruffling the boys' hair while they peppered him with questions about whether he'd come back soon. Jessica, of course, pressed a container of leftovers into his hands.
"I'm not taking no for an answer," she said firmly.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alan replied, looking genuinely touched.
As they headed for the door, Hal walked out with him. The car was even more impressive up close—every line perfect, the paint job so flawless it seemed to glow.
The driver's window rolled down, revealing a man with salt-and-pepper hair and an easy grin.
"Need a lift, stranger?" the driver called out with obvious amusement. "I hear you've been stranded here for hours, forced to endure home cooking and actual conversation."
Alan shook his head but was smiling. "Very funny, Jay."
"Jay Garrick," the man said, leaning out the window to shake Hal's hand. "Sorry I missed dinner. Someone told me there'd be awkward small talk and questions about my personal life, so I decided to stay in the car."
"That someone being Alan?" Hal asked.
"Alan's got a habit of volunteering people for social situations," Jay said with mock seriousness. "Last month he signed me up to judge a pie contest. Do I look like a pie expert to you?"
"You ate three pieces of Molly's apple pie," Alan pointed out with a slight smile.
"Research," Jay replied without missing a beat. "Very thorough research. Had to make sure the recipe was consistent."
"Molly's your wife?" Hal asked Alan.
"Sixty years next month," Alan said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. "She still makes the best apple pie in three counties."
"Don't let her hear you saying that around other bakers," Jay warned. "I made that mistake once at a church social. Nearly started a riot."
Hal found himself grinning. There was something immediately likeable about Jay—the kind of guy who could make friends with a lamppost.
"Hell of a car," Hal said, admiring the pristine chrome.
Jay patted the dashboard affectionately. "She's got some special features. Patrick Wayne and Howard Stark designed her back in '62. Those two could never build anything simple."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning she's got more under the hood than most people would believe," Jay said with a wink. "But that's a conversation for another time."
Jay grinned and patted the hood. "She's special. Howard and Patrick designed her back in '62. Joint project between two guys who thought cars should do more than just drive."
"More than drive?"
"Let's just say she's got some features you won't find at the dealer." Jay winked. "Patrick Wayne was quite the innovator. Most people remember the buildings, but his real genius was practical engineering."
Alan had circled to the passenger side, but he paused with his hand on the door handle. "Hal, what we talked about earlier—about working together. I meant it. Keep thinking about it."
"I will."
"Good." Alan started to get in, then stopped. "And Hal? Be careful. The world's getting stranger by the day, and not all of it's friendly."
As soon as Alan was in the car, he powered his phone back on. It immediately started buzzing like an angry hornet.
"Jesus," Jay muttered, watching Alan's face go pale. "How many calls?"
"Seventeen." Alan's voice was tight. "All from Diana."
He hit redial. Diana picked up before it finished the first ring.
"Alan! Thank God. Where have you been?"
"I was—Diana, what's wrong?"
"It's James." Her voice cracked. "Alan, James Barnes is alive."
The words hit like a physical blow. Alan's hand tightened on the phone so hard his knuckles went white. "That's not possible."
"I know how it sounds, but we have proof. Surveillance footage, facial recognition. It's him."
"Diana, we saw him fall. We searched—"
"I know! I know we did. But he's alive, Alan. Someone's had him all this time."
Outside the car, Hal was still standing there. Alan forced himself to keep his voice level. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the house in DC. Can you get here?"
"We're on our way."
Alan hung up and sat in silence for a moment. His hands were shaking.
"Alan?" Jay's voice was gentle. "What happened?"
"Bucky's alive."
Jay went completely still. "What?"
"Diana has proof. Someone's had him for sixty years." Alan's voice broke. "They've been using him, Jay. As an assassin."
"We need to go," Alan said.
Jay nodded and put the car in drive. Hal stepped back as they pulled away from the curb. Then his eyes went wide as the Eldorado's wheels retracted and the car rose smoothly into the night sky.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, shaking his head with a grin. "And I thought my commute was weird."
He stood there for a moment longer, processing everything Alan had told him. The Justice Society, the history of heroes on Earth, the suggestion of rebuilding something that had once been great. It was a lot to absorb, but underneath all the cosmic implications, one thing stood out clearly: he wasn't alone in this. There were others who understood the weight of power and responsibility, others who'd faced similar choices and somehow found ways to keep going.
When he turned back toward the house, he found his family waiting in the doorway, watching him with expressions that ranged from curious to amused.