Three weeks had passed since Rushville became the center of a disaster nobody seemed capable of explaining properly.
John Stewart sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone as it vibrated against the nightstand. His mother's name filled the screen. The call stopped, only to begin again a few seconds later.
He let it ring.
Across the room, the television continued playing a news report at a volume barely loud enough to fill the silence. Footage of Rushville showed collapsed buildings, damaged roads, and military personnel escorting investigators through the wreckage. The reporter stood outside a courthouse, where the latest development in the case had drawn cameras from across the country.
Former Green Lantern Hal Jordan has been sentenced to prison in connection with the Rushville incident. Authorities have declined to comment on the full details of the case, citing the ongoing investigation.
The broadcast cut to footage of Hal being escorted through a corridor by armed officers. His expression was difficult to read, but he carried himself with the same stubborn confidence John remembered from their last encounter.
John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "One disaster after another, and somehow everybody's decided locking up the guy who was there is going to make everything better."
He reached for the remote and muted the television.
Hal Jordan had never been John's favorite person. Their relationship had become complicated long before Rushville, and John wasn't convinced he wanted anything to do with the Green Lantern Corps after everything that had happened. The ring, the Guardians, the expectations attached to it, all of it felt like a life somebody else had selected for him.
He wanted his own life back.
His phone began vibrating again.
John glanced at his mother's name, then turned the device facedown.
He knew she was worried. He knew ignoring her calls wouldn't make that worry disappear. But every conversation lately seemed to circle back to the same subjects: where he was staying, whether he was safe, and why he sounded so distant whenever she called.
He didn't have the energy to explain himself again.
A sharp knock interrupted the silence.
John froze.
It came a second time, three measured strikes against the apartment door.
His eyes moved toward the entrance. He hadn't ordered anything, wasn't expecting company, and hadn't told anyone where he was staying beyond the people who needed to know. The building was quiet, with no footsteps approaching from the stairwell and no voices outside.
His military training took over before he had time to think about it.
He rose without switching on the lights and moved away from the bedroom doorway, keeping himself out of the direct line of sight from the entrance. He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a compact pistol, checking its condition with practiced efficiency before holding it low beside his thigh.
The television continued playing muted footage of Rushville.
John moved toward the door, placing each foot carefully to avoid making unnecessary noise. He paused beside the entrance and listened. Nothing. No shuffling, no impatient tapping, no attempt to test the handle.
Whoever stood outside was either remarkably calm or knew exactly what they were doing.
Neither possibility reassured him.
John checked the peephole. A man stood in the corridor, holding several pizza boxes stacked against his chest. He wore a casual jacket, and his expression suggested that he was waiting for someone to answer a perfectly ordinary delivery.
John didn't lower his weapon.
He shifted to the side of the door, keeping himself away from the most obvious angle of entry. His free hand found the handle. He turned it slowly, opened the door a few inches, and kept the pistol close to his body where it wouldn't immediately be visible.
Then he pulled the door wider.
The man outside looked up at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The stranger's eyes dropped toward the pistol. His gaze lingered there before returning to John's face.
"Well, this is already off to a promising start," he said. "I brought pizza, so I'm hoping we can establish that I'm not the worst visitor you've had today."
John kept the gun trained on him. "Put the boxes down slowly, then show me your hands."
"Sure. I can do that."
The man crouched carefully, placed the pizzas on the floor, and straightened with both hands visible. He didn't make any sudden movements or attempt to look past John into the apartment.
"Before you decide whether to shoot me, I'd like to point out that I haven't even had a slice yet. It would be a tragic waste of perfectly good pizza."
John's expression didn't change.
"Name and business."
"Barry Allen. I'm a CSI with the Central City Police Department, and I'm here because I need to talk to you about Rushville."
John's grip tightened around the pistol.
Barry noticed but didn't react. He remained where he was, giving John plenty of space and making no attempt to move closer to the doorway.
"I'm not here to fight you, and I'm not here to hurt you," Barry continued. "I'm a friend, or at least I'm hoping we can start there. I know this looks strange, showing up at your apartment with pizza and asking to talk about something that ended with a city getting torn apart, but I figured an unexpected conversation might go better with food."
John glanced briefly at the boxes before returning his attention to Barry.
"You found my address, showed up without calling, and expected me to welcome you inside because you brought dinner. That's a bold strategy."
"I've had worse plans work out."
"That doesn't make them good plans."
"No, it doesn't. I'm trying to improve."
John studied him, searching for the little signs that might betray a lie. Barry didn't look like someone preparing to attack, but John had learned long ago that appearances meant very little when people wanted something from you.
Barry seemed to recognize that he wasn't going to be invited inside anytime soon.
"Look, I'll get straight to it. I'm investigating the Rushville incident, specifically what happened with Zoe and the Manhunter. From what I've found, I believe there's at least one more Manhunter out there, and I need your help finding it before it causes another disaster."
John's expression hardened at the name.
Barry continued before the silence could stretch any further.
"I know you and Zoe were involved. I'm not here to judge you for that, and I'm not interested in dragging your private life into the investigation. But you knew her personally, and that makes you someone who might understand things the rest of us missed."
John looked down the corridor, then back at Barry. The television behind him showed the courthouse again, the muted image of Hal Jordan disappearing as the news moved to another story.
Barry followed his glance for a moment before returning his attention to John.
"I need someone who can help me understand what Zoe was involved in, what she knew, and what might still be out there. I'm not asking you to put on a uniform or join some organization. I'm asking you to help me find a threat before innocent people get caught in the middle again."
He paused, his expression becoming more serious.
"I believe there's one more Manhunter out there, apart from the one you were sleeping with, and I want your help to get rid of it."
A/N
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