#comicroute

The clock tower is old. Not old enough to be made out of wood, or for the stone’s harsh edges and spiky points to have smoothed out, but it’s jarringly out of place compared to the relatively modern Catholic Church beside it. The structure doesn’t extend into the sky easily. It makes its way there in steps and levels, each with a platform that seems like it might have been a porch, if there were any visible doors. In the place of doors, tall arched windows allow the slightest glimpse of the pitch black interior, guarded by gargoyles with gaping mouths. Spires extend at every interval, getting thinner and shorter with the exception of the long, thin lightning rod on top.

The clock face itself is written in Roman numerals, large and impossible to miss but, for Jason at least, just as impossible to read. However, he can still tell the hands are at six o’clock. It’s ten.

“We can’t get in,” Jason says.

“Why not?”

“It’s locked.”

“You haven’t even tried.”

Neither of them move.

“Maybe--” Tim begins, but Jason doesn’t get to hear the end of his suggestion, interrupted as he is by distressed shouting splitting the air.

It doesn’t sound like a cry for help, more like a vehement argument, but it’s strange mostly for the fact that Jason was subconsciously convinced no one’s lived here for at least a few thousand years. A quick glance beside him makes him reasonably sure Tim’s thinking the same thing, and when he moves towards the sound, Jason gratefully follows. He isn’t procrastinating going into the clock tower. Really. That would be stupid.

The shouting comes from about a block away, and even without the noise it would draw the eye. Nestled between two apartment complexes is a stout little house surrounded on all sides by a white picket fence and lush green grass. The five foot long walkway branching off from the sidewalk is paved in white pebbles and the sky opens directly above it, the first break in the clouds they’ve seen all morning. The sunlight streaming through is being enjoyed by a particularly fat tabby cat.

They stare, bemused. The house is painted pink with white trim, and a large white sign above the front door names this surreal establishment the Little Gotham Daycare.

As they watch, the front door opens so fast it nearly slams into the wall, and a white-haired older woman in a floral red skirt swishing past her distinguished hips stomps onto the porch and sits with a huff on the top step.  Jason takes that as a sign to go. Tim takes that as a sign to speak. “Are you okay?” he calls, and Jason resists the urge to groan aloud.

The woman raises her head, but it takes a moment for her to find the two of them. When she does, she squints, then slumps with what Jason considers to be a very melodramatic sigh. “No, no, no, oh dear, everything is going wrong today! First the chickens eat their own eggs again, because of course Donald didn’t remember to take them out this afternoon, and then he forgets to lock their cage and they disappear without so much as a goodbye!”

“I don’t think chickens are supposed to talk,” whispers Jason loudly to Tim, who ignores him.

“How many chickens?”

“Four,” she says, dejected, and then hides her face in the crook of her arms. The boys stand together awkwardly. Finally, she looks back up at them and pats her thighs with a deep breath. “But nevermind all that, you boys must be hungry. Where are your parents? Oh, it doesn’t matter. No one around here has parents anymore anyway,” she mutters, standing up and beckoning them over.

“Tim…,” Jason pleads as Tim, predictably, takes a step forward. The woman has already disappeared into the odd little house, presumably expecting them to follow. “I don’t trust any old lady who says stuff like that and owns a daycare. There’s something really, really wrong with that.”

“She lost her chickens, Jay,” Tim chides. “She’s lonely.”

“She’s weird,” he grumbles, which does nothing to move Tim from his already decided course. With great reluctance, he follows his best friend into the quaint daycare.

It’s to his relief that the inside does, actually, look like a daycare. They step past scattered toys and half-broken crayons crushed permanently into the carpet, and Jason yelps when he steps on a lego, instantly regretting taking his shoes off. Tim, the jerk, doesn’t even look back at his cry of pain, too intent on cataloguing everything about their surroundings.

As much as it sucks to be ignored, he can admit to being proud of that particular quirk. After all, it’s a habit his best friend only picked up when they became friends. Although, he isn’t entirely certain if Tim does exactly what he tried to teach him and actually spends the time making note of all the exits and escapes, or if he’s just looking for clues like a bona fide Sherlock Holmes.

Jason supposes the keeping-track-of-stuff-that-actually-matters job, as usual, falls to him.

“Oh, the children will just be so devastated when I tell them what happened…,” the lady despairs, entering the kitchen to look into the fridge. She pulls out the basic sandwich fixings and two cold bottles of water.

“Will you have anyone look for them?” Tim asks innocently, but no. It isn’t innocent, because Jason knows exactly what that tone of voice means, and his answer is no.

Unfortunately, Tim rarely takes his opinion into account, so he doesn’t bother voicing his objection. But maybe...

“They’ll tell me just to adopt new ones, but Nessie’s been with me for a while, you know? And Lara, and Tommy -- she’s a lady, my grandson named her -- and Jane.”

“That’s all of them,” Jason points out.

It only makes her sigh sadly at her tomatoes.

“Maybe we could--” Tim starts, but Jason jumps in:

“You should put out a reward for them.”

Tim glares, but the woman suddenly seems contemplative. She looks distantly out the window while spreading mayo on the second bread slice. “Perhaps that could work…”

“Oh, it definitely does. People do it for their cats and dogs and… chickens all the time. Trust me.” When she continues to mull over her decision, he adds: “When we lost our goat, we put out a $200 reward and someone found it the next day.”

Tim gawks. It’s Jason’s turn to ignore him.

There’s a long silence, and Jason holds his breath as the odd woman places their finished sandwiches on separate paper plates for them to take, then proceeds to scrutinize them very carefully. Jason makes sure to wear his biggest and brightest smile. Tim makes sure to step on his toes. He fights back a wince.

Suddenly, she claps her hands together and smiles at them. “Well, that just sounds like a splendid idea!”

Tim pales. “Oh, Mrs… um.”

“Duvall.”

“Mrs. Duvall, you don’t need to--”

“--worry at all,” Jason assures her, bulldozing right over the rest of Tim’s sentence. “Someone will find them safe and sound! In fact--”

“Do you suppose $100 is enough? I don’t have much--”

“Well…,” Jason begins.

“Yeah,” snaps Tim.

“Great! Could you boys help me print out posters?” she asks hopefully.

Tim has the audacity to hold a palm up to Jason’s face before he can answer. “Actually, I was going to say that we can look for your chickens.”

“The reward would help a lot. You know, buses are getting pretty pricey these days…,” interjects Jason.

Mrs. Duvall positively glows at the suggestion. “Oh, of course! I would be so delighted if you could help. Really, truly, you boys are just the sweetest… Let me just make you some proper packed lunches to take with you.”

When she swivels back around to the fridge, Tim hisses: “Seriously?”

“What?” Jason replies, voice high and innocent. “You were gonna do it anyway, who says I can’t get something out of it too?”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Tim mutters petulantly, but it’s half-hearted. They go everywhere together.

They stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen while Mrs. Duvall stuffs two paper bags with everything in her cupboards. When she’s done, she holds them both out, but doesn’t let go when they grab at them. “Before I forget, I should let you know that my chickens have trackers. I can’t remember what the neighbor’s girl said about using my phone, though…”

Jason sighs in relief.

No one’s bothered taking the yellow hand sheaths off yet. They’re probably hesitant -- he still has his ring on underneath, and all he needs is a moment free to be out of here. He wants to say that he wouldn’t just bust out of jail given the chance, but even he’s not too sure about that, so he can’t even begin to make an argument to convince them of it. Still, it’s inconvenient at best and disabling at worst. He’s almost lucky there isn’t anything to do in a cage with nothing but a small mattress and a bucket, because even if he had a laptop right in front of him it’s not like he’d be able to properly use it. He’s had an itch on his thigh for an hour.

It’s a little unnerving to him that these people know about a Green Lantern’s one weakness at all, but he figures it’s probably necessary for other ‘good guys’ around the universe to know after...

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

And yet, even pondering questions like that aren’t enough to keep his mind off of what he saw. Suffering from absolute boredom like this, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, forces Hal to keep revisiting the image of Sister Sercy’s body lying prone across the metal floor of her dorm wing. The way her white robes looked, steeped in blood. The way--

It isn’t the first time he’s seen this sight.

Far from it. In fact, he can go as far as to say that he’s used to the image. But he’ll never be fully detached from the emotions it evokes -- all he can ever do is distract himself with bigger and more pressing things. Otherwise, all the sights and smells threaten to overwhelm him.

He didn’t know her very well. When he thinks about her, nothing really comes to mind except the battles they fought together, shoulder to shoulder, back to back. Dependable, but not familiar.

Her death impacts him the same way as any stranger’s death does. A vise gripping around his lungs, a fist permanently semi-closed. But he can still breathe. He can still think.

That doesn’t mean the horror ever truly goes away. All it means is that he can function enough to find the real predator, to bring justice to each person so terribly wronged by life as much as he can.

He doesn’t always succeed. These days, it feels like he rarely does. He--

The door opens.

Hal fights the urge to spring to his feet in relief. He’s slipped down this train of thought too many times already, he doesn’t need to do it again. He quickly rearranges himself so he looks as relaxed as possible, laying on his side with his cheek propped in one hand by the time the door makes it all the way open.

“Thank you,” is the tail end of Barry Allen’s response to someone unseen as he walks into the room. He raises his eyebrows at Hal. “Enjoying your luxurious stay?” he asks.

“Honestly. You should’ve seen the state of the motels on War World. Compared to that, I call this five-star service.”

Barry doesn’t take the bait. Hal swings his legs off the mattress and sits, dangling his arms over his knees. Time to get down to business then. “What’s the news, chief?”

“I’m not the chief,” Barry immediately responds as he comes to a stop beside the cage.

Hal would never say that Barry doesn’t take his job seriously, he maybe takes it the most seriously out of everyone Hal has seen so far in this god forsaken place, but Barry might be the only one truly on his side. It makes him trust him, even if he probably shouldn’t.

Of course, Hal’s entire impression of the man could just be his charm turned up to max, but he somehow doubts that anyone would crank up faux charm to impress a supposed criminal. If banter and altruistic declarations are how Barry Allen treats a potential murderer, he can’t be that bad of a person.

Most likely.

Likely.

Hopefully?

It really depends on whether Barry thinks he’s actually a murderer, come to think of it.

Also, it’s probably in the job description. Get friendly with the prisoner, butter them up, the works. He vaguely remembers a kid in college ranting to him about how no matter what, the police are never your friend.

Hal wishes he’d listened to that. It sounds like solid advice.

“I came to tell you that I pulled some strings,” Barry says. He gestures to the room. “This place can’t be comfortable. The real chief agreed to see you for the possibility of bail.” There’s a chair propped against the opposing wall. Barry grabs it, drags it over beside the cage, and sits down.

Hal stares, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“The hell you do that for?” Then, before Barry can answer: “Nevermind. Don’t answer that. I’ve been trying this all ‘be grateful’ thing out lately and I really just want to get out of here. Now please, please tell me you have a key. I feel like I’m losing my mind.” He gets to his feet and braces his covered hands against the cage. He only realizes after he makes the motion just how desperate he looks, but there’s no taking it back now. He kind of is actually really very desperate. But only a little.

He’s trying not to be incredibly suspicious of Barry’s good intentions. The suspicion is definitely warranted, but it’s not exactly helpful.

Barry doesn’t look at him with the warmest or friendliest of expressions. There’s a very healthy note of caution and apprehension at Hal’s eagerness, but he seems to take it in stride. “I don’t. One of the guards will take you to the courtroom in two hours. You’ll have to answer a few questions, but if all goes well, you should be free to help clear your name soon.”

Hal slumps back onto the bed. Just a few more hours. He can do this. He’s gone through much worse. He takes a deep breath. “Great. Cool.” A pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This is probably a good a time as any to ask,” he begins, looking up at Barry before he has the chance to leave. “But do you actually believe me?”

A contemplating expression graces Barry’s face. “I’d rather not tell you that.”

Fair. Not confidence inspiring, but fair.

“See, look, I get that. I really do. But the reason I’m asking is because I’ve gotten into some super weird situations, and I’ve discovered that there are a lot more places out there who would sooner hire a killer than condemn them, and I’d just like to be sure you’re not taking me out on bail to ask me to kill your boss or kill me yourself or something like that.”

Barry’s lips twitch again. He’s fighting backa smile, which Hal thinks is an achievement. But just as soon as the expression appears, it’s gone. “Are you saying you get arrested often?”

“I’d rather not tell you that,” Hal says, mocking Barry’s earlier words.

“And what would you say you get arrested for most often?”

“Never said I get arrested. Just said I’ve been to some mean places.”

“Dodging the question looks worse for you than answering,” Barry points out.

“Trespassing,” Hal eventually replies. No need to push his luck. “And just being an overall pain in the ass. My boss’ words, not mine.”

“Not quite the murderous type, then.”

Hal moves backwards so he can sit on the lumpy mattress, relief blooming in his chest like a breath of fresh air after being submerged. “So you believe me?” He can’t keep the smile off his face. Does he actually have someone on his side?

Barry side eyes him. “You’re smiling too much for someone who’s suspected of murder.”

A deflection. He’s totally on his side.

Probably. Maybe.

Hopefully. He’ll stick with that one. Hope is the companion to willpower -- he can work with hope.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” Hal replies immediately. Normally he wouldn’t admit that, but he can’t afford to scare his only possible ally off. “Also, I totally have a reason to smile right now.”

He’s found that he always seems to function better under pressure. This day will pass, and so will the high stress situation he’s found himself in, and when it’s all said and done he’ll end up in a room alone in the middle of the night like he always does feeling like his heart is trying to jump out of his chest, like his lungs are filling with water, and like the vast universe is pressing down on him from all sides.

But not yet.

He has a few more hours, at least. Depending on how quickly he’s let out of this cage. He can’t let himself fall apart when his surroundings are bright enough to see his hands. That’s no time to let his thoughts strangle themselves. If he can see himself while pieces of him shatter, he’ll never be able to forget how often it happens.

“Well, I like to think I’m not prone to helping people get bail unless I’m reasonably sure they deserve it,” the other man replies, leaning forward in his seat. “I know this justice system inside and out, which means I know that this system is more likely to convict someone for the sake of closing a case than guilt. You’re the only suspect. I can build the the strongest case to convince the chief, but it doesn’t matter unless the evidence can point to a specific different someone. I’ve been trying this long to make sure innocent people don’t fall victim to the system, I’m not going to stop now. If there’s any chance you’re innocent, then you need to work with me to find another suspect to bring this as close to a fair trial as possible.”

Hal isn’t surprised. “A lot of places are like that, you know. Don’t think this is my first rodeo.”

“It isn’t right,” Barry says firmly.

“Most normal things aren’t. What can you do?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but the look on his face makes it so Hal doesn’t doubt that the man thinks about it constantly.

“The question you should be asking is: Where am I going to start?”

His first impression was right. Altruistic.

Very few of those in the universe these days, especially with one of the few Blue Lanterns dead. Even the Green Lanterns can’t seem to keep up with that trait…

Hal shakes the thought from his head before it can continue down that yellow-paved road.

“So. How does court go in this place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said yesterday that I don’t have the right to an attorney, so I bet things are a lot different than what I’m used to.”

Barry frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to compare it to,” he admits. “But for the actual court scene, you’ll be standing in the center of the room. There will be the witnesses, the head CSI for the case, occasionally the head of their department which will be me, and any other significant individuals that might be involved. There could be a few experts on certain topics, for example. Or for personality profiling, if you know of anyone who’ll speak on your behalf. In any case, the head of the department will present the case, the CSI will present details of evidence, everyone else presents their side of the story, and the chief asks some questions. Then everyone but the guards and the defendant leave, and the chief gives the verdict and sentence.”

Hal stares, waiting for more. It doesn’t come. “That’s it?”

“Yes? What else were you expecting?”

“What about the jury? What about my defense? Defense attorney, prosecutor? Why is the chief also the judge? Who’s supposed to argue my case?”

“You. And the evidence speaks for itself. There’s no… arguing. How do you argue facts? Why shouldn’t the chief act as judge?”

“Oh god,” Hal says, despair leaking into his voice. “I’m so screwed.”

He puts his head in his hands, and he can almost feel the confusion emanating from Barry at this distance. He tries to compose himself somewhat, so he can look up and ask some more questions. He needs to keep his head in the game; he can't afford to let go while he still doesn't know his situation down to every detail. It takes a while longer than he wished it did.

A trial without a jury.  It sounds like every dystopia he never bothered to read back in high school English class. Some unbidden memory from some graduation required Political Science class tries to tell him that a judiciary not separated from the executive powers is the trademark for a corrupt government.

He's never getting out of here.

"Why are you here?" Hal finally asks.

Barry appraises him for a moment. "I'm interested in your case," he says. "Also, information like this is always best delivered in person. It's faster and things don't get muddled in the process."

"Don't you have better things to do than worry about me?" This is despite the fact that Hal is extremely glad Barry has an interest in his case. There's no way he'd be getting out of here otherwise. Probably.

Although, he's done impossible things before.

It's actually becoming somewhat of a routine at this point.

“You’re my priority.”

"In other words, you have nothing better to do than worry about me. Great, someone needs to," Hal says. "My mom gave up years ago."

Their conversation stops abruptly, and Hal is convinced that’s it. They hang suspended in an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Barry asks, “Where are you from?”

“Coast City.”

When there’s no reaction on Barry’s face, he clarifies: “California.” There’s still no reaction. “Uh, Earth.”

There. Surprise washes over his face and stays there. “Earth? That’s a long ways away. I didn’t think many people still lived there.”

“Yeah, not everyone likes space. Which is a damn shame, if you ask me.”

“Are legal proceedings very different there?”

“Super,” says Hal. He frowns. “You have no idea how corrupt this system is, do you?”

Barry raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You’ve been here for one day. I’d say you’re both biased and uninformed on that subject.”

“I think I’d have a heart attack if I saw more. Sure, you know that just because I’m not the only suspect doesn’t mean I’m guilty. But first of all, according to what you said earlier, one single person still decides another person’s fate, and they have absolutely no opportunity to fight for their case unless they’re incredibly educated. Second of all, who’s to say the Chief of Police is always impartial anyway? They have absolute power, and that never remains neutral. And third of all”--here, Hal pauses to gesticulate angrily around him--”your jail cells are fucking cages! Even you have to admit that’s wrong, on so many levels.”

Barry’s lips thin. He looks unhappy, and Hal can’t decide if it’s because of what he said or how he said it.

“Have you really never been to Earth?” Hal asks, because he can’t even fathom that. He spends all his time in space, and yet he always tries to fit in some time for home, even if it’s just a flyby. He’s traversed the universe, and yet there’s nothing quite like the way the Pacific Ocean sparkles under California’s noonday sun.

“No.” Hal wants to ask more, ask where he grew up if not where all humans belong, but then Barry’s lips quirk. “I suppose trying to get a personality witness is a bit of a long shot, then.”

Somehow, this came full circle back to the case. He squints. Never trust a cop. Has Barry been searching him for information this entire time? It’s hard to tell.

He opens his mouth to give some anecdote about not having any friends left planetside, but stops short. Maybe this is what was meant by trusting cops. His guard is already down. A detail like his inability to maintain stable relationships isn’t information remotely necessary for a Chief Inspector to know, and could only hurt his image. So he keeps his lips sealed and just nods, letting the awkward silence descend over him.

Barry turns on the tablet he’s had in his hands the whole time, and it makes Hal slightly nervous since he doesn’t know what he’s writing on it. It soon becomes apparent that he’s messaging someone, and after a few minutes go by with no conversation, he settles back for the long wait.

He matches her smile hesitantly. “We really should catch up sometime, though,” he says.

“Convince chief to give us a damn break and I’ll happily take you up on that. I’ve been meaning to show you this sad excuse for a cooking show that I’m streaming from Galafro. Can’t understand a word of it, but I’m pretty sure what they call food was never meant to be consumed.” She gives him a shark’s grin as he backpedals away from her.

“Sounds gross,” he says with a wrinkle of his nose.

“That’s the point!” she calls after him as he turns the corner.

The interrogation rooms are a series of nine rooms set up in a half-circle on the police station’s perimeter. Each room is remarkably soundproof but only separated by one wall, making it quick work to pass them all to room nine at the very end.

When he enters, the Green Lantern stares him down. It’s almost unnerving, to be on the other end of that stare. He’s seen suspects in a wide range of emotions, from desperate to pissed, when they sit in this room. Intensity tends to come along with those. But it’s never intensity like this, of the eager and quiet kind. Barry nods at him. “Hi,” he says lamely.

“You’re a CSI,” the Green Lantern says immediately. “What are you doing here? Someone already took a piece of my hair.”

“My name is Barry Allen. I’m the Chief Inspector of this station, and I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“I didn’t do it,” the Green Lantern insists immediately. “I--”

“Okay.”

That stops the Green Lantern in his tracks. But instead of looking relieved, he seems to grow even more suspicious. “If you know that, then why am I still here?”

“You’re a cop, right? Or something like it, anyway.” He holds the Lantern’s eyes as he slowly pulls out a chair and sits down across from him. He sets his messenger bag on the table and pulls his tablet out from the smallest compartment.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’re our only suspect. If you don’t want to remain our only suspect, I suggest you cooperate and answer my questions.”

He doesn’t say anything. Barry flips his notepad open to a blank page. “Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?”

“...Guy Gardner. G-U-Y. G-A-R-D-N-E-R.”

Barry spells it out on the top of his notes. “Okay, Mr. Gardner. Why don’t you tell me how you know Miss…?”

“Sister Sercy.”

“Right.”

“She’s a--” Abruptly, Gardner stops and declares: “Wait. I want a lawyer.”

Barry frowns at him. “Are you trying to sue someone?”

“What? No,” Gardner says, frustrated. “But I have the right to an attorney.”

“No you don’t,” Barry says, carefully. “Who told you that?”

Gardner takes a moment to curse under his breath. “No one. Nevermind. Okay, so. I know Sercy because she’s the fourth or something Blue Lantern, and I--”

His pencil stops, and he just barely refrains from snapping his head up to look at Gardner. “Blue Lantern?” he says, as neutrally as possible, but he doesn’t think he quite succeeds.

“Yeah,” Gardner says, unfazed.

“Explain.”

Gardner frowns. “You people know about Green Lanterns and the color yellow, but you’ve never heard of a Blue Lantern?”

Rumors. He’s heard rumors, starting maybe just two years ago, about new Lanterns flying through the cosmos. No one knew where they came from. No one knew what they could do. Once, there was a whisper of a Red Lantern. He heard it while in the middle of a crowd, so quiet he’d thought he’d imagined it, of destruction and devastation wrought on a planet stranded on the fringes of Lantern inhabited space.

When there’s no response forthcoming, Gardner says, “Hope,” like that answers every question he’s ever had. Before he can ask another, the Lantern continues: “Sercy was a priestess, I think, on… wherever she came from. Brother Hymn found her and brought her to Elpis, and I met her when I went to see that little blue troll for a thing. There aren’t a lot of Blue Lanterns, and they’re help like no other against the Reds and Yellows, so when we team up they all tag along. I guess you could call us coworkers.”

Barry occupies himself by writing on his notepad, because the alternative would be staring blankly at Gardner. What is this, a Lantern rainbow? “It doesn’t seem like you were very close, then,” he comments when he’s done.

“Uh, no, not really. We ran into each other here.”

“Start from the beginning.”

“Right. Well, I was on my way to Oa, and like I said, I ran into her in this star system. Our paths intersected, I think she was heading back to Elpis. We decided to rest up here so we could catch up a little. She wasn’t in a hurry and I was procrastinating, so we got rooms and went to the lounge. We were both on the figurative road for a while. Space travel, even with a ring as fast as ours, still takes super long, and there isn’t a habitable planet for light years after this stop.”

He brings his hands up, goes to grip his hair with his fingers and remembers that they’re in a yellow sheath. He stiffly  lowers them back down to the table.

“But I couldn’t sleep yet, and I went to go see if maybe her sleep schedule was just as fucked as mine, and I just… I found her. Like… that. Dead. Outside her own cabin… Fuck.” He crosses his arms on the table and drops his forehead onto where they meet. Despite the position, his next words are still clear. “I’m used to shit like this. She was too. This line of work, it’s dangerous. And I’ve always been in this line of work, even before becoming a space cop. But we let our guard down in times of peace. Even I do. War is different. You go to war expecting to die, because if you end up living, then you get to actually celebrate something that isn’t your buddy’s funeral. But in peace…” He scoffs. It’s a full-body effort. “Peace. All Will Be Well my ass, SaintWalker.”

“I want you to explain to me what exactly you did next, step by step. If you thought a thought, I want to know what it was. If you stepped an inch to the right, I want to know when. Begin when you’re ready,” he instructs softly, after a moment of respectful silence. Gardner takes a few more seconds just to breathe before lifting his head.

“I walked up the hall. The direction you came from. I saw her laying on the ground, and… I knew she was dead. I couldn’t see the blood on the ground at first, though. She was too far away. So I walked over to her and it was just… everywhere. I wanted to check if maybe there was a chance at saving her, so I asked the ring to scan for signs of life, and it came back negative. So I turned her back over  and tried to take the knife out. She… I couldn’t leave her like that. A Blue Lantern, killed by a fucking knife. That’s just… It’s wrong.”

“Have either of you been here before?”

“I have. This is the perfect place for a quick stop between far space and Oa. But I don’t know about Sercy. Blue Lanterns are notorious for never leaving Elpis. They’re like monks. They don’t like to travel, just live in peace and harmony by themselves. She seemed to know her way around, though.”

“Do you know who might dislike her? Something she mentioned, maybe?”

Gardner shakes his head. “No. She’s a private person. Blue Lanterns in general are relentless optimists. They don’t like to complain or talk about the bad things that have happened.”

“Did she ever tell you where her cabin was?”

“Yeah. How else would I have found her?”

“And where did she tell you this information?”

“Uh, one of the lounges on G Deck. One of the exterior-facing ones. I could see Docking Port 23 from the window.

“When was this?”

“A few hours ago.”

“Can you tell me anything that stood out to you in that room? Or even just the specific room number?”

“It… might have been L36. Uh…” Barry waits as the Green Lantern thinks. “The barista. He had this long black hair, tied it back in this weird triple bun type deal. Didn’t know what hot chocolate was. He knew Sercy by name, and we were at the bar when she told me. The lounge was pretty crowded, there were people all around us. I don’t remember.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m so stupid. I’m always supposed to be on alert. Kilowog is gonna kick my ass,” he says bitterly.

Barry finishes writing down his notes, then leans back in his chair with a sigh. The day’s grind is catching up to him, and he can feel the heaviness start to settle in his lower back. This kind of work is aging him way faster than he wants to be aging. But his mind is reeling, and he can’t seem to muster up the usual desire to get out of the station and relax on his bed. There’s no mystery as to why. “Who’s Kilowog?” he asks curiously, carefully.

“My drill sergeant,” Gardner says. “A tough-as-nails hardass. Always preaching that I need to keep my eyes peeled for anything. Imagine how good I’d be if I actually listened to him?” There are many other questions he wants to ask, but there’s a line he needs to draw for the sake of professionalism that prevents him from asking. “Did she talk to anyone else at the lounge?”

“No.”

“Was she expecting to meet up with anyone? Did she talk about knowing anyone at the station?”

“No. Just the barista.”

“Where did you go after the lounge?”

“We went our separate ways after the lounge. I went back to my room because I was beat, she went… to the market, I think.”

“You said you couldn’t sleep.”

“What?”

Barry narrows his eyes. “You told me you couldn’t sleep, and that’s why you sought her out. Now you’re saying you went to bed early because you were tired.” Gardner pauses, like he’s either trying to remember saying that or he wasn’t expecting Barry to notice, but Barry didn’t get this job by being unobservant. “I have a hard time sleeping sometimes,” he says awkwardly.

Barry doesn’t answer, preferring instead to look on in silence for a while after. Gardner must understand what he’s doing, though, because he doesn’t even fidget.

“Did she say what she was going to get from the market?”

“No.”

“So you have no idea why she was going?”

“I just said that.” “Do you know the barista’s name?”

“No.”

“What time were you there?” “I don’t know. A few hours ago.”

Barry nods curtly, takes a final glance at his notes, then flips the booklet closed. 

“Am I free to go?” Gardner asks, but it’s in a resigned monotone. Barry wonders why he even bothered asking if he knew the answer was going to be no.

“Officer Kin will be through in a moment to show you to your cell. Thank you for your cooperation,” he says, and gets briskly up from his seat. He’s almost out the door when he turns around and takes a last look. The green glow of Gardner’s mask casts a sickly light on his pale cheeks. He looks small sitting there. Nothing like an intergalactic hero. “Mr. Gardner,” he says, and it takes a moment for Gardner to glance up. “If you didn’t do this, I will do everything in my power to help you and bring the real killer to justice.”

Gardner sighs. “Look. You seem like a good guy. I don’t know how the justice system here works, but if it’s anything like where I come from then I just I don’t have that kind of time.”

He must think that Barry is just going to leave after that, because he doesn’t continue. “What do you mean?” he prompts.

“When a Lantern dies, their ring comes off and typically finds a new host. Sometimes it goes back to their central power battery, or wherever the guardian of it dictates. I’m going to take a wild guess and say that no one in this station has spontaneously turned blue and started flying yet?”

Barry shakes his head.

“Then it’s probably on its way to Elpis, directly or through a new Lantern on a nearby planet. When it gets there and the rest of the corps learns that their Lantern is dead, they’ll discover where the ring came from and they’ll come find who’s responsible. I didn’t kill her, Barry. But they won’t wait for your justice system to figure out who the real killer is. Especially not once they tell the little blue trolls on Oa about it. I’d say I have maybe two weeks, if that.”

“I can’t do anything about that. Investigations take time. I’m sure we can negotiate with the… Blue Lanterns when they get here.”

“Blue Lanterns, maybe. But good luck trying to negotiate anything with the Guardians.”

“I’m sure they’ll be reasonable.”

Gardner scoffs, but says nothing more.

At first, Hal is startled to hear the name, and almost looks to the door to see if Guy just walked in -- he wouldn’t put it past him. But then he remembers where he is and what he did.

So, that’s going to be a thing now.

"Guy Gardner is accused of murder in the first degree. I've already stated the reasonable conviction I have in his innocence, and would like to formally request bail for the record."

Well, good to know that somewhere this whole thing is being recorded. He hopes it's just audio, because being stuck in a cage probably hasn't done his hair any favors.

"The reasons I have are of the following: 1) There are no DNA related samples or evidence linking Gardner to the scene of the crime. 2) There is no perceived motive. 3) The investigated timeline and events of the murder don't logically correspond with the suspect. 4) I retain reasonable belief that the suspect can be of use on the field to locate the actual culprit. 5) The suspect carries with him a good reputation and good background and deserves the benefit of the doubt."

The Chief listens respectfully until Barry finishes, nodding all the while, then says: "As previously stated in private and now restated for the record, I, Chief of Police James Gordon, grant permission for suspect Guy Gardner's temporary and supervised release. However, due to the unique circumstances of the power which Gardner wields, unconventional bail terms have been arranged. Guy Gardner, if you agree to these terms, you will be free to assist our Chief Inspector with your investigation, and also to do whatever you please within the boundaries of this station and under the direct supervision of an officer approved by our Chief Inspector. Chief Inspector Barry Allen, if Guy Gardner agrees to these terms, you will be held responsible for his actions. Is this understood by everyone present?"

"Clear as day,” Hal says, until he realizes that maybe that expression doesn't work in space.

"Understood," Barry says.

"To be allowed on bail, Guy Gardner must agree, among other base requirements, to surrender use of his Green Lantern power ring."

"Hell no," says Hal, almost before the Chief finishes speaking. "Absolutely not. Not in your dreams, not in your nightmares, not in your--"

"Then I believe this hearing is over," responds the Chief, cool and collected. The guard moves forward.

"Woah, wait," Hal protests immediately. He warily eyes the guard, and catches Barry off to the side rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Can't we talk about this?"

"These terms aren't for negotiation," the Chief declares. "I'm not certain you realize how bad your situation is, Lantern Gardner. Murder suspects aren't often allowed bail at all. You only are because of how valuable Inspector Allen's word is. You're in absolutely no position to bargain."

"Yeah, well--" he cuts himself off as the guard nudges him forwards the door. "Watch it," he snaps. He turns his attention back to the Chief, who hasn't made any move to get up. "A Lantern can't remove their ring. It’s one of the most powerful weapons in the universe, and I can't depend on some mediocre police department's evidence locker to keep it safe."

"You know just as well as I do that a Lantern's ring can't be wielded by anyone other than the Lantern," the Chief replies, and Hal doesn't know why he's surprised that he knows that.

He curses under his breath as he allows himself to be herded out the door. He doesn't glance behind him on his way back to the cage, but he can hear two sets of footsteps that say Barry isn't far behind. He doesn't look even when the cage door closes behind him.

"Good job," Barry says drily.

Hal whirls around. "You could have told me what the so-called 'questions' were," he snaps, but almost immediately regrets it. Barry does not look impressed by his temper. Hal has always been remarkably good at pissing people off but, for once, he can't afford to chase this person away.

"You didn't honestly expect it would be easy, did you?" Barry responds. "You're a Green Lantern suspected for murder. Any time bail is allowed, something must be given by the defendant for temporarily holding that is valuable enough to the defendant that they either won't run without it or can't run without it before their trial. Normally it's money, but considering we have no information on how valuable that is to you, requiring a monetary deposit doesn't guarantee that you won't still run. The only way to make sure you show up to your trial is to restrict how easy it is for you to run." Barry gestures to Hal's yellow mittens. "Hence this."

"I didn't say I don't know why you guys want it," he replies, his ire already dying down. No need to get angry about logic.

"Well, either you turn your ring over to us or you're going to be stuck sitting in this cage for the entire length of this investigation." Barry's expression is at first disappointed, but soon looks concerned. It's almost hard to pick up on, but whereas a line like he said would be mocking coming from anyone who wasn't genuine, it sounds sad coming from him. "And it doesn't get much better than this."

Barry has taken to leaning against the cage, apparently comfortable enough to do so, although not comfortable enough to have his back to Hal. He's staring intently at Hal, waiting to see what move he'll make.

He needs to stay calm. Being angry will only hurt his case. Which he doesn't really understand -- he feels like an innocent person should be allowed to get angrier over being wrongly accused than a guilty person, but the universe is fucked like that sometimes.