The three men floated through John's window and into the Chicago evening. The city spread out below them, lights beginning to twinkle as darkness settled over the urban landscape. John had seen Chicago from the air before during helicopter flights, but this was different. More immediate, more personal.
"Take us up," Hal instructed. "Nice and easy. Get a feel for how the ring responds to your intentions."
John rose slowly, watching the buildings shrink beneath him. At a thousand feet, he could see the entire downtown area laid out like a architectural model. At three thousand feet, Lake Michigan stretched to the horizon like a dark mirror. At five thousand feet, he could see the lights of neighboring cities twinkling in the distance.
"How high can we go?" he asked.
"Personally? About as high as you can handle psychologically," Guy replied. "The ring protects you from environmental factors. Pressure, temperature, oxygen levels. You could survive in deep space if you needed to."
"Space," John repeated, the word carrying new weight now that it represented a place he might actually visit.
"It's overwhelming at first," Hal said, his voice gentle with understanding. "The scope of what we're responsible for, the distances involved, the civilizations we've never heard of that might depend on us. But you learn to focus on what's in front of you."
They spent the next hour working on basic flight maneuvers. Forward and backward movement, ascending and descending, turning and banking like aircraft. John's architectural training served him well; his mind naturally processed three-dimensional relationships and spatial dynamics. By the end of the session, he was flying with confidence if not yet with the casual grace of his instructors.
"Constructs next," Guy announced as they hovered above downtown Chicago. "This is where things get really interesting."
"The ring converts willpower into physical matter," Hal explained. "Whatever you can visualize clearly, whatever you can will into existence, it can create. The constructs are as solid and durable as your will is strong."
John watched as Hal extended his hand, green energy flowing from his ring to form a perfect replica of a construction crane. The detail was extraordinary, from the operator's cab to the cable rigging to the treads on the base.
"Your turn," Guy said. "Start with something simple. Something you understand completely."
John thought for a moment, then focused on creating something from his professional experience. Green energy flowed from his ring, coalescing into a precise scale model of the community center he'd been designing. Every detail was perfect, from the solar panel arrays on the roof to the wheelchair accessibility ramps at each entrance.
"Damn," Guy said with obvious admiration. "That's better than most Lanterns manage after weeks of training."
"Engineering background helps," John said, studying his creation with professional satisfaction. "When you've spent years thinking about structural integrity and load-bearing calculations, visualizing three-dimensional objects comes naturally."
Hal nodded approvingly. "Try something larger. More complex."
John dismissed his first construct and concentrated on something more ambitious. This time, he created a full-scale replica of the bridge his unit had built during his deployment in Afghanistan. Not just the structure itself, but the entire engineering project, complete with support equipment and staging areas.
"Holy shit," Guy breathed. "Most of us can barely manage a hammer without it looking like green jello."
"Language," John said automatically, then realized he was quoting his drill sergeant from basic training.
Hal laughed. "Fair point. We should probably work on professional comportment along with power usage."
They spent another hour on construct fundamentals. John learned to create tools, weapons, vehicles, and defensive barriers. His engineering background made him naturally suited to complex structural creations, while his military training provided tactical awareness for combat applications.
"You're a natural," Hal said as they finally began descending toward John's apartment building. "Most new Lanterns take weeks to achieve this level of control."
"It helps that I'm not doing this alone," John replied. "Having instructors who understand both the power and the responsibility makes all the difference."
Guy grinned. "Plus, now Hal doesn't have to carry the entire load by himself. Earth's got three Green Lanterns now. We can actually coordinate coverage instead of one guy running himself ragged trying to handle everything."
They landed on John's fire escape, the emerald glow of their rings dim but steady in the evening darkness. John looked back at his apartment, at the normal human life waiting inside, then at his two fellow Lanterns who represented the cosmic responsibilities he'd just accepted.
"So what happens next?" he asked. "When do I meet these Guardians? When do I see Oa?"
"Soon," Hal promised. "There are some political considerations to work through first. Having three Lanterns from the same planet is unprecedented, and some of the older Corps members are concerned about Earth having too much influence."
"But for now," Guy added, "you settle in to the idea of being a Green Lantern while continuing to be John Stewart. The universe isn't going to end if you take a few days to adjust to having cosmic responsibilities."
John nodded, though part of him suspected the universe might have other plans. In his experience, major life changes rarely came with convenient adjustment periods.
"One more thing," Hal said as he prepared to take off. "The oath. Every Green Lantern knows it, and speaking it together creates a connection that spans the entire Corps."
"It's not required," Guy added quickly. "But it helps. Reminds you that you're part of something bigger than yourself."
John looked at the two men who had become his partners in cosmic peacekeeping, then at the ring on his finger that connected him to thousands of others across the galaxy. The words came to him naturally, as if he'd always known them.
"In brightest day," he began, his voice strong and clear.
"In blackest night," Hal and Guy joined in, their voices blending with his.
"No evil shall escape my sight."
"Let those who worship evil's might."
"Beware my power, Green Lantern's light!"
The three rings flared in unison, their combined glow visible for miles across the darkened city. John felt the connection then, not just to his fellow Earth Lanterns but to the entire Corps scattered across the universe. Warriors and protectors, beings of countless species united by common purpose and unwavering will.
For the first time since the ring had appeared in his living room, John Stewart truly understood what he had become. Not just a man with extraordinary powers, but part of something ancient and noble and absolutely necessary. A guardian in the truest sense, standing watch against the darkness that threatened innocent life throughout the cosmos.
As Hal and Guy departed into the night sky, their emerald trails disappearing among the stars, John remained on his fire escape for a long time. Looking up at the vast expanse above, knowing that somewhere out there, other Green Lanterns were beginning their shifts, starting their patrols, answering calls for help from beings he'd never heard of on worlds he couldn't pronounce.
Tomorrow, he would return to his architectural projects, his community development work, his quiet campaign to make Chicago a better place for the people who called it home. But tonight, and every night going forward, he was something more.
He was a Green Lantern. And for the first time in three years, John Stewart felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
—
The transport ship's engines whined to a stop as it docked with the massive structure hanging in the void between stars. Through the reinforced viewport, Razer could see the Kyln in all its grim majesty, a sprawling complex of interconnected modules and detention blocks, surrounded by defense platforms that could vaporize any ship foolish enough to attempt an unauthorized approach.
Twenty-five years. The words echoed in his mind as the containment field around him shifted from transport mode to prisoner processing protocols. Twenty-five years in the galaxy's most dangerous prison, surrounded by beings whose crimes made his own look like minor infractions.
He'd spent barely a year as part of a Corps that claimed to dispense justice, only to learn that true justice was far more complicated than rage had made it seem. One year of destruction that had left scars across multiple star systems. Now he would spend the next quarter-century contemplating that complexity while surrounded by the universe's worst.
"Prisoner 2814-Red-1," announced the mechanized voice of the transport's security system. "Prepare for transfer to Kyln Authority."
The containment field dissolved, replaced immediately by shackles that materialized around his wrists and ankles. Heavy, crude things designed to contain beings far stronger than baseline humanoids. They weren't just restraints, they were a statement. You are no longer a person. You are a number in a system.
Two armored guards flanked him as he was led through the docking umbilical and into the Kyln proper. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Recycled air mixed with industrial cleaning solutions, fear-sweat, and something else. Desperation, maybe. The scent of beings who had given up hope.
The Xandarian guard on his left had cybernetic implants covering half his skull, the kind of augmentation that spoke of serious combat injuries. His partner was Rhomannite, those distinctive crystalline patches across his green skin marking him as someone from the outer rim territories where life was cheap and morals were negotiable.
"First time in maximum security?" the Xandarian asked, his voice carrying the casual indifference of someone who'd processed thousands of dangerous criminals.
"Yes."
"Word of advice." The guard's cybernetic eye whirred as it focused on him. "Keep your head down, don't make eye contact with the lifers, and never, ever mention why you're here unless someone specifically asks. Some of these bastards have friends on the outside who might not appreciate what you did during your Red Lantern days."
Razer almost laughed at that. Friends on the outside. As if anyone who'd known him before Ilana's death would recognize what he'd become. The village boy who'd helped harvest moon-grain and repaired atmospheric processors was gone. The man who'd held his wife's hand during sunset walks through their garden was buried under years of rage and blood.
"Understood," he said simply.
The processing chamber was exactly what he'd expected. Stark white walls, automated systems, and the kind of clinical efficiency that stripped away everything human about the experience. This wasn't rehabilitation. This was storage.
"Strip," ordered the Xandarian, whose nameplate read 'Supervisor Grix.' "Everything comes off. Ring included."
Razer looked down at the red ring on his finger, its surface dim by his own choice. The metal felt warm against his skin, a constant reminder of what he'd chosen to become and what he'd chosen to abandon. "The ring can't be removed. It's tied to my life force. Removing it would kill me."
Grix consulted his tablet, scrolling through what was presumably Razer's file. The guard's expression shifted slightly as he read, probably accessing classified information about the Red Lantern Corps that most beings never saw. "Says here the ring stays but you're keeping it powered down during incarceration. Some kind of self-imposed limitation."
"Correct," Razer replied. The ring still pulsed faintly with power, but he maintained strict mental barriers around it. He could access its full strength if needed, but chose not to. The constant temptation served as both reminder and penance.
The Rhomannite guard, whose crystalline skin patterns were darker than most of his species, stepped forward. "Never seen anyone voluntarily hobble their own power before. Most prisoners fight tooth and nail to keep every advantage they can get."
"I'm not most prisoners."
"No," Grix said, still reading from his tablet, "you're definitely not. Red Lantern Corps leadership, forty-seven counts of murder, conspiracy to overthrow galactic government, and..." His cybernetic eye clicked as it processed the data. "Voluntary surrender and cooperation with Nova Corps during final engagement. Huh. That's new."
The decontamination process was humiliating by design. High-pressure jets of orange antiseptic solution that burned his eyes and left his blue skin feeling raw. The chemical mixture was designed to neutralize any possible contaminants, but it also served a psychological purpose. Strip away dignity along with potential threats.
Razer stood motionless as the jets worked, letting the burning liquid wash over him without flinching. He'd endured worse. The rage that had consumed him for years had been a constant burning that made this physical discomfort seem trivial by comparison.
Chemical analysis scanners mapped every inch of his body for contraband or biological weapons. Identity verification systems recorded biometric data he'd never consented to share. The efficiency was impressive in its thoroughness and depressing in its necessity.
"You're calmer than most," observed the Rhomannite guard, whose nameplate identified him as Officer Kess. "Usually get at least some protests during processing. Threats, bargaining, pleading."
"Would any of that change my situation?"
"Not even slightly."
"Then why waste the energy?"
Kess's crystalline patches shifted color slightly, indicating what might have been approval in his species. "Practical. I can respect that."
When the decontamination cycle completed, they handed him the standard Kyln uniform: a shapeless gray jumpsuit with his prisoner number stenciled across the back in stark black letters. The fabric was rough, uncomfortable, designed to be functional rather than humane. As he pulled it on, Razer felt the last vestiges of his identity as a Red Lantern slip away.
The number 2814-Red-1 felt heavier than the shackles. It reduced him to his sector of origin and his crimes, nothing more. Not Razer of Volkreg, the village boy who'd loved a gentle woman. Not Razer the engineer who'd improved atmospheric processors across three farming colonies. Just a number representing a threat to be contained.
"Follow the yellow line," Grix instructed, gesturing toward a painted pathway that led deeper into the facility. "Stay between the barriers, don't deviate, and don't touch anything. The automated systems are programmed to respond to unauthorized movement with potentially lethal force."
The corridors spoke to the Kyln's reputation as the galaxy's most secure facility. Everything was designed for maximum security and minimal comfort. Surveillance cameras tracked their movement from multiple angles, and Razer could sense the energy signatures of automated defense systems ready to activate at the first sign of trouble.
"The Kyln processes about two thousand new inmates annually," Kess explained as they walked, apparently following some kind of orientation script. "Current population is approximately forty-three thousand beings from over eight hundred different species. Average sentence length is life imprisonment."
"Comforting statistics."
"Wasn't meant to be comforting. Was meant to give you perspective on your situation." Kess's crystalline patches darkened. "Twenty-five years is practically a vacation here. Most beings who walk these corridors never leave."
They passed through a series of checkpoints, each one more heavily fortified than the last. Energy barriers that required multiple biometric confirmations to pass through. Guard stations where armed personnel watched from behind reinforced barriers. Scanner arrays that analyzed everything from DNA to emotional state.
"You seem different than the intelligence reports suggested," Grix observed as they waited for a security door to cycle. "Expected more... volatility. Red Lanterns are supposed to be walking fury bombs."
"I was," Razer admitted quietly. "For a very long time. It didn't make anything better."
"What changed?"
Razer thought about the children screaming in Coast City, about the moment when he'd realized his quest for justice had become everything he'd once fought against. About Ilana's voice in his memory, asking him to remember who he'd been before rage consumed everything good in him.
"I remembered what I was supposed to be protecting."
They entered what the guards called the "fishbowl"—a central hub where multiple corridor levels intersected, allowing prisoners from different blocks to see each other during transport. It was designed to remind everyone exactly how many dangerous beings were contained within these walls.
The moment Razer appeared on the catwalk, the noise began.
"RED LANTERN!" someone screamed from three levels down. "I see that fucking ring!"
"MASS MURDERER!" came another voice. "My cousin was on Thanagar when you bastards hit the refueling station!"
"TWELVE MONTHS OF TERROR!" A third voice joined the chorus. "One year and you killed thousands!"
The sound built on itself, prisoners throughout the fishbowl taking up the chant. Razer's crimes were well-known here, his face recognizable from wanted bulletins that had been distributed across the galaxy during the Red Lantern Corps' brief but devastating campaign.
"THEY SHOULD HAVE EXECUTED YOU!"
"FAMILY KILLER!"
"TERRORIST SCUM!"
Razer kept his eyes forward, accepting the verbal assault without reaction. These beings had every right to their anger. He'd helped create the fear and pain that drove their hatred in just one year of systematic destruction. The least he could do was bear witness to it without complaint.
The mess hall was a vast chamber filled with dozens of tables, each designed to seat eight prisoners under the watchful eyes of armed guards positioned throughout the room. The air was thick with tension and the constant murmur of conversations that stopped whenever guards came within earshot.
Word of his arrival had spread through the prison's communication networks fast. As he moved through the food line, conversations died and hostile stares followed his every step.
At one of the central tables sat a figure that immediately drew Razer's attention. Drax the Destroyer was impossible to miss—a powerfully built humanoid with grayish-green skin covered in intricate red tattoos that seemed to tell the story of every battle he'd fought. His bald head was marked with more tattoos, creating geometric patterns. Even seated, his presence dominated the immediate area around him.
Drax was methodically eating his meal while other prisoners gave his table a wide berth. His movements were precise, economical, those of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of violence. When he looked up and made eye contact with Razer, there was no curiosity or hostility—just the cold assessment of a predator evaluating potential prey.
Razer found an empty table in the corner, hoping to eat his meal—some kind of protein paste and reconstituted vegetables served with actual metal utensils—in relative peace. The food was bland but nutritious, designed to keep prisoners functional rather than satisfied.
That's when the Kronan approached.
Razer had heard of the rock-like species during his Red Lantern days. Incredibly strong, nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons, and possessed of tempers that made most species seem peaceful by comparison. This one was massive even by Kronan standards, his gray stone skin scarred by what looked like weapons fire.
"You're the Red Lantern," the Kronan said, his voice like grinding boulders. "The one who turned traitor."
"Yes," Razer replied simply, not looking up from his meal.
"My brother died on Lamentis. Caught in one of your 'justice' raids when you burned the spaceport. One year of your Corps existing, and you managed to kill half my family."
Razer set down his metal fork and met the Kronan's eyes directly. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Sorry?" The Kronan's laugh was like an avalanche. "You think sorry fixes anything? One year! That's all you bastards needed to spread terror across three sectors!"
"No," Razer said quietly. "Nothing fixes it. Your brother is dead because of choices I made. I can't undo that, and sorry is just a word. But it's the only word I have."
The Kronan stared at him for a long moment, clearly expecting a different response. When none came, he leaned forward, his massive fist slamming down on the table hard enough to crack the metal surface.
"Fight me, coward. Show me this legendary Red Lantern fury."
"No."
"What?"
"I said no. I'm not going to fight you. Your anger is justified, and fighting you won't bring your brother back."
The Kronan's confusion was evident. He'd clearly expected either fear or reciprocal aggression. Razer's calm acceptance of responsibility without willingness to engage seemed to short-circuit his preparation for confrontation.
"Then I'll make you fight," the Kronan snarled, reaching across the table to grab Razer's shoulder.
The anger flared before Razer could stop it. Not the cosmic fury of his Red Lantern days, but something more personal, more focused. His ring began to glow brighter against his finger as his mental barriers wavered. The Kronan's hand was inches from his shoulder when Razer's own hand moved.
The metal knife he'd been holding punched clean through the Kronan's rocky palm, the steel sliding between stone plates like they were soft clay. The Kronan jerked back with a howl of pain and surprise, staring in shock as pieces of his hand began to crumble away from the wound.
The mess hall went completely silent. Every conversation stopped. Every eye turned toward their table.
Razer forced his breathing to steady, consciously dampening his ring's glow before the guards noticed the energy spike. The red light faded back to its dormant state as he regained control over his temper.
"That's impossible," the Kronan gasped, clutching his damaged hand. "Nothing cuts through Kronan stone that easily."
"I spent a year learning how to kill things that shouldn't die," Razer said quietly, his voice carrying clearly in the silence. He looked around the mess hall, meeting the stares of dozens of dangerous beings. "Anyone else who wants to 'make me fight' should remember that. Touch me again, and I'll do worse."
The threat wasn't delivered with rage or bravado. It was a simple statement of fact, made more chilling by its calm delivery. Around the room, prisoners who had been sizing him up as easy prey began to recalculate their assessments.
At his table, Drax watched the exchange with obvious interest. When their eyes met, the tattooed warrior gave a slight nod—not approval, exactly, but acknowledgment. One predator recognizing another.
From across the room, a voice like grinding metal called out. "Well, well. Fresh meat with some bite to it."
Lobo sat alone at a reinforced table that had clearly been specially constructed to handle his weight and strength. The Czarnian bounty hunter was exactly as the intelligence reports had described him: seven feet of pale skin, wild black hair, and the kind of casual menace that made entire systems nervous when his name was mentioned. His red eyes were fixed on Razer with obvious amusement.
"What's your story, blue boy?" Lobo called out, his scarred lips splitting into a grin that revealed far too many teeth.
"Razer of Volkreg. Red Lantern Corps. Here for twenty-five years."
"Red Lantern?" Lobo's grin widened. "Heard you bastards put up a decent fight during that one year you were operational. Too bad you all got yourselves captured so quick."
"Some fought harder than others," Razer replied evenly. "I chose differently."
"Chose not to fight the good fight?" Lobo laughed. "That's either really smart or really stupid. Guess we'll find out which over the next twenty-five years, won't we?"
Before Razer could respond, guards were moving through the mess hall, drawn by the disturbance. The Kronan was still clutching his damaged hand, pieces of stone continuing to flake away from the wound.
"What happened here?" demanded the lead guard, a heavily augmented Kree whose cybernetic eye was already recording the scene.
"Accident," the Kronan said quickly, surprising everyone. "Clumsy with the utensils."
The guard's mechanical eye whirred as it focused on the metal knife, then on the Kronan's wounded hand, then on Razer's calm expression. "Accidents like this have a way of recurring. Best to be more careful in the future."
The message was clear: violence would be tolerated as long as it didn't threaten overall facility security. What happened between prisoners was their own business, but disrupting operations would bring consequences.
As the guards dispersed and normal mess hall activity resumed, Razer finished his meal in relative peace. The Kronan had retreated to a medical station, still staring at his damaged hand in disbelief. Other prisoners continued to watch him, but now their expressions carried wariness rather than simple hostility.
After the incident in the mess hall, Razer was escorted back through the cell blocks. The whispered conversations followed him through the corridors.
"That's him. The Red Lantern who carved up a Kronan."
"Heard he punctured solid stone with a dinner knife."
"Only took his Corps a year to terrorize half the galaxy."
"Fucking terrorist. Should have been executed."
But there were other whispers too, ones that spoke to the complex reputation that preceded him.
"Also heard he saved a bunch of kids during the Earth attack."
"Turned on his own Corps when they went too far."
"Takes stones to threaten two hundred lifers on your first day."
Razer's cell was exactly what he'd expected: a three-meter by two-meter box with a cot, a small desk, and basic sanitation facilities. The walls were reinforced plasteel designed to contain beings far stronger than baseline humanoids, and the single window offered a view of the cosmic void that served as a constant reminder of how far from civilization they all were.
But it was the figure standing outside his cell that made his heart stop.
She stood there in a Green Lantern uniform, her appearance clearly artificial yet hauntingly familiar. Her skin was a pale green color that seemed to glow faintly in the corridor lighting, and her bald head was perfectly smooth, giving her an otherworldly, synthetic appearance. Her features were sharp and precise—high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and large eyes that held an ethereal quality. Everything about her screamed artificial being, from her too-perfect posture to the way she held herself with mechanical precision.
But it was the subtle things that made Razer's chest tighten. The way she tilted her head slightly when observing something, just like Ilana used to do when she was thinking. The particular angle of her shoulders when she stood at attention. The shape of her eyes, not the same color or exact form, but carrying the same gentle curve that had once looked at him with love.
The Guardians had been clever. They hadn't copied Ilana directly—that would have been too obvious, too cruel even for them. Instead, they'd taken behavioral patterns, mannerisms, the small unconscious gestures that made someone uniquely themselves, and woven them into this artificial being.
Not Ilana. But close enough to twist the knife.
"Prisoner 2814-Red-1," she said, her voice carrying tones that made his chest ache. "I am Aya, Green Lantern of Sector 1138. I have been assigned as your monitoring officer during your incarceration."
Razer stared at her, his ring beginning to pulse brighter as anger built in his chest. Not the cosmic fury that had consumed him as a Red Lantern, but something more personal. The cold rage of someone who had been deliberately tormented.
"Who authorized this?" he asked, his voice barely controlled.
"I am a synthetic being created by the Guardians of the Universe," Aya replied. "I was designed to serve the Green Lantern Corps and maintain order throughout the universe."
"Why do you look like..." He stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence.
"I do not understand your question," Aya said, but there was something in her voice—confusion, maybe. "My design parameters were established by the Guardians based on optimal psychological compatibility factors."
Psychological compatibility. The bastards had dug through his memories, found what made him vulnerable, and weaponized it.
"My assignment is to monitor your activities and ensure compliance with Kyln Authority regulations. I will be stationed outside your cell during all non-sleeping hours."
"Why?" The word came out sharper than he'd intended, his ring's glow intensifying.
"The Guardians determined that your case requires specialized oversight given your unique circumstances as a reformed Red Lantern. They believed this arrangement would be most conducive to your rehabilitation."
Most conducive to his torture, more like. Every day for twenty-five years, he'd have to look at this thing wearing pieces of Ilana's memory like a costume.
"You seem distressed," Aya observed, her head tilting in that familiar way. "Are you experiencing difficulty adjusting to the facility?"
"Don't," Razer said quietly, his voice carrying deadly warning. "Don't analyze me."
"I am programmed to assess prisoner psychological states as part of my monitoring function. Your biometric readings indicate elevated stress levels and emotional instability."
The rage exploded through him before he could stop it. His ring blazed with crimson light, casting violent shadows through the corridor as his mental barriers cracked under the weight of fury and grief.
"STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" he roared, his voice echoing through the cell block with enough force to rattle the energy barriers. "I don't want to see you! I don't want to hear your voice! I don't want you anywhere near me!"
Aya stepped back, her ring automatically forming defensive constructs as his emotional state triggered whatever threat protocols she'd been programmed with. Around them, alarms began to blare as the facility's security systems detected the energy spike from his ring.
"I do not understand," Aya said, her voice carrying what sounded like genuine confusion. "I was created to assist with your rehabilitation. Why are you responding with hostility?"
"Because you're wearing her face!" The words tore from his throat like they were ripping something vital out of him. "You're wearing pieces of the woman I loved and you don't even know it!"
Razer forced himself to breathe, to center his thoughts, to rebuild the mental walls that kept his power contained. The crimson glow faded slowly as he reasserted control over both his ring and his emotions.
"I still do not understand," Aya said. "My appearance was designed according to Oan specifications. I have no knowledge of any individual whose characteristics may have been incorporated into my design."
"Of course you don't," Razer said bitterly. "They wouldn't tell you. That would require admitting what they've done."
Guards were approaching now, drawn by the alarm. Razer stepped into his cell without another word, the energy barrier activating behind him with a soft hum.
As the security team dispersed and the alarms fell silent, Aya resumed her position outside his cell. Her expression showed what might have been confusion, if artificial beings could experience such things.
"Prisoner 2814-Red-1," she said after a long moment. "If my presence causes you distress, perhaps I could request reassignment?"
Razer lay down on the narrow cot and stared at the ceiling, his ring dim once more by his own choice. "They won't reassign you. This is exactly what they wanted."
"I do not understand. The Guardians stated that my assignment was intended to facilitate your rehabilitation."
"The Guardians," Razer said quietly, "understand less about rehabilitation than they do about anything else. They think justice is a formula you can solve with the right variables. They don't understand that some wounds can't be healed by throwing more pain at them."
Through the energy barrier, he could see Aya processing this information, her expression cycling through what looked like attempts to understand something beyond her programming.
Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of having this artificial reminder of everything he'd lost stand guard over him. The Guardians thought they were helping, thought they were giving him something familiar and comforting.
They had no idea that they'd just created a more refined torture than any physical punishment they could have devised.
For the first time since renouncing his allegiance to the Red Lantern Corps, Razer felt the old hatred stirring in his chest. Not for the universe, not for the innocent beings he'd once terrorized, but for the ancient blue-skinned bureaucrats who thought they understood justice, mercy, and redemption.
He'd regretted his crimes. He'd accepted responsibility for the pain he'd caused. He'd chosen to bear the weight of his actions with dignity.
But he would never forgive the Guardians for this.
Outside his cell, the artificial woman who wore fragments of his wife's essence stood silent vigil, her ring glowing steadily in the darkness, trying to understand why her presence caused such pain to the being she was supposed to help heal.