The bus hissed to a stop, air brakes sighing like an exhausted beast finally allowed to rest. The doors folded open with their familiar metallic clunk, and sunlight spilled into the dim interior, harsh and unforgiving, turning the worn vinyl seats into a patchwork of glare and shadow.
Outside, Madison Elementary School waited with the patient indifference of a building that had seen thirty years of ten-year-olds come and go.
It was a two-story brick structure painted in faded cream and rust-red, the colors chosen sometime in the late '90s and never updated. The architecture was practical, almost brutally so—long rectangular wings connected by a central courtyard, flat roof dotted with air conditioning units that wheezed and rattled even on cool days, windows arranged in neat rows like a spreadsheet made manifest. A chain-link fence surrounded the playground to the east, where weathered swings hung motionless and a jungle gym stood like a skeletal monument to recess past.
The front entrance was marked by double doors painted industrial green, flanked by two sad-looking shrubs in concrete planters that someone had optimistically tried to decorate with fading plastic flowers. Above the doors, carved into a concrete lintel that had probably looked impressive once, were the words: MADISON ELEMENTARY - FOUNDED 1992 - HOME OF THE METEORS.
Kids poured off the bus in a chattering flood, backpacks bouncing, sneakers slapping pavement, voices overlapping in that particular chaos that only grade-schoolers could generate. They scattered like marbles dropped on tile—some racing toward the doors, others lingering near the flagpole where the American flag hung limp in the still morning air, a few brave souls already plotting how to sneak toward the vending machines before first bell.
Ben, Gwen, and Kevin were the last to disembark, moving slower than the rest, caught in the gravity well of an argument that had clearly been brewing since the bus pulled away from the stop.
"I'm just saying," Ben said, his tone hovering somewhere between pleading and defensive, backpack slung over one shoulder, "it's one assignment. Just this once. Come on, Gwen, you know I was gonna do it—"
"You had three days, Ben." Gwen's voice was crisp, precise, each word enunciated with the clarity of someone who'd already won the argument and was just waiting for her opponent to realize it. Her backpack sat square on both shoulders, color-coded folders visible through the unzipped top pocket, a testament to her organizational superiority. "Three entire days. You could've done it Saturday. You could've done it Sunday. You could've done it last night instead of playing Sumo Slammers until ten o'clock."
"I was researching strategies—"
"You were button-mashing and yelling at the TV."
Kevin snorted, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, trailing behind them with the casual slouch of someone who'd finished his homework a week ago and found the whole debate hilarious. "She's got you there, Tennyson."
Ben shot him a betrayed look. "Whose side are you on?"
"The side of not getting detention," Kevin replied, grin widening. "Which is the side that does their math homework."
Ben groaned, a sound of pure existential suffering, and turned back to Gwen with what he clearly hoped was a winning smile—big eyes, slightly tilted head, the expression that had successfully gotten him out of trouble with his mom at least forty percent of the time. "Look, I'm not asking you to do it for me. Just... let me glance at yours? You know, for reference? Educational purposes?"
Gwen stopped walking. Ben stopped too. Kevin kept going a few more steps before realizing he'd lost his audience and circled back, eyebrows raised.
"Ben," Gwen said, her tone dropping into that particular register of disappointment that somehow hurt worse than anger, "you're asking me to let you cheat."
"I'm asking you to be a team player—"
"We're not on a team. This is school."
"Family is a team!"
"Not when it comes to math homework!"
They stood there in the middle of the walkway, a small island of familial dysfunction while other kids streamed past, casting curious glances and whispering behind hands. Ben's shoulders sagged, defeat settling over him like a wet blanket.
"Fine," he muttered, kicking at a crack in the pavement. "I'll just... I don't know. Wing it."
"You're going to fail."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm being realistic."
Kevin clapped a hand on Ben's shoulder, the gesture somewhere between comforting and mocking. "Look on the bright side—at least it's just homework. Not like Mrs. Patterson's gonna execute you."
"She might," Ben said darkly. "You haven't seen the way she looks at people who don't turn stuff in. It's like she's measuring you for a coffin."
Gwen rolled her eyes so hard Ben was surprised they didn't audibly click. "Dramatic much?"
The first bell rang—a shrill, electronic *brrrrring* that echoed across the courtyard and sent the lingering stragglers into motion. The tide of students shifted, flowing toward the green double doors with renewed urgency, voices rising in pitch as the reality of "you're gonna be late" set in.
"Okay, okay, we gotta move," Kevin said, already backing toward the entrance. "I got Henderson first period and he locks the door at 8:15. No joke. Tyler got stuck in the hall last week and had to do laps at lunch."
Ben hoisted his backpack higher, resigned to his fate. "Yeah. Alright."
Gwen adjusted her own bag, then paused, expression softening just a fraction—barely noticeable, the kind of tiny crack in her armor that she'd never admit was there. "Ben."
He looked up, hope flickering.
"Next time, just do the homework."
The hope died. "Wow. Inspiring. Thank you, Gwen. I feel so supported."
She smiled, sweet as poisoned honey. "Anytime, cuz."
They pushed through the double doors into the familiar chaos of Madison Elementary's main hallway. The smell hit first—that universal school scent of industrial cleaner, old paste wax, slightly overripe cafeteria fruit, and the faint, inexplicable musk of a hundred kids crammed into too small a space. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a flat, colorless glare that made even the cheerful yellow lockers look sickly.
Posters lined the walls: a faded "READ!" banner featuring a cartoon cat with oversized glasses; a hand-drawn reminder about the upcoming science fair (entries due Friday!); a motivational poster of a kitten clinging to a branch with the caption "HANG IN THERE!" that someone had vandalized with a mustache and devil horns.
The hallway was a river of motion—kids peeling off toward classrooms, locker doors slamming, teachers stationed at intervals like sentries, calling out reminders about hall passes and inside voices that were universally ignored.
Ben, Gwen, and Kevin reached the junction where the hallways split: east wing for fourth grade, west wing for fifth, north corridor toward the gym and cafeteria.
"Alright," Kevin said, already angling toward the west wing. "Meet at Harley's after school?"
"Harley's Arcade," Ben confirmed, brightening despite the looming specter of incomplete math homework. "Three o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'm not the one who's always late," Kevin shot back, grin sharp.
"That was one time—"
"Three times."
"Okay, three times, but—"
"See you losers later." Kevin was already moving, hands back in his pockets, slouching down the hall with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and didn't care if he got there on time.
Gwen glanced at her watch—an actual analog watch with a purple band, because of course she didn't use her phone like a normal person. "I've got Miller for English. You?"
"Patterson. Math." Ben's voice dripped with doom.
"Good luck with that."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
She turned toward the east wing, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. For a moment, Ben thought she might relent. Might offer some last-minute lifeline. Might—
"Seriously, Ben. Next time, just do it."
She disappeared into the crowd before he could respond.
Ben stood there for a second, alone in the current of students, backpack weighing heavy on his shoulder, then sighed and turned toward the north corridor. Mrs. Patterson's classroom. Fourth-grade math. The site of his imminent academic execution.
Great. Just... great.
---
Room 214 sat at the end of the north hallway, last door on the right, marked by a laminated sign that read MRS. PATTERSON - MATHEMATICS in Comic Sans font that somehow made the whole thing more ominous.
Ben could hear the muffled sounds of the class already in session—Mrs. Patterson's voice, clipped and precise, cutting through the low murmur of students settling into their seats. He was late. Not super late, but late enough that walking in would draw attention, which was basically the worst thing that could happen to a ten-year-old trying to fly under the radar.
He stopped outside the door, took a breath, and knocked.
Three sharp raps. Polite but assertive. The kind of knock that said I know I'm late but I have a good reason please don't kill me.
The door opened almost immediately.
Mrs. Patterson stood in the doorway, a woman in her mid-fifties with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and an expression of perpetual mild disappointment, like she'd been expecting better from the universe and kept getting let down. She wore a navy cardigan over a floral blouse, sensible slacks, and shoes that squeaked faintly when she walked—an unintentional early-warning system that every student in the building had learned to recognize.
She looked down at Ben, eyebrows raised.
"Mr. Tennyson."
"Hi, Mrs. Patterson. I, uh—" Ben's brain scrambled for an explanation that didn't sound completely lame. "The bus was delayed because of the fire downtown, and then we had to wait for—"
"Yes, we were informed." Her tone was flat, unreadable. "The district sent a notice about the delays this morning. You're excused."
Ben blinked. "Oh. Really?"
"Really." A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—barely visible, gone in an instant. "Come in, Mr. Tennyson. Take your seat."
Relief flooded through him, warm and sweet. "Thanks, Mrs. Patterson."
He slipped past her into the classroom, hyper-aware of the eyes tracking his movement—twenty-three pairs of fourth-graders swiveling to watch him enter, the universal fascination with someone else being called out. A few smirked. One kid—Marcus, probably—made a faint "ooooh" sound that got immediately shushed by Mrs. Patterson's laser-focused glare.
Ben's desk was in the back row, third from the window, wedged between a girl named Amy who always smelled like grape bubblegum and an empty desk that used to belong to a kid who'd moved to Coast City last month. He dropped into his seat, backpack hitting the floor with a muffled thump, and tried to look invisible.
Mrs. Patterson returned to the front of the room, picking up a dry-erase marker and turning back to the whiteboard where a half-finished equation sprawled in blue ink. "As I was saying, when solving for *x*, you need to isolate the variable by performing the same operation on both sides of the equation..."
Her voice faded into background noise, familiar and monotonous, the kind of tone that was specifically designed to make ten-year-olds' eyes glaze over.
Ben slouched in his chair, chin propped on one hand, and let his gaze drift to the window.
Outside, Metropolis stretched in every direction—buildings stacked like Lego blocks, streets gridded in neat lines, the distant glint of the harbor catching the morning sun. Somewhere out there, beyond the chain-link fence and the sad playground and the rows of parked cars in the teacher's lot, the city lived. People working, fighting, saving, mattering.
And here he was, stuck in a classroom, staring at an equation he didn't understand, waiting for the day to end so he could go to an arcade and pretend his biggest problem was whether to spend his last quarter on Sumo Slammers or Street Fighter.
Mrs. Patterson's voice droned on. Something about coefficients. Something about fractions.
Ben's eyes drifted to the sky, searching for a blue-and-red streak that never came.
Somewhere, Superman was probably saving someone.
Somewhere, something important was happening.
Just not here, Never here.
-------
The battle has been going on for a long while, High above Galvan Prime's shattered surface, against the bruised orange sky still choked with smoke and ash, streaks of emerald light rose like dying stars seeking salvation.
Green power rings.
Dozens of them.
They climbed through the atmosphere in elegant arcs, trailing faint luminescent contrails that dissipated into wisps of fading hope. Each ring flew with purpose, guided by ancient programming encoded into their very essence—seeking, always seeking. Some aimed for the distant coordinates of Oa, the Green Lantern Corps' central command, carrying final status reports and distress signals that would arrive too late to matter. Others scattered across the cosmos in random vectors, hunting for new wielders, searching for beings with the will to overcome great fear.
Each departing ring represented a Lantern who would never wear it again.
Each green streak was a death.
---
On the ground, the battlefield had transformed into an abattoir.
Bodies lay scattered across the metallic streets like broken dolls discarded by a petulant child—Plumbers in shredded armor, limbs twisted at impossible angles, helmets cracked open to reveal the too-still faces beneath. Galvan civilians, impossibly small, crushed beneath debris or caught in crossfire, their gray skin dull and lifeless, bulbous eyes vacant and staring. And Lanterns—so many Lanterns—sprawled in pools of blood that shimmered with alien hues: crimson, violet, deep blue-black, orange that glowed faintly even in death.
The air reeked of it: burnt ozone and scorched metal, yes, but also the copper-penny stench of blood, the acrid bite of vaporized flesh, the sweet-sick rot of internal organs exposed to open air. Smoke drifted in lazy coils, thick enough to taste—ash and chemical fire and something else, something wrong, like the universe itself was recoiling from what had happened here.
The sounds had changed too. Gone was the constant thunder of energy weapons, the roar of explosions, the battle cries of warriors convinced they could win. Now there was only the crackle of dying fires, the wet rasp of labored breathing, the soft clink of armor fragments settling, and the slow, methodical sound of the Knights' boots as they stalked through the carnage, hunting for anything that still moved.
Magister Pyris knelt in the rubble, wings dragging on the ground behind him, feathers matted with blood and dirt. His war mace lay three meters away, dropped when his right arm had finally given out—dislocated shoulder, maybe broken, he couldn't tell anymore through the haze of agony that wrapped around him like a shroud.
His Plumber armor was destroyed. The chest plate had been caved in by a hammer blow that should've killed him, cracked like an eggshell, jagged edges digging into his ribs with every breath. His left pauldron was missing entirely, torn away along with a chunk of his wing—primaries shredded, blood seeping from the stumps where feathers had been ripped out by the roots. His helmet was gone, visor shattered somewhere in the chaos, leaving his face exposed: one eye swollen shut, nose definitely broken (again), jaw bruised purple-black, blood crusted in his beard.
He tried to focus, tried to think, but his thoughts kept sliding away like water through clenched fists.
We lost.
The realization sat in his chest like a stone, cold and immovable.
We lost. We actually lost.
Pyris had fought in seventeen campaigns. He'd held the line on Takron-Galtos during the prison riots. He'd led strike teams against Khund warbands in the Vega system. He'd stared down warlords and pirates and mercenaries who'd made entire sectors kneel, and he'd won. Not every time. Not without cost. But he'd won.
Not today.
Today, they'd been slaughtered.
The Green Lantern Corps—one hundred and fifty of them, warriors from across the universe, wielders of the most powerful weapon in existence—had descended like avenging angels wreathed in emerald fire, and the Knights had torn through them like they were nothing.
One hundred and fifty.
Pyris's good eye tracked across the battlefield, counting the green auras still flickering in the smoke.
Twenty. Maybe.
Twenty.
One hundred and thirty dead in less than an hour. The math was incomprehensible. The scale of it broke something fundamental in his understanding of how wars were supposed to work.
He watched one of the surviving Lanterns—a stocky, four-armed insectoid he vaguely recognized from the initial assault—engage one of the Knights about fifty meters away. The Lantern was good, constructs appearing and shifting with rapid-fire precision: a shield to deflect a hammer blow, a cannon that fired emerald bolts in staccato bursts, chains that wrapped around the Knight's legs trying to immobilize it.
The Knight shrugged it all off.
The hammer came around again, impossibly fast for something that size, and the Lantern barely raised a shield in time. The impact sent him skidding backward, boots carving furrows in the street, construct flickering.
Another Lantern—serpentine, blue-scaled, maybe the one from earlier—swooped in from above, dual construct-rifles blazing, pouring concentrated fire into the Knight's back.
The black armor absorbed it. Crimson circuitry flared brighter for a moment, pulsing like a heartbeat, and then... nothing. No damage. No reaction.
The Knight turned, unhurried, and raised one gauntleted hand.
Pyris's breath caught.
The T-shaped visor on the Knight's helmet began to glow—starting as a faint red gleam in the depths of that narrow slit, then brightening, intensifying, becoming a searing crimson that painted the smoke around it in hellish hues.
"No," Pyris whispered, the word barely audible, swallowed by the crackle of flames. "No, get out of there, get—"
FWOOOOM.
Twin beams of superheated energy erupted from the visor, coherent red lances that screamed through the air with a sound like tearing metal. The light was blinding, searing afterimages into Pyris's retinas even from this distance.
The serpentine Lantern reacted instantly—ring flaring, construct-shield snapping into place, three layers thick, reinforced at every joint.
It wasn't enough.
The beams hit the shield and didn't slow. Didn't diffuse. Didn't stop.
The first layer shattered in a shower of emerald sparks. The second held for maybe half a second before the molecular bonds gave up and it exploded outward in fragments of solidified light. The third buckled, warped, and then simply ceased to exist, overwhelmed by the sheer thermal output being channeled through it.
The beams punched through and caught the Lantern center-mass.
The scream was brief—a single, high-pitched shriek of agony that cut off almost immediately as the heat flash-vaporized everything organic in its path. Scales blackened and cracked. Flesh boiled away. Bone turned to ash.
The body—what was left of it—tumbled backward, trailing smoke, and hit the ground with a wet, hollow thump that made Pyris's stomach turn.
The green power ring, smoking faintly, ejected from the charred finger it had been clamped to and shot skyward, adding one more streak of light to the exodus.
The Knight lowered its hand, visor dimming back to that faint, watchful crimson glow, and turned away as if nothing had happened. As if it had just swatted a particularly annoying insect.
Pyris felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, tasting acid and blood.
How? The question screamed through his mind, desperate and unanswerable. How are they this strong? What ARE they?
The Knights were supposed to be soldiers. Elite, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But soldiers. Flesh and blood and bone, things that could be hurt, things that could be killed.
These... these weren't soldiers.
These were weapons. Walking, thinking weapons forged for a single purpose: annihilation.
And they were winning.
Pyris's vision swam, edges going fuzzy and dark. His body was screaming at him to lie down, to stop fighting the inevitable, to just rest. Blood loss, probably. Shock. Internal injuries he didn't want to catalog.
He planted his good hand against the rubble beneath him, fingers digging into the gritty, scorched metal, and tried to push himself upright.
Get up, he commanded himself, voice raw inside his own skull. Get up, you stubborn bastard. You're Thanagarian. You don't die on your knees.
His arm trembled. Muscles screamed. His wings—what was left of them—flared instinctively, trying to help, and pain shot through him like lightning, white-hot and all-consuming.
He made it halfway to standing before his legs gave out.
Pyris collapsed, slamming back into the rubble, and this time he didn't have the strength to catch himself. His head cracked against a chunk of concrete—sharp pain, bright and immediate—and then the darkness rushed in like a tide, cold and merciful.
His last conscious thought, as the world faded to black, was a prayer to gods he wasn't sure he believed in anymore:
Someone... anyone... please...
And then nothing.