"Orson!"

The boy kept swinging. "HAAAAAIII!" He focused on form, smooth angles, no wasted movement, all energy condensed and focused through the strikes. The Thunderer preached form until form came without thought.

"Boy! Listen to me!" The old man called out again in a barking tone. However it wasn't the ageless immortal of K'un L'un who had been calling him, but the boy's father. He'd long been growing resentful of the Martial Arts master, but the boy had never picked up on it. After all, how could he when so many adults in his life communicated like that? Perhaps they felt it resonated better in the growing minds of young boys? Perhaps that resonance was why he was called 'The Thunderer' in the first pl--

"ORSON! Boy, come here!"

The young boy trudged over to the old man's workbench. Phineas Randall sat working away with a small pair of tweezers at a pocketwatch, that shined of gold. "You spend all day learning that celestial barberism, for a night at least you can look here and learn from me."

"Why? What's there to learn from you..?" Orson asked, not intending the sass that the question seemed to be loaded with.

The old machinist turned and glared at him through a telescopic monocle. "Do not try me, boy, or we'll see how much he's taught you..."

The older man cleared a place for the boy to sit. "Now sit there and learn." He forcefully demanded, as if the words would now be imprinted just through blunt force trauma.

"Now, do you see what I'm holding, Orson?"

"Yes. It's a watch."

"Good." The father seemed to calm, as if relieved that this place hadn't driven that Western knowledge out of his son. "Now do you know how it works?"

The boy thought for a few moments. "Well, the astronomical clock outside of the Central Hall of Ancestors, Lei Kung told me is worked by Shaolin monks who collect water from the ceremonial fountains and carry them to the top of the clock tower, where..."

Phineas Randall clipped his son around the ears, more due to the name who he cited for information than the incorrect answer. "No! You don't operate a fine pocket watch like this with water. This is a mechanical watch. Now, do you know what makes it work?"

Orson thought for a few seconds before he dropped his head glumly and shook it from side to side, awaiting chastisement.

"Good!" His father answered with a cheerfully smug grin. "That's a perfectly fine answer. If you're aware of what you don't know, then you know enough to find out, yes?"

Orson thought about the confusing string of reasoning that had just been said to him, and replied with a quiet, "I guess so."

"Alright, every mechanical watch has to have five things." Phineas proclaimed, putting the watch on the bench and digging into it with his tools.

"First, the Mainspring. The mainspring is the source of the watch's mechanical power. Keep it well wound and it'll run. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the watch and nodded.

"Next you have the balance wheel. The balance wheel maintains steady pace. Like a pendulum or metronome, understand. That's what keeps the watch true."

The boy had never heard of a metronome, never having been musically inclined, but nodded his head. He seemed to understand from the swinging arm gesture his father made.

"Next, you have the gear train. Now the gear train sends power from the mainspring to the balance wheel and adds up all the swings of the balance wheel, getting you your seconds, minutes, hours... days depending on the watch. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the string of complicated looking cogs with a furrowed brow. But quietly nodded.

"Then you have your escapement mechanism. Now the escapement is what allows the gears to progress by a set amount with each swing of the balance wheel. It's called the escapement because... well, look, see how the gears seem to 'escape' by a single jump? Before it seems to rest, waiting for the next swing?" Phineas picked the watch up and held it to the young child's ear.

"The escapement process is also what leads to the ticking. You hear that?"

Orson said "Yes, father." With a growing sense of confidence. This much was clear for the young boy, even if he'd struggled with following some of the rest.

"The escapement also gives the balance wheel a very slight push with every swing."

"The escapement mechanism seems very important. Like it does a lot."

"They're all important. All vital. Like I said at the start, you don't have a watch without any one of them. And they all allow the other parts of the watch to do their job. To play their part."

Phineas Randall closed up the back of the watch, with a few precision screws.

"I suppose it's not too dissiilar from what mystical, Eastern dance-fight carry-on you were just pursuing there. Show me again."

The boy beamed with joy. His father NEVER took any interest in Lei Kung's teachings and the fighting techniques which were so starting to captivate the young boy.

And he never would again.

But for now, the boy got to his feet and started to progress through the forms. He focused on form, smooth angles, until it came time for strikes, and eager to show off for his father he thre strikes beyond his weight and balance. Looking to give extra to make his father proud.

But as he so often did when it came to his father, his intentions missed the mark.

"Much like the watch. It's about efficiency of movement, precision, constant smooth mechanical response. See when you threw that left there, you overcommitted, the intention behind this form I suspect is for that left strike to then lead to your weight shifting..." He grabbed Orson's arm and pivoted his hip. "THUS-ly so that you could then flow into the right you were supposed to throw after. But your balance was off. Because you overthrew the left."

He readjusted the telescopic monocle, and his jacket. As if trying to restore his own dignity after playing in such uncivilised things.

"Ah*Hem... Well, the escapement mechanism is there to prevent that. As we just said, the gear only moves so much, it then gives the balance a slift push. Keeps the works moving. Efficiency in movement."

The young boy looked up in awe at his father, his mouth agape for quite a few seconds before a question finally occurred to him.

"Father, you said every watch has five things. But, mainspring, balance wheel, gear chain, escapement... that's only four?"

The father grinned wryly with pride. "So you HAD been paying attention." He stepped back and plucked the watch back up from the workbench and walked over to the son.

"And the fifth. The face. The side we all see. The dials which take all of those seconds, minutes and hours and display them on an interpretable dial. So YOU can tell the time on YOUR new watch." He put the pocketwatch in the young boy's hands and clasped them with his own for a moment with a widening smile.

"Mine?!? My new watch? I'll-- I'll wind it every day and--!"

"And much as I appreciate the sentiment, THIS watch happens to be self-winding." The older man said with a sense of pride, realigning the jacket he'd just readjusted less than a minute ago.

"Self-winding?"

"Yes, there's another mechanism within. Regular daily movement 'pon the chain, as it swings by gravity's steady hand, shifts a subtle weight within the watch. That shifting of the weight winds up the mainspring. No hand-winding required. So long as you don't oversleep and miss a while."

"Wow..."

---

A trenchwatch hangs on a rung about shoulder height off of a ladder with feet set in the horrendous mud, muck and mire of the region.

"CHORES! You got here! When did you get in?" Orson called out to his old friend from the days of the Confederates of the Curious.

Seamus MacGillicuddy looked up from his transactional business. He was talking with another young soldier who was pointing to a watch wrapped around his wrist. Seamus nodded excitedly and the younger man unwravelled the watch and gave it to the Irishman.

"Oi! Carry!" Some other soldiers down the trench called out towards the young salesman, who waved them off and gestured for them to wait, whilst he wrapped up his sale here first. Seamus pulled out the small packet of biscuits he'd just agreed to trade from his pocket, but quickly grabbed the soldier by the shirt to prevent him going anywhere. He held the watch up to his ear to check he could hear the trenchwatch ticking before releasing the other soldier's shirt and handing him the biscuits.

"Pleasure doin' business with you too! Eh! Lemme know when you get them boots in too."

The soldier quickly ran down the trench to get to the others who were calling him for his next point of sale. 'Chores' instead joined Orson and the pair went for a walk down the trenches.

"And Orson, mate. It's great to see you too! The Irishman said with a big grin.

"Just got in Four Ack-Emma on the latest Omms-N-Chevoos." He said, referring to the trains delivering soldiers to the French front.

"Pretty feckin' tired truth be told. But seems my luck might be turnin' around. I'm situated 'round the corner from my old mucker Orson Randall. And less than five minutes inta my time here I run into that bloke - whadid you say his name was again? Harry?"

"They said Carry, but that--"

"Aye, Carry. and with a spot a luck, he's got some friend called Bill who offloaded a watch onto him, and he's lookin' to do a deal on it. He even said he was able to get a pair of pristine boots offa this boy Bill as well. So how bout that, eh?"

Orson winced, unsure how to tell his old friend the truth as the pair progressed through the trenches, some in various levels of disrepair or flooding.

"Well they said 'Carry' but it used to be 'Carrion', bunch of Australians in - I think it was their fifth - started calling him that and then shortened it to Carry because they thought i was funny..."

"Aye, presumably because he's always carryin' somethin' on him like those watches, lookin' to sell, eh?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"Must meet this boy-o Bill as well. Scored meself a watch and a new pair of boots because of this bloke and it only cost me a half eaten pack of biscuits. Food 'round here must be a bit rough, eh? You know which one Bill is?"

"Well... Not exactly..." Came the sombre reply.

"Well, what's got your goat anyhow? You've seemed pretty morbid since I got in. Haven't lifted that chin a yours once. I'd ask if someone put your dog down, but I know for a fact Barko was fine when I left him. What's happened?"

The pair walked past a collapsed segment of trench. Stray limbs and assorted arms and legs were protruding from the mud. Chores and Orson stepped to the side as they saw walking soldiers coming from the other direction so both lots could pass by. Assorted soldiers called out to the pile in gallows humour.

"Mornin' Bill."
"Holding that salute a tad long, aren'cha Bill?"
"A bitter Bit-a Bill this morning, eh?"

Orson and Seamus stood by the mud pile in solemn silnece. Chores looked down at the leather strap around his wrist.

"Well, Feck..."

---

Orson's pocketwatch sat, long since stopped from lack of movement, on a small crate by his bedding. Orson stared into nothingness. He felt an effervescence in his core not unlike a pregnant woman sensing the new life within, and in a strange way it wasn't far from the course. He also felt something else that he hadn't in a long time. Something that he was trying to kill with the poppy, just like the bubbling within.

He felt fear.

For he knew what this must surely mean.

In the country which discovered fireworks, none were exploding, despite the world around it believing this was the dawn of a new year. Another rotation.

Orson didn't even know what year it was, let alone day. But he knew any failure to observe the celestial mechanics would just be ignorance.

The lifeforce of the dragon writhing within him told him that much.

Far away, on the other side of China. Beyond Tibet, beyond the K'un L'un Mountains worlds were realigning.

New life was bursting forth from it's sacred egg.

Heavenly cities were reuniting in a way none on earth would have ever lived long enough to see.

Those who wished him dead - believed him dead. Believed to AND wished him dead might soon find the contrary to be true.

He needed Feng. He needed the poppy now more than ever. Maybe he could drown out the chi enough to further mask himself. He had doubts, with the closer proximity to a new incarnation of Shou-Lao permeating the celestial walls, the well of chi now seemed to flow like a torrent. He quickly put on pants and staggered to the door without care of a shirt.

He burst onto the street with more cognitive grip than he'd had in years. His mind was clearing so rapidly. His hiding place dissipating like the wisps of a cloud.

He pushed through crowds of people and had almost broken out into a complete sprint at this point.

"FENG!" He called out, as if it could have ever possibly even helped.

Memories flooded back, things he long forgot even played a part in his running to begin with. Names and places. And wisdom.

Lei Kung the Thunderer's words. The culture of a people he had foresaken. The death of a peer.

He pushed through another throng of people and crashed into the wall they had been looking at, he fell to the floor and looked up. He saw what the people had been looking at.



He looked further down the wall. More posters. Onlookers.



"破四旧" Orson read. "'Smash the Four Olds'. You wouldn't be the first to try..."

Orson got back up and continued to Feng's. But it would be his final visit.

He needed provisions to head west. Whether the old world would've wanted him to or not.

---

“I told you when I met you Hal, part of being a Green Lantern is this, doing daring things in dangerous places, so quit your bitching. Besides, this one should be a milk run for us.” Kilowog said.

“But why’d it have to be New Jersey?” Hal grumbled.

They flew over the ocean, high enough to be beyond the fogged out vision of any passing fishing trawler, but low enough to see the blooming fireworks that crackled above them. They were somewhere over the eastern seaboard by now, tracing the hazy outline of the coast until they reached Jersey.

“At least it didn’t land on Mars,” Kilowog said, “MPs there like to get their grubby mitts on everything. Jurisdictional nightmare.”

“There are people on Mars? Really? You’re not yanking my chain?” Hal asked.

“Used to be, anyway… I think we’re getting close,” Kilowog said. Hal could tell he was right from the sky, the infinite space of the open ocean waned into pure black sky before the lights of New York, broken up only by swells of light and color exploding above them.

“Clue me in on the sitrep one more time?” Hal’s shifted the ring on his finger as he asked, it felt tight today. This was the first time the Corps expected him to do something that wasn’t training. And there was Carol’s Ferris Air New Years Bash that he was missing, again, but at least this time he was giving a raincheck for a real reason instead of a killer hangover.

“Scans show a civvie-class vessel entered Earth atmosphere in the past few hours, with one life form aboard. Ship is of Tamaranean make, so we’re probably looking at a refugee situation, on account of some deep space politics, which is why the Corps didn't blow it out of the sky. But we need to take a look in case those boys figured wrong, and hope whoever it is doesn't pitch a fit that they’re stuck planetside until the current shitstorm subsides.” Kilowog reported. He still hadn’t shown Hal how to use the ring to tap into Green Lantern frequencies, leaving Hal to drift beside Kilowog as he thumbed at the holographic computer console emanating from his ring.

“So, we rock up, fish them out of whatever hole they landed in, and tell them to settle in for a nice long stay?” Hal summarized. They were over Newark by now, the teal ocean waves yielding to the stout grey of the city before it.

“That’s the gist.” Kilowog started their descent, guiding them down steady, like he expected them to come into a runway. It was how Hal had been landing, without the control to swoop through the air and stop on a dime like Kilowog could.

“Shouldn’t I have a real combat construct going into this? Just in case?” Hal said. Refugee or not, everything Hal had met from space so far had proven capable of putting him out on his ass.

Kilowog’s ears flitted down, like a cat’s, which was apparently the Bolovaxian equivalent of an eye roll. “Remember, milk run. If things go sideways I’m always here as your security blanket. And you’ve got that eyeball thing to rely on.” Kilowog said, which prompted Hal to roll his eyes.

“It’s really more of a parlor trick.” He said. He’d been tinkering with it since his encounter with Sinestro, mostly focusing on making sure it didn’t hurt so damn much when he put it in. But Kilowog had taught him a thing or two about the capacities of his ring, assorted scanners and meters and bits and bobs. Now the ring’s data was overlain with his view of the world, reporting air pressure, coordinates... Hell, it was like being back in the cockpit.

“Mhm. Speaking of, you named it yet?” Kilowog asked.

“No. Do I have to?” Hal looked back at Kilowog, incredulous, but his warthog face remained stoic.

“Everything’s gotta have a name,” he said. He had a point, Sinestro had called that ball thing something… Ganthet’s whatever-it-was. Which surely meant the lightning trick was called Sinestro’s Forehead Size Ego.

What’s in a name, anyway? He picked Highball as his callsign because they called dad Martini back in the war, and Hal though it’d be right to name himself after a drink, too. He didn’t figure out that the Highball was just a kind of glass until later, but Hal thought it was the sentiment that counted. What was wrong with Highball, anyway?

“I’ll call it The Highball,” Hal decided.

“Eyes up, we’re here. Ring’s reading something extraterrestrial in the bay down a ways, but… I can’t see for shit. You got anything?” Kilowog asked.

“Well, now you mention it,” Hal stalled in the air, letting the focus of his energy concentrate in his eyes, shifting the shape of his lens until the light filtered just so, and he finally had the magnification to see the surface in all its detail.

There were two figures below, one a woman, wreathed in a curtain of fiery locks, the other wrapped in deep blue chitin armor. They were an odd pair to be sure, but certainly no stranger than Hal and Kilowog traipsing through the sky. He might’ve taken the blue one for a bug, but they looked… Human, more or less. Maybe the big bad galaxy out there wasn’t so different. They stood across from each other on a patch of gravel rooftop, close enough to the bay that the girl’s hair listed in the sea breeze.

The ship, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen out across the rippling water, light up with the booming echoes of the fireworks above. Maybe the new alien packed camouflage.

“I’ve got a, uh… Orange hippie and a blue guy. Ship’s not in sight,” Hal reported.

“Sounds like our Tamaraenean found a friend. You talk to them, I’ll see if I can’t find the ship,” Kilowog said.

“Me talk to them? Alone?” Hal stopped, the edges of his flight construct wibbling in the wind. So far, Kilowog had been with him every step of the way, and having someone that big, ugly, and pink on his side had done a thing or two to allay his worries.

“Ha! You think they wanna seethis poozer’s mug instead, do ya? Time to fly the nest, Jordan. Catch you in five. And Hal?”

“Yeah?”

“The Highball sucks, we’ll brainstorm when I get back.” With that, Kilowog rolled to the right, disappearing in the night’s haze.

And just like that, Hal was alone, dipping lower and lower in the sky until he didn’t need his lens to see the detail in the hippie’s clothes, purple and green that moved as easily with the wind as her hair. If Kilowog said he could do this, he could. Right? They couldn’t kick his ass worse than Sinestro.

His gaze flitted to the blue one, tracing the inlays and patterns of his armor, and the slope of his arm down into a… Was that a cannon?

Milk run, milk run, Hal repeated to himself. Maybe it was just a sign of Tama-whatsit greeting. He’d drawn close enough that he could hear their voices echoing below each snapped explosion above. It was his time to say something, something profound. These weren’t just more Corps boys, but real honest to goodness visitors to his earth from the beyond. This could be their first contact with humanity. It had to be good.

“Hey, this, ah, sector is on lockdown by the… Esteemed Green Lantern Corps,” Hal jerked his thumb out to the bay, “and I can’t let you park there.”

SHING MUN RESERVOIR
Shing Mun, Hong Kong
Christmas Day, 1967
♬

我没看见他 !

I have barely escaped and now I am on the run. The path I'm on is dark and treacherous. Men have died along this way, whether it was decades ago or even a few hours earlier today. Mud weighs down each step I take and rock breaks my skin and stride. Yet, I must continue. Even as my bones tire and my will gives in to despair, I must continue to run like a scolded rat being chased away by a mad dog in the cold, howling rain. The monsoon season masks their gunshots with its torrential rainfall and booming thunder, yet I can still clearly hear the commissar's chilling commands.

传播;传播！找他！

But I do not panic even as my hand's phantom pain sets in. For the moonlight has abandoned the heavens and only the shadow of the night reigns over the sky. In its fickle mercy, it has given me sanctuary. My captors have lost sight of me for they have followed me down to this damned, winding path and only those that have escaped the labyrinth before can navigate its desolate trenches and abandoned redoubts. I have done so once. Against my will and against the fanatical. But like now as before, I cannot help but smile. A bloody, wheezing chuckle escapes my mouth as I recall that the fools commanding the defence during the war had named this position the Gin Drinker's Line.

安静！我听见他了！

My mouth betrays me but my memory does not. In those decades before, the British dared to name this dugout I find myself in the headquarters of the Oriental Maginot Line. They were right to do so but all for the wrong reasons. Like its namesake, it fell so easily to the enemy... I will probably fall to the same fate, to die in this miserable hole chased by as prey.

Yet, I must continue. The Dragon must know that the Snake bares its fangs at him, readying to strike.

我找到他了 !

---

THE AMERICANA HOTEL
New York City, New York
9:04PM, December 31st, 1967
♬

"You're dead, lady!" yelled an overweight oaf in a karate gi as he charged at the correctly addressed Lady Shiva. By doing so, he gave away the element of surprise and traded it in for the element of disappointment as his disinterested opponent used what struggling momentum he had to judo flip him flat on his back. His comrades telegraphed all their moves too, as if it was the first lesson the Marquis D'Maq had drilled into their heads. Regardless, it made for an interesting spectacle as Shiva made short work of each martial arts mook, drawing enthusiasm from the crowd.

She knew that the true target was getting away though but had entrusted that her former and once-again ally Richard Dragon would subdue him. The arms dealer Guano Cravat and his bodyguards had used the commotion to sneak out through a narrow service corridor leading to the kitchen. Still hot on the pursuit, Dragon had decided to call in for backup through his ear-piece communicator.

"Ling, have the local PD converge! Target's making a break for it through the back!" However, this escape wasn't as clean as Dragon made it out to be as Guano and his five goons were held up in the kitchen, arguing with a man shorter than all of them in a sauce-stained apron and drooping chef's hat, completing the ensemble with a wifebeater shirt. The only thing he was missing was a lit up Camel cigarette to complete what Richard envisioned to be that New York working class look but upon hearing him speak, it was pretty much there in spirit.

"Hey yuh can't be here! We're makin' souffles and mistuh Tisch is gonna flip if dey doan come out perfectly! Cah-peesh?!" the chef would say in the deepest, scratchiest voice Richard had ever heard. Instead of coming to a reasonable understanding, which no one expected at all to happen, they all got into a shouting match. Impressively, the short-statured chef was easily the loudest though that old windbag Guano was giving him a run for his money as he slowly turned beet-red from yelling. Not wanting to rudely interrupt, Richard decided to walk slowly to the nearest bodyguard and politely tap on his shoulder.

"WHAT, CAN'T YOU SE-" *bash* *fa-thud*

Before he could finish, Richard's backhand fist had knocked him out cold on the ground. This temporarily silenced the room as Guano and his goons realized they were now in the presence of the one and only, highly decorated, world-famous, confidently smiling Richard Drago- "GET HIM!" Guano would yell before pushing the chef towards Richard. Though this Brooklyn baker stumbled towards him, Richard used his hands to leapfrog off the chef's shoulders and transitioned to a high jump kick in mid-air to knock down a second goon, driving his knee down his chest as he descended. The remaining three were quick to surround him and, unlike the amateurs Shiva had to deal with, attacked at once. Each swinging fist was met with a quick block from Richard, aiming at their wrists with knifehand strikes. Each jab aimed at the Dragon's maw was dodged as with the grace of a butterfly. One of them decided to sweep the Dragon's legs from behind while he was focused on the others but almost as if he had eyes on the back of his head, Richard evaded the strike with a kip-up and followed through with a spinning hook kick in retaliation.

Having enough of it, one of the men decided to grab a nearby kitchen knife and wildly stab at the Dragon. The first stab had Richard sidestep in order to gauge his opponent. The second stab had Dragon catch him by the wrist and twisting his arm, forcing him to release the knife. As tension had stiffened the goon's forearm, a quick elbow strike crashing down on it had audibly *snapped* the knife bearer's limb. After witnessing such calculated brutality, the remaining two goons looked at each other with widened eyes and a synchronized nod. With scowls still on their faces, they slowly backed off... Before completely running away with their arms flailing in the air. With an exhausted sigh, Richard eased his stance and began turning his head back and forth as he tried to figure out where Guano had escaped to.

"Hey mistuh Dragon, dat schmeboygah went out through de fire exit!" the onlooking confectioner stated, pointing to an unmarked door at the back of the kitchen next to the stacks of dishes that miraculously stayed in one piece. With a similar nod as those that had just ran out the kitchen, Richard would grab the knife he had disarmed earlier and bolt out as he continued the pursuit. True enough, it led to an outside ally but it really shouldn't be a fire exit with how little space there was for an organized queue, what with garbage cans and clothes lines taking up most of the area. But now wasn't the time for chastising bad safety regulations for Guano Cravat was getting in to an escape car down the street!

"So long, Dragon! I hate your movies by the way! HAHAHA!" he would yell out from the passenger's seat. This moment of gloating would be the criminal's downfall as Richard took that opportunity to aim the knife at the car's front tire. Before Guano knew what was happening, the blade was already in the air and quickly approaching. Both Richard and Guano awaited in anticipation, the latter's mouth agape with a gasp at what was a very improbable knife throw that could make or break a sting operation that was months in the making...

And of course it missed. It didn't even reach the car. The knife lost momentum about three feet in front of Richard and definitely hit one of those clotheslines he was just complaining about. Plus, his throwing hand was the same he had used to crush the glass way earlier during the night and his adrenaline wasn't making up for his sapped strength. The silence didn't last long though as Guano broke into laughter, turning red once again. But that wasn't only thing turning red as the approaching policemen's sirens alternated between that and blue. They had successfully shut down the street and had surrounded Guano.

Before Richard could apprehend the arms dealer, the getaway driver stepped out of the vehicle. Like the others, he wore round sunglasses and a white tuxedo. However, his skin was paler and almost looked translucent under the moonlight. He would stand across Richard down the alleyway but had a composed stance as he reached into his inner breast pocket. But he wasn't reaching for a gun as out came a thick cigar with a golden seal. The policemen had already cuffed Guano at this point and were already ordering the driver to stand down. Yet, he simply lit his cigar and smoked away.

In one drag, the cigar was consumed to ash. As he exhaled, a cloud of rushing smoke had engulfed him and the alley. Richard had to shield his eyes from this sudden smog but by the time it dissipated, the driver was gone.

"Where is he?" asked Shiva, who had just arrived from the fire exit. "Where is that Swiss snake?!"

---

"I believe it is you that cannot 'park there'," was the first thing out of the hippie’s mouth, "The Green Lantern Corps is expressly forbidden from entering the Vega star system. What business have you here?"

“I, uhm…” Hal stammered, “tell you the truth ma’am, I’m no navigator, but I don’t think this is Vega.” Hal tried to remember what Kilowog had called their local system. He’d heard him mention it a few times, in the gravelly background of his voice chatting up the space boys over communications. As he reached for it, the ring supplied the missing information over his lens.

“We are in Space Sector 2814, Sol system.” Hal’s ring worked as he spoke, stitching a visualization of the path from Earth to Vega on his retinas, an arcing green line rising from the surface of an Earth in miniature. There was no scale, but as the path grew the Earth shrunk, until there was nothing but a strip of emerald in Hal’s vision, “... and it looks like you’re a long way from home.”

Beside them, the blue guy struggled with his own arm, wrenching it this way and that as he babbled to himself. The surface of his… Skin? Armor? Shifted, unable to settle on a definite form. It reminded Hal of when Kilowog had first taught him about constructs, and the only thing he could produce were wibbling heaps of green. Maybe the big blue’s armor was something like the ring.

"I'm not gonna shoot somebody who hasn't done anything wrong! Besides he doesn't even seem to be here for us... and why do you have a plasma cannon?!" The boy shouted. His accent sounded local, Earth local anyway… But whatever the hell he was wearing certainly wasn’t. Hal put his hands up.

“Listen, buddy, I’m not packing anything but this ring,” Hal waggled his hand, “and at this point the thing might as well be toy jewelry. I’m just supposed to tell you guys you’re not supposed to break the blockade,” Hal gestured up as another chorus of fireworks sang above them. In the distance, Hal saw a jeweled green point of light rising from the surface of the bay. Hal nodded towards it to indicate.

“That’ll be my partner fishing your ship out of the bay, he’ll tell you the same thing… And, sir, I’d really appreciate it if you don’t point that thing at me, dig?”

Prague Castle was beautiful. Even for the Winter Soldier who much preferred more colorful buildings. Even with the copper green roof the building was lack luster against it's backdrop. Colorfully painted blue roofs, yellow buildings. But he wasn't here to be an art critic. A small part of his mind pointed out that he knew about this because of a young blonde. He shoved that part away roughly. It wouldn't help him with his job. And it was something he shouldn't think about.

The man masquerading as Dušan entered the Castle. It was still a mild trek through the multiple courtyards. He easily slipped through the clusters of people. Morning business was well underway even at this early hour. He was just rounding the entrance to the second courtyard when he spotted Štefan, another of the aids for Sucharda. An older friendly man who happily took 'Dušan' under his tutalage.

"Hey! Dušan." Štefan greeted as he turned away from Ladislava. She was secretary to Alexander.

"Štefan. Ladi." The Winter Soldier smiled winningly at the woman. She was younger than him and slightly comely, but she fancied him and was a good source of information on Dubček's movements.

"Is the conference room preped?"

Ladi rolled her eyes. "Always with work with you." She swatted Dušan on the arm. "Relax for once. Everything is ready. We're just waiting until the First Secretary is ready to give his speech."

The soldier shrugged a shoulder casually. He was always careful to keep Ladi on his right due to her having less of a concept of personal space. "I care about my job." He grunted seemingly put out good naturedly at her jabbing.

The friendly conversation soon found itself back to politics. The tension in the Castle wasn't suffocating yet, but it was very apparent. All too quickly it was time to file into the conference room. Sets were carefully arranged for staff and press, all facing the long table at the end of the room. Microphones and cameras were places strategically. Dušan and his colleges found themselves standing in the back against the wall.

People were packed in, all waiting for the First Secretary. Notable KSČ members already occupied seats at the main table. Štefan and the spy both pulled out their notebooks and pens to take notes. Soon Novotný appeared in a side door. Men parted the way for him to get to his seat. The sound level rose, then crested as the First Secretary took his spot.



"Esteemed comrades! Dear friends! On behalf of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, of our whole party and of our people, we convey to the Rumanian Workers' Party, the Rumanian people and to you, comrade deputies, the warmest comradely greetings." The orator's warm voice echoed in the room. A few reporters snapped pictures. Blubs flashed and popped. The only other sound to be heard.

The Winter Soldier dutifully raised his pen and prepared himself for some for an hour of drudgery.

"Economic cooperation based on the principles of proletarian internationalism is an important component of our country's accelerated transition from capitalism to socialism. This beneficial and comprehensive cooperation-"

One of the photographer's bulbs popped close to the one who called himself Dušan. Only years of training kept the man from jumping. He turned to glare at the photographer only to find no one. There was no one to the side of him. Slowly he turned his head back to the front only to find an empty room. Vacant chairs were arranged perfectly in front of him. All empty.

The Winter Soldier could feel his heart rate picking up. He turned to where Štefan had been standing immediately to his right but he too was gone. Training whispered in his mind. Assess the situation. Did he black out? No. That had not happened in years. Even if it had he was friendly enough with Štefan that the man would not have just left him. There would have been a scene. Which meant something more sinister was afoot.

The solider went to pocket his notebook and pen only to find himself holding a sniper. He nearly dropped the weapon in shock. This was not his mission. He took a step back to press his back against the wall only to meet no resistance. His foot crunched down on broken glass. The man took a deep breath and turned.

The corridor was long and dark. Lights overhead flickered slowly as if weathering a great and terrible storm. Moaning could be heard from down the hall. It was a long, deep, mournful sound.

The soldier adjusted his sniper and carefully stepped over the shards of glass. The sparse flashes of light illuminated only small halos. Enough for him to not run into any walls. The corridor was endless.

The man lifted his arm to wipe snow out of eyes. The blizzard was making it nearly impossible to see, even with the unreliable lighting. The ground was quickly becoming treacherous. The moaning was the howling of the wind. The flickering of the lights flashes of discharging firearms.

The Winter Soldier dove to the ground in search of cover. He raised his handgun and took aim at the nearest enemy. A sharp crack and a scream. The soldier rolled as a bullet pinged off his arm.

Where was Steve? He was supposed to be here by now. The lone squad of the 26th was no match for the swarm of Germans. They were blocking the alleyway. And if he didn't get home Pop was going to be mad. Again. But what could he do? If he didn't get scratch he couldn't get food. Then Becca.

Then ----?

The Winter Soldier blinked. Who was he thinking about? He looked down at the notebook in his hand. He had to take a few minutes to process the words he had written on the page. It wasn't Russian nor Cezch. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize it was English, let alone his own hand writing. The harsh black letters were pressed harshly into the page, nearly tearing the paper in the process.

I AM NOT YOU

-Deleted-

---

Hal hadn’t prepared for a fight, his one trick was The Highball -- and that couldn’t quite shoot out Superman’s heat vision yet -- but, as he saw the mass and numbers of the enemy force descending on them through the firework cover, he was damn glad that Kilowog had.

Only a handful of the green creatures had broken from formation to attack Hal and the refugees, the rest buzzed like a cloud of hornets, whirling around a green point of light that popped and exploded from the heart of their formation; Kilowog had decided to put on his own fireworks show.

But that meant it was on Hal to help these yahoos against The Wicked Witch’s flying green monkeys. The girl threw herself headlong into the action, jumping straight off the building and swinging her cuffs around like a cudgel. Flying straight off the building, Hal corrected himself. Was flying just a part of the basic space alien suite? The girl managed on her own, but the others were using jetpacks soldered into the winged framework of their armor, and the blue guy’s armor produced propulsion as quick as the surface of its arm rolled over itself to form into a shield. Hal was the only one left on the roof, slack jawed as the aliens traded blows.

It was finally coming true. Everything the old Flash Gordon serials from Hal’s childhood had promised the arrival of aliens would be, but now in technicolor, and happening awful close to him. For a moment he had the instinct to run, a quick seize across his muscles and the memory of lightning splitting the sky. Kilowog and the others could mop it up, give him more time to figure out something with the ring to protect himself.

Protection, that was a new thought, it almost earned a laugh. Before the ring that was his last concern. Screw the FAA guidelines, forget takeoff procedure, and always push the screaming engine a lot damn harder than the techs tell you to, just to prove that you can; just to get your butt into that sheepskin seat cover and fly a little while. Growing up they told him Martini Jordan had his first combat flight in a stolen cessna, with no guns and tissue-paper armor, even without any kind of safety net, he still gave those Kraut sons-of-bitches the what for... Oh, what the hell.

Hal’s feet took him off the structure and his ring brought him into the air, forming the electric lime field around him and slinging him past the bolts of alien energy that rocked through the sea spray. He knew his sheathe wouldn’t stand up to that kind of punishment, the projectiles were as big around as baseballs and hummed like a Coast City powerplant, fancy flying would be the only way out of this mess.

Hal threw a barrel roll, jerking his muscles in accordance with the movement to dodge another bolt by a hair. It still didn’t feel like he could quite move right inside of it, the flight construct sat on him like a lead suit, restricting his motion and keeping his body in flight position. He may as well have been jammed in a cockpit.

Then, The Highball sharpened on the edge of his vision, forcing something to his attention. It was one of the aliens, diving under and back up into the fray, bringing its weapon up for a blaster shot on the blue guy’s exposed side.

“Hey!” Hal was on the alien, cutting over his path and slamming the bugger down. His flight construct buckled and went turgid on contact, shimmering energy pulsed and ballooned as it tried to correct itself from the impact, setting Hal’s teeth to rattle in his skull.

He and the alien tumbled through the sky, Hal’s arms locked firmly around its waist. The creature squawked at him in a language the ring refused to translate, swinging an arm that had to be the size of Hal’s whole torso to swat the human off. Hal squirmed and shifted, forcing his weight up until he could wrap his legs around the monster’s waist and get his arms over its neck. Hal squeezed.

It was like trying to choke a redwood tree. Its skin was like a toad’s, bumped and warted and slimy, Hal could tell even through the layers of his construct, protecting corded muscle as strong as steel beneath.

“Who the hell let you uglies in through the blockade?” Hal shouted, trying to kick at the monster’s stomach only to be met by a plate of gristle, “we’re not having an intergalactic kegger down here!”

Hal’s flight construct was normalizing, returning to hold its shape around its master, but the alien wasn’t having it. Its brawn shifted and it torqued him. Hal’s sides screamed while the alien twisted him, begging him to release his hold or at least the construct squeezing in on him.

What would Kilowog do? Certainly not let go. What would Martini do? No weapons, no armor, no nothing, just his way to fly… His way to fly.

Hal screamed and closed his eyes, keeping his legs locked tight around the alien’s trunk and willing his construct to flow over the creature, no longer keeping him airborne but keeping the thing locked into a new emerald cage.

Wind and spray whipped Hal’s hair and clothes and stung his eyes as he opened them, now wrestling with the sealed pocket around the alien, thrashing and vocalizing as the construct kept it locked within. It was like fighting a sleeping bag. Its jetpack was failing, whining, uselessly pouring plasma and fire into growing bubbles on the construct’s back as the green energy wibbled, barely keeping them in the air.

They were losing altitude, streaking towards the surface of the bay, at least, but at this height it’d feel like kissing concrete, but it was all he could do to even force his structure to keep its coherence, and hang onto the creature for dear life., digging his fingers into little wells in the construct.

“Hey! A little help!?” He screamed at the figures above.

---

Timely.

I always tried to be timely. The military drilled that in to me, but even before all of that it was something that mattered to me. I learned early on you couldn't control it, there were too many variables, all you could do was try to be prepared when things shifted. I wasn't ready when pneumonia took my mother. I disappeared into comics, decided I would be an artist. I wasn't ready when the war came to America. God I was so skinny then. I had no idea what I was getting in to. None of us did. We couldn't have. I was timely though.

My recruiter, when I got rejected for being underage and so damn skinny, he had a motivational poster taped up in that cheap little cubicle on the white turning yellow walls. I can almost see it now. A nature scene, for some reason. I never got that. I did get the message. It put things into words better than I could. It said that Luck was the Intersection of Preparation and Opportunity. I like to think I've been prepared. I like to think I've been timely.

You probably wouldn't believe how timely. Or how lucky.

"So then," the grizzled old man across the bar locked eyes with me and interrupted me from my reverie, "You gonna just keep staring at that mug or are you going to tell me about your day?"

I was distracted, lost in more ways than one, looking back into a once familiar face. Jesus Christ.

"It helps you know," Duggan said as he poured some good whiskey in an old mug and slid it over to me, "We don't talk."

"Irishmen?" I replied over my mug.

"Oh absolutely lad. Especially us Irish. But any of us really. You know how long it took me to get some of these fuckers to talk? That shit it don't come natural, after what we've seen, what we've done. You don't want to remember, you don't want to put that on your brothers. Don't want their sympathy, don't want their pity. None of us do, but you said you'd talk Rogers. It's New Years, it's what we do."

"I was never much for talking about the past. About memories. You know, all those years, it was action. All movement, all action, just one thing after another. Go, go, go."

"Yeah," my suddenly old buddy Dum Dum Duggan replied, with a loud unhealthy sounding exhale "I remember that, remember it better than most. Maybe more than anyone left, but for some of us memories is all we got left. Memories, this shit little bar, and now you Steve. A long lost friend come back. You owe it to us. That day, your day, our day."

"It's a hell of a thing."

Old Dum Dum looked back at me, 23 years older than when I had last seen him. He had been a tank of a man, where had it all gone. Years on years, and it had all been just a few weeks ago. For me. It was a hell of a thing. How one day can change your world.

---

It was hard to breathe. You couldn't catch the air. Not here. I was somewhere around 38,000 feet, moving at nearly 400 miles an hour, I was 26 years old, I was a soldier, I was Captain America, and I was scared to death. It was April 14, 1945. In Italy the US Fifth Army was launching it's final offensive in Italy, moving into the Po Valley. High over the North Atlantic my pilot and I were dying and we knew it. It was happening again.

My pilot was 23 years old, from Irvine California, he was allergic to grapes and engaged to the daughter of an architect. Her name was Maggie McMurray, his name was Adam Koslik. We called him Tight Pants because he showed up on Day One in pants that had shrunk in the wash. His pants were tight. He was Jewish, she was an atheist. She was pregnant with a son, Michael after his Uncle. They wanted to keep it quiet until after the wedding to avoid the shame. They wanted a sister for Michael, Evangeline for her grandmother. Probably would have been invited to the bar-mitzvah and bat-mitzvah. He was shot once in the left lung and once through the right shoulder. The plane was smoking, jittering. We were at 27,000 feet now and still coming in right about 400 miles an hour. Still hard to breathe.

Hard to catch the air when you're going that fast. Hard to breathe when every breath hurts. Hard to control the yoke with a bullet in your shoulder and blood filling your lungs but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. We were both young men, we were both about to die, and there was nothing anyone was going to be able to do to save us. I was losing another friend, another brother. Bucky had been lost over the English Channel only a few months ago. I had never really processed that and now Tight Pants, and me with him. It was happening again.

We said the Lord's Prayer together through shuddering breaths as the instrument panel lit up and screeched meaningless warnings to us, I placed my hand on his shoulder, and a moment later the shaking intensified as the plane began to fall apart and we were lost to the skies and the frigid seas.

When I look back now those few minutes with Tight Pants took longer than the next 23 years. I could tell you all kinds of things about the cockpit of that fighter in those few minutes.

Tight Pant's shampoo smelled like apples. His deodorant smelled like that terrible chemically standard issue deodorant because that is exactly what it was. I had a rock in my boot. I still had a blown out blood vessel in my left arm from working out on base. That photo of his wife and him in San Francisco had come untaped and got sucked out the window. A piece of bread launched up from the floor as Tight Pants fought valiantly to save us. Muttering to pull through the pain and it would have had to hurt something fierce with that hole in his shoulder. Tight Pants had been eating in here. Wasn't supposed to. Probably wanted to eat with Maggie. I would have to reprimand him some other time.

All I could tell you about my experiences the last twenty years is that it was cold. Probably.

I woke up on a Japanese ship, the Ishii. I was under enemy control, they had put some serious research into what freezing conditions do to a human body. How to bring them back. It had been 23 years. They weren't the enemy anymore. They did their best for us. Their best wasn't enough to save Adam Koslik. That might have been because he had been hit twice by bullets that had somehow missed me. It might have been because of what Operation Rebirth had done to me. We had been dead for 23 years. We had been dead as long as Tight Pants had been alive and he still was. Adam was still dead. Bucky was still dead. Not me, not old Blondie. I was reborn. Again. Tight Pants and I, we had been found, but I would come to find I was still very much lost.

---

"You said Adam Kauslic?"

"Yeah," I replied pressing my fingertips into my temples.

Dum Dum pulled out a notebook and started scribbling.

"You said..."

"Adam Koslik, K-O-S-L-I-K, Tight Pants from Irvine. He was 23 years old. Engaged to Maggie McMurray, son on the way, Michael."

I took another drink. I needed it, and as I turned to Dum Dum to ask about all this I found him already pouring more into my mug and he started speaking.

"This woman, her husband is missing in action in Vietnam. Commander Hoff. We're doing a thing. Well she's doing it and I'm aiming to help. Take a look at that mug."

It had a small black and white flag. Said POW MIA in a banner above a bowed head.

"That's going to be big for the family. What about the body?"

I told him the body had been sent back with me. Tight Pants and I had taken one last flight together. He was back in America, should be on the way home by now. He told me how much this was going to help. How it would bring closure.

I downed the mug.

"Survivor's guilt." He said, pouring into my mug once more but not quite so full.

"It's different. I'm different."

"No," he replied surprisingly forcefully, "No you aren't Steve. Not in this."

"Sure I am. You were one of the few who could keep up with me Dum Dum. They-"

"I know what they did Steven. That doesn't have shit to do with this."

I tried to respond again. It was different. Luck. Timeliness. Preferential treatment. I was Captain America. When I tried to protest more he interrupted me.

"That's survivor's guilt Rogers. That is what. it. is. Everyone has got reasons they think it's different for them. We all got something we feel guilty for. Someone we feel guilty about. We're survivors. Survivor's guilt."

I looked around. Got about half nods and half folks hiding their faces. I turned back.

"No Steve, take a good hard look."

I did. I was younger than most of them. I was in much better shape than most of them. I was intact. I was alive. Unscarred.

"We're The Leftovers Rogers," he said while I looked.

"You're a Leftover too." he said. Then he told me how he became a Leftover.

Flames lick up the face of an old cuckoo clock. The fire fuelled by wisdom of the words of thousands of years. Suddenly the trap door opens and the bird within finds itself overcome with the rising blaze, paint cracks under the extreme heat, and the clock is crushed under the weight of more books, a phonograph player and a golden Buddha.

The destruction of a trail of unique teachings, stories and wisdom, juxtaposed with the brevity of the new slogan seemingly repeated ad infinitum by the crowd en masse.

---

---

The pocketwatch ticked on once more.

Orson drifted awake from the poppy’s haze with the repetitious chanting from out in the street. His head lifted from the pillow which covered The Book of the Iron Fist, once his legacy, now his burden.

Every day he felt the sharp edges of the book, he was reminded of the day he’d taken the damnedable thing. After the wrath of K’un-Zi had been determined to be righteous. When his fate was to be sealed. His life forfeit.

He’d crashed through a sacred building to steal the tome, a man seeking to bring the cycle of violence to an end.

When he was kinder to himself he would call it the foolish action of a desperate man, drugged out of his mind.

But deep down he knew the poppy never hit that hard, due to the undying essence of what writhed within.

It was merely the stupid action of a desperate young fool.

Wisdom earned through the benefit of time made that much clear to him now. It changed nothing and was nothing but an unpleasant reminder, too dangerous to be left anywhere for just anyone to find, awkward both in size and weight to carry. A true burden earned.

The chanting grew louder. Orson would benefit from tea. Or perhaps something stronger. He sat up with the book in his lap and took the pocket watch from the small crate that functioned as a night stand and put it in his pocket. He’d reset the time on it and since got the hands moving again, it had returned to proper function as he’d begun to move on again. As he’d started his long trip West towards the returning city of his birth.

The chanting boomed louder still and there was a beating at the door. They were going to break his door in with whatever this nonsense was! Still more about these four ‘olds’ and ‘new’s he could make out from the echoing Mandarin.

He stepped to the door with the book in his hand, contemplating the door. For a second his hand glowed as he contemplated ‘unleashing the dragon within’ upon these men, but let his hand fall dim once again just as quickly.

When was the last time he’d taken of the poppy? How close was K’un L’un to realigning?

Whilst the power was his alone to wield, he wasn’t the only one who could sense the presence of the dragon’s life force. And as this world would realign with his old one, it would be quite possible for those who believed him dead to sense his presence if he allowed his own lifeforce to extend into the font of the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying. All the work in hiding himself for years ruined, for what? To halt the progress of a handful of unruly people beating down his door. No. He couldn’t allow this.

Orson turned the handle and the mob burst through, they never stopped chanting, they grabbed at the book, they grabbed at his clothes, his arms. Dozens everywhere! Taking his space!



Orson felt the book torn from him, he had seconds to turn this. He remembered the lessons of his Master Lei Kung the Thunderer. His words would always come when he needed them most. Always when his own nature seemed to be set against him in times of turmoil.

“Be like the water, Randall-Kai. You are so adept in the form of the Earth. Your blows are strong, as your foundation is strong. Punches rooted from the feet, developed in your legs, directed by your waist, and expressed through your hands. You have always taken for granted that the Earth can absorb water. But even with that which flows through your chakras… do you still believe you could best me?”

Flow. It never came to him naturally. But he could master it within himself, if he had the forethought.

The men gripped him and pulled him towards the open door, he stepped willingly, arms gripped and pulled, he twisted and writhed, but not resisting. He twisted to find a comfort in this new reality, his arms turned, hands open. He felt something solid within a pocket of one of the men, grasped it and drew it forth.

He opened his mouth and chanted with the other men, his Mandarin perfect in pronunciation. He drew what was in his hands to the sky. It was a Little Red Book.



Orson chanted, the men chanted. The morass of humanity chanted.

The mob hit the street and the book was tossed into the fire. It was the early afternoon, Orson had mostly been travelling by night. He stood on the street holding the Little Red Book aloft and barked until the night came. Riding the flow until the moon presented itself and the crowd dissipated for another day.

---

Li Hong Jianguo raced home as the school's clock signalled the end of another day. He rushed, desperate to complete another chapter of his latest obsession. He'd found an old copy of some kind of manuscript containing an old tale in amongst his parents things and was desperate to see where the main characters' story would progress to next.

It seemed to be a story of some old monk journeying to the West, with his three servants. One a pig-man of some kind with another being some type of reformed water demon.

But the real character of interest, the real star of the show, was the other 'servant' called Sun Wukong - the Monkey King. He was clever, and brave, and an excellent fighter, and tricky and cheeky in all the right ways. In fact, Li Hong Jianguo could barely even talk about what he'd discovered to his friends without getting overly excited and talking a mile a minute. About this Monkey King who had been kicked out of heaven for being so naughty and wreaking havoc, and almost nothing could be done about him because he was such a powerful force. But now he was being taught a lesson and had to go back West to help this monk bring back these Holy teachings so he could get back in to heaven.

<"He can jump 108,000 li in a single leap! And he's mastered 72 earthly forms! And he can run faster than a meteor! And he can freeze his enemies! And he can avoid water so he doesn't drown! And he can avoid fire so he doesn't burn! And in fact--! In fact! When he was trapped in a furnace from this guy for 49 days he stayed in there safe! And when he came out he had--!>

"火眼金睛!" Which the young boy stumbled over with his immature pronunciation, as "Hy--Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng!"

<"This fiery-golden eye glare! That makes all of his enemies be revealed in their true forms! So he can tell if they're demons--! And-- And fight them with his magical staff!">

Li Hong Jianguo finally got home and called out for his parents, hearing no reply he went to where he'd stored the old manuscript and lay it out on the floor before himself to continue reading. Flipping through the wad of pages in search of where he left off it fell to a section in Chapter 87 where he was barely able to quickly get a glimpse of the writing before it was whisked away...





<"I did not raise you, Li Hong Jianguo, to waste away your time with this sanctimonious old drivel! Of all the things you could be doing, you fill your head with this nonsense! You shame--! You shame your name!> The older man snatched up the manuscript and started marching towards the front door.

<"Father, no! Where are you taking-- PLEASE NO, FATHER! Don't do that! FATHER!"> He chased him out the front door and watched as the manuscript was flung into the flames, rendering the boy speechless and aghast.

There was chanting all around but the boy heard nothing. He was too shocked. Trying to understand why he would be so quick to do such a thing. Why had they had it in the house if it could not be read? Chairman Mao was so strong, and he was helping make China so strong, so why were people so afraid of simple stories? What possible explanation could there be for everything that was happening in the world today? The boy watched it turn to embers before he returned to the house.

He tried to remember something of what he had just read. Hoping the burning words may have left their own scolding mark in his memory, as well as they had in the flaming pile.

He decided to write what he had just glimpsed. In some endeavour to try and cling to some meaning or memory from everything that had just taken place. He'd barely had time to register the characters, and hoped by writing what he could remember perhaps the rest would form some kind of sense.

When he lifted the pen from the paper he looked down at the characters for the meaning the poetic prose revealed:





He uttered the words, and then sensing their power and ability to get him a thrashing within an inch of his life, he tore the page from his book and ate it. He made a silent vow to himself that he'd never forget the words, nor stop considering them.

Whatever the vow of an eight year old boy means...

---

Shadows cast a flat matte across all as night had fallen heavily in the town, and whilst the blaze no longer roared, the embers still glowed brightly, giving proof to the will of The People which had been done on this day.

Orson had decided he'd wasted enough time in this township, and under cover of darkness it was time to push on further West - to continue his Journey onwards to the Heavenly City. He'd collected all of his personal items into a makeshift bindle and wrapped the ceremonial mask of K'un L'un around the top half of his face in some small effort to hide his identity for what would have to come next.

A white man wandering around Mao's China already aroused more negative suspicion than he would have liked, without anybody recognizing him for anything actually negative. Which this certainly would be, if he was seen.

But again... this was his burden.

Li Hong Jianguo awoke from his fitful sleep, his cheeks salty dry from earlier tears. He stumbled to his feet and went to the bathroom. On his way back to bed he found himself walking to the front door. He didn't decide to, at least he didn't think he did. He just found himself there, watching on.

Perhaps it was in memory of how the Monkey King had survived Lao Zi's furnace? But that was just a story. Surely a character therein could not survive a similar crucible?

Orson knelt down and hunched over the smouldering embers, as if he were a poor man of the streets looking for warmth.

Li watched on as a hunched figure with something wrapped around his head huddled by the fire. Something wrapped around his head? Could it be the headband the monk Tang Sanzang gave to the Monkey King? Li Hong Jianguo gasped.

The figure turned...



Li covered his mouth as he saw the elongated eyes that seemed to extend as if crackling like fire. He saw the "staff" that held the man's bindle and gasped again, but this time muffled it into his hand.

_{<"Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng! The fiery-golden eye glare! And Ruyi Jingu Bang! The double golden banded staff! It couldn't be!">}

Orson could have sworn he heard something, but couldn't see anyone as his eyes still adjusted to the darkness. Nevertheless, the longer he spent here, the more dangerous things would become as his presence would be more likely to gain attention. Time being of the essence, both for what may lie waiting for him in this world as well as the other. No time to drag out what must come next.

He lets the icy calm flow over him once more, for when the flow of water meets the burning fire in equal proportion no harm can be done, and iron becomes tempered, not damaged.

He calls silently upon the will which writhes within him, heavenly chi which was never originally his, but he has earned by combat. By deed. That which has never left him, which forms the very core of his being, regardless how surpressed - he calls it forth, to flow, meld and merge into a single place.



Orson plunges his glowing hand into the hot embers of the still smouldering flame pit, and removes the book, glowing as it was reconnected with it's original source. The book remained unharmed, unburned.

For what damage could fire hope to do against pages comprised of the scales of a dragon?

Li was astounded. It seemed very much to him, like the Monkey King had himself managed to survive the burning of the books, and hid, only to return and pull HIS OWN STORY from the flames! Which glowed golden with its power, and now he would continue on his Heavenly Journey West.

Orson gave one final cursory check around, as he let his hand fall dim. He tucked the book under an arm within the thick folds of his clothes, threw his bindle over his shoulder and took off West through the streets at a fleetfooted pace, eager to put some distance between himself, the fire and what had taken place.

The K'un L'un Mountains were still many miles away. The Heavenly City awaited, but would not wait long.