Bounce Member
- Last Seen: 11 hrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Bounce
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 922 (0.23 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Bounce 11 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Ezekiel,
Half Pint,
ppppppppp,
Eviledd1984,
Guardian Angel Haruki,
Supermaxx,
GreenGrenade,
Simple Unicycle,
Lexisheeps,
LG
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
K A I - R O
T A L E S F R O M T H E G R E E N L A N T E R N C O R P SACT I: AD ASTRA PER ASPERA
Part 1: “Kai-Ro”
T I B E T
EARTH | SECTOR 2814
The call to prayer came before the dawn.
It would be several hours before the sun rose, in fact. Dawn in the Tibetan mountains would come around 7 a.m. in this time of year. Which would be about four hours from now.
The boy woke atop a thin mat, laid out on the floor. The room was no more than a closet, with three children of similar age crowded into the shuttered space. As they stirred to wake, each picked up the red-orange cloth that had served as their sole bedding. Shifting and tucking it around their bodies revealed the reality that the sheet was, in fact, their clothing.
Bare feet padded from out of the cloistered confines, spilling out into a temple hall in which monks of varying ages had begun to mill about. The three boys made their way to the showers, to begin the day by first preparing their bodies. In times past, there would have been more of them. Child-monks, given to the monasteries by a cultural tradition in which one son of each Tibetan family was trained as a monk, but today they were less than a handful.
Banned. Prohibited, by the laws that had superimposed themselves on Tibet. As the boys made their way along the halls, the banners of China hung alongside images of Communist Party Leaders.
“Tayata om...”
The young monk paused. He was laboring at a churn, a traditional method of making the yak butter tea known in Tibet as po cha. As children, monk initiates were required to have a sponsor, who guided their education and their place in the monastic order. In his case, that sponsor was Monk Lhakpa, who was also in charge of the monastery’s kitchens.
“Tayata om bekanze...” the boy began, re-starting the attempt at recitation. Monk Lhakpa had been teaching him a new mantra, to help guide the meditative exercise for this morning. After they had finished preparing breakfast for the monks, in any case. Looking up from his butter churn, the boy seemed to pose a question as he uttered, “...bekanze razha?”
A solitary finger was raised, over at where the aging monk was preparing a large pot of porridge. “Bekanze maha, bekanze razha,” the elder monk stated, before adding the conclusion, “Samudgate soha.”
“Tayata om bekanze maha bekanze razha samudgate soha,” the boy recited, completing the mantra. When he had finished, he looked up at his teacher, as though for affirmation.
“Good,” Monk Lhakpa stated, eliciting an immediate smile from the child. Then, the solitary finger again returned to the air as the monk asked, “Now, what does it mean?”
The smile fell. A look of confusion played out across the youth’s face, as it was plain to see that the child was wrestling with any manner of thoughts or emotions, before finally looking up and stating, “But... you didn’t tell me what it means.”
“It’s not a recital, Kai-Ro,” the man quipped back, invoking the religious name that had been given to the boy when he had taken his first vows. As the man started to prepare the food to be served, he shifted his attention to the boy. Crossing over to the butter churn, the man began to decant the butter tea into a large kettle for service. As he did, he continued, “I didn’t ask what it means to me, I want to know what it means to you.”
The child’s head went back, his face betraying both irritation and surprise with such honesty that the monk couldn’t stop the laugh from reaching his lips.
“I don’t want you to answer now, but think on it,” Monk Lhakpa said, not bothering to suppress his own amusement at the boy’s theological quandary. Instead, pressing the heavy kettle into the boy’s spindly arms, the monk then touched the child’s head and commanded, “Go. Serve the tea. When you have finished, pray. Meditate on this mantra, then come back to me and give me your answer.”
For his part, Kai-Ro was conflicted. On the one hand, he had the distinct impression that he was being laughed at. On the other, he rather appreciated the head pat from the fatherly monk. That duality of conflict was plain as day on his face, as he lifted the kettle and said, “Yes, sir.”
With the large kettle in his arms, the boy shuffled barefoot from out of the kitchen. In the main hall of the temple, the monks had begun their prayers. Some meditating, a few reciting mantras aloud, while others prostrated themselves before the various iconography in the temple. Meditations upon mandalas, prayer wheels, or the different forms of the Buddha.
As he passed by, those who had their cups out were filled. Mostly, those were in groups that had begun their day with debate and discourse over the sacred and the profane. Mostly, the latter were talks of the Dalai Lama in exile and of the Chinese government’s reach into the monastic lives of Tibet’s cultural religion.
The reason why there were so few child-monks now was the fact that the practice was forbidden, as was education in Tibetan language. Kai-Ro had been smuggled into the temple and made criminal alongside the language that he spoke, and the teachings of his people that only existed in these walls and in the halls of those who had escaped from Tibet to live as exiles.
It was a topic that the boy would not claim to have any knowledge of. China had come to Tibet long before he had been born. And his earliest memories were of the monastery, making this criminal existence the only one that he had ever known.
“I’ve heard that the local party has finally appointed a loyalty director for the monastery.”
They were five monks around the table. All just of age to have taken their second set of vows. Twenty, or so, from what Kai-Ro knew. They spoke in conspiratorial whispers, even as the boy poured the tea for them.
“A permanent presence? Here?” another monk asked. In truth, China had begun planting permanent Communist Party overseers in the monasteries over the last several years. Theirs was one of the increasingly few that had remained under relatively lax monitoring. “How would we keep the...”
A third raised a hand, stopping the man short before he could finish his statement. Looking up, Kai-Ro was suddenly uncomfortable at the realization that everyone at the table was looking at him.
“...the Dalai Lama’s picture a secret?” the monk uttered finally.
It was a lie. They weren’t talking about his Holiness at all.
The first monk who had spoken reached over, lifting the tea kettle from out of the child’s hands and inspecting it. Handing it back, the monk said “Fetch more tea for us, Kai-Ro.”
Cradling the kettle in his arms, the boy stepped back even as he gave a respectful bow toward the table. Uncertainty gripped him as he started to wind his way back toward the kitchens. If the Chinese had a permanent Party representative in the temple, then where would he and the other child-monks go? How could they continue to live here.
As he crossed from out of the main temple structure and into the courtyard, he heard a sharp cry. The first rays of dawn had just started to appear in the sky, the fading twilight still dark enough that it was dim. Still, there was light enough to see the indistinct shapes of two men. And a third, smaller, that seemed to be struggling against them.
Bhuti cleaned the courtyard each morning, before dawn, so that he wasn’t seen.
A gasp froze in Kai-Ro’s throat. Grabbing the hem of his robe, the monk took off in a run toward the kitchens. Shadows in the window told him something was wrong before he made it there. A glimpse in the light of a blue-gray cloth.
The color of the police uniforms.
Dropping the kettle to the ground, the boy turned and sprinted back to the temple. Bursting through the door, the breathless child was met with confusion and aghast looks at the sudden interruption during the prayers. “P-police!” the child managed, between gulps of air.
In a moment, everyone snapped into motion. The picture of the Panchen Lama was put away, swapped instead for the image of the Chinese proxy installed as the Panchem Lama after the abduction of the child-monk that the Dalai Lama had ordained. A small image of the Dalai Lama was pressed into Kai-Ro’s hands, along with one of the Tibetan language texts that they used for study, as the child-monk was ushered along as the monks began preparing for the raid.
“You should be safe in your room,” one of the monks said, grabbing Kai-Ro by the shoulders and pressing him toward that wing of the monastery. “Go there now!”
Struggling to hold the hem of his robe, the texts, and the image of his Holiness, the boy stumbled as he tried to run through the temple. As he neared the steps that would take him up to the closet-like room, menacing shadows told him that the police had already entered on that side. Instead, the boy took a sharp turn, and found himself bolting out of the temple in an effort to avoid them.
Instead, he found himself on the temple steps.
And, below, on the landing was a row of police officers armored in riot gear.
His chest was tight, pain lancing through his lungs as he seemed to forget to breathe. Instead, he stood there. A boy in a saffron robe, holding an image of the Dalai Lama. A rebel and a seditious traitor in both being and appearance. As the police started up the steps, the boy found himself rooted in place.
He was done running away.
And he was done being afraid.
He was Tibetan. He was Buddhist. And the Dalai Lama was his guru. The language of Tibet was his language. If he was to be punished for this, then so be it.
It would not change who he was.
Holding onto the picture of the Dalai Lama, the texts written in the forbidden script of his culture shifting around in his arms, the young child-monk raised his head up high to regard the riot-armored police who advanced upon the child.
He could not change his fate, any more than he could change the Chinese control of Tibet. But he could choose to face it with eyes wide open.
That was when the light grabbed him.
It was an experience like none that the boy could have described. A sudden burst of green light. Penetrating him. Surrounding him. Before he was even aware of what was happening, the boy saw the advancing pair of police officers become small.
That was when he realized that he had, in fact, been catapulted into the air. He tried to keep his grip on the sacred texts and the image of his Holiness, but some slipped from his arms as he tried to maintain any sense of bearing.
It was then that the small jade object floated into view. A jade ring, emblazoned on the crest with the likeness of a lantern.
It would be several hours before the sun rose, in fact. Dawn in the Tibetan mountains would come around 7 a.m. in this time of year. Which would be about four hours from now.
The boy woke atop a thin mat, laid out on the floor. The room was no more than a closet, with three children of similar age crowded into the shuttered space. As they stirred to wake, each picked up the red-orange cloth that had served as their sole bedding. Shifting and tucking it around their bodies revealed the reality that the sheet was, in fact, their clothing.
Bare feet padded from out of the cloistered confines, spilling out into a temple hall in which monks of varying ages had begun to mill about. The three boys made their way to the showers, to begin the day by first preparing their bodies. In times past, there would have been more of them. Child-monks, given to the monasteries by a cultural tradition in which one son of each Tibetan family was trained as a monk, but today they were less than a handful.
Banned. Prohibited, by the laws that had superimposed themselves on Tibet. As the boys made their way along the halls, the banners of China hung alongside images of Communist Party Leaders.
“Tayata om...”
The young monk paused. He was laboring at a churn, a traditional method of making the yak butter tea known in Tibet as po cha. As children, monk initiates were required to have a sponsor, who guided their education and their place in the monastic order. In his case, that sponsor was Monk Lhakpa, who was also in charge of the monastery’s kitchens.
“Tayata om bekanze...” the boy began, re-starting the attempt at recitation. Monk Lhakpa had been teaching him a new mantra, to help guide the meditative exercise for this morning. After they had finished preparing breakfast for the monks, in any case. Looking up from his butter churn, the boy seemed to pose a question as he uttered, “...bekanze razha?”
A solitary finger was raised, over at where the aging monk was preparing a large pot of porridge. “Bekanze maha, bekanze razha,” the elder monk stated, before adding the conclusion, “Samudgate soha.”
“Tayata om bekanze maha bekanze razha samudgate soha,” the boy recited, completing the mantra. When he had finished, he looked up at his teacher, as though for affirmation.
“Good,” Monk Lhakpa stated, eliciting an immediate smile from the child. Then, the solitary finger again returned to the air as the monk asked, “Now, what does it mean?”
The smile fell. A look of confusion played out across the youth’s face, as it was plain to see that the child was wrestling with any manner of thoughts or emotions, before finally looking up and stating, “But... you didn’t tell me what it means.”
“It’s not a recital, Kai-Ro,” the man quipped back, invoking the religious name that had been given to the boy when he had taken his first vows. As the man started to prepare the food to be served, he shifted his attention to the boy. Crossing over to the butter churn, the man began to decant the butter tea into a large kettle for service. As he did, he continued, “I didn’t ask what it means to me, I want to know what it means to you.”
The child’s head went back, his face betraying both irritation and surprise with such honesty that the monk couldn’t stop the laugh from reaching his lips.
“I don’t want you to answer now, but think on it,” Monk Lhakpa said, not bothering to suppress his own amusement at the boy’s theological quandary. Instead, pressing the heavy kettle into the boy’s spindly arms, the monk then touched the child’s head and commanded, “Go. Serve the tea. When you have finished, pray. Meditate on this mantra, then come back to me and give me your answer.”
For his part, Kai-Ro was conflicted. On the one hand, he had the distinct impression that he was being laughed at. On the other, he rather appreciated the head pat from the fatherly monk. That duality of conflict was plain as day on his face, as he lifted the kettle and said, “Yes, sir.”
With the large kettle in his arms, the boy shuffled barefoot from out of the kitchen. In the main hall of the temple, the monks had begun their prayers. Some meditating, a few reciting mantras aloud, while others prostrated themselves before the various iconography in the temple. Meditations upon mandalas, prayer wheels, or the different forms of the Buddha.
As he passed by, those who had their cups out were filled. Mostly, those were in groups that had begun their day with debate and discourse over the sacred and the profane. Mostly, the latter were talks of the Dalai Lama in exile and of the Chinese government’s reach into the monastic lives of Tibet’s cultural religion.
The reason why there were so few child-monks now was the fact that the practice was forbidden, as was education in Tibetan language. Kai-Ro had been smuggled into the temple and made criminal alongside the language that he spoke, and the teachings of his people that only existed in these walls and in the halls of those who had escaped from Tibet to live as exiles.
It was a topic that the boy would not claim to have any knowledge of. China had come to Tibet long before he had been born. And his earliest memories were of the monastery, making this criminal existence the only one that he had ever known.
“I’ve heard that the local party has finally appointed a loyalty director for the monastery.”
They were five monks around the table. All just of age to have taken their second set of vows. Twenty, or so, from what Kai-Ro knew. They spoke in conspiratorial whispers, even as the boy poured the tea for them.
“A permanent presence? Here?” another monk asked. In truth, China had begun planting permanent Communist Party overseers in the monasteries over the last several years. Theirs was one of the increasingly few that had remained under relatively lax monitoring. “How would we keep the...”
A third raised a hand, stopping the man short before he could finish his statement. Looking up, Kai-Ro was suddenly uncomfortable at the realization that everyone at the table was looking at him.
“...the Dalai Lama’s picture a secret?” the monk uttered finally.
It was a lie. They weren’t talking about his Holiness at all.
The first monk who had spoken reached over, lifting the tea kettle from out of the child’s hands and inspecting it. Handing it back, the monk said “Fetch more tea for us, Kai-Ro.”
Cradling the kettle in his arms, the boy stepped back even as he gave a respectful bow toward the table. Uncertainty gripped him as he started to wind his way back toward the kitchens. If the Chinese had a permanent Party representative in the temple, then where would he and the other child-monks go? How could they continue to live here.
As he crossed from out of the main temple structure and into the courtyard, he heard a sharp cry. The first rays of dawn had just started to appear in the sky, the fading twilight still dark enough that it was dim. Still, there was light enough to see the indistinct shapes of two men. And a third, smaller, that seemed to be struggling against them.
Bhuti cleaned the courtyard each morning, before dawn, so that he wasn’t seen.
A gasp froze in Kai-Ro’s throat. Grabbing the hem of his robe, the monk took off in a run toward the kitchens. Shadows in the window told him something was wrong before he made it there. A glimpse in the light of a blue-gray cloth.
The color of the police uniforms.
Dropping the kettle to the ground, the boy turned and sprinted back to the temple. Bursting through the door, the breathless child was met with confusion and aghast looks at the sudden interruption during the prayers. “P-police!” the child managed, between gulps of air.
In a moment, everyone snapped into motion. The picture of the Panchen Lama was put away, swapped instead for the image of the Chinese proxy installed as the Panchem Lama after the abduction of the child-monk that the Dalai Lama had ordained. A small image of the Dalai Lama was pressed into Kai-Ro’s hands, along with one of the Tibetan language texts that they used for study, as the child-monk was ushered along as the monks began preparing for the raid.
“You should be safe in your room,” one of the monks said, grabbing Kai-Ro by the shoulders and pressing him toward that wing of the monastery. “Go there now!”
Struggling to hold the hem of his robe, the texts, and the image of his Holiness, the boy stumbled as he tried to run through the temple. As he neared the steps that would take him up to the closet-like room, menacing shadows told him that the police had already entered on that side. Instead, the boy took a sharp turn, and found himself bolting out of the temple in an effort to avoid them.
Instead, he found himself on the temple steps.
And, below, on the landing was a row of police officers armored in riot gear.
His chest was tight, pain lancing through his lungs as he seemed to forget to breathe. Instead, he stood there. A boy in a saffron robe, holding an image of the Dalai Lama. A rebel and a seditious traitor in both being and appearance. As the police started up the steps, the boy found himself rooted in place.
He was done running away.
And he was done being afraid.
He was Tibetan. He was Buddhist. And the Dalai Lama was his guru. The language of Tibet was his language. If he was to be punished for this, then so be it.
It would not change who he was.
Holding onto the picture of the Dalai Lama, the texts written in the forbidden script of his culture shifting around in his arms, the young child-monk raised his head up high to regard the riot-armored police who advanced upon the child.
He could not change his fate, any more than he could change the Chinese control of Tibet. But he could choose to face it with eyes wide open.
That was when the light grabbed him.
It was an experience like none that the boy could have described. A sudden burst of green light. Penetrating him. Surrounding him. Before he was even aware of what was happening, the boy saw the advancing pair of police officers become small.
That was when he realized that he had, in fact, been catapulted into the air. He tried to keep his grip on the sacred texts and the image of his Holiness, but some slipped from his arms as he tried to maintain any sense of bearing.
It was then that the small jade object floated into view. A jade ring, emblazoned on the crest with the likeness of a lantern.
“KAI-RO OF EARTH, YOU HAVE THE ABILITY TO OVERCOME GREAT FEAR.”
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
K A I - R O
G R E E N L A N T E R N C A N D I D A T E 2 8 1 4 ♦ M O G O ♦ G R E E N L A N T E R N C O R P S
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
The rings of Oa are the most powerful weapons known to man. Across 3,600 mapped sectors of this galaxy, the rings of Oa enable the heroic agents of the Guardians of the Universe -- the Green Lantern Corps! As peacekeepers, these Green Lanterns come under attack by all manner of force, natural and man-made. Through hard won victory or bitter defeat, the Corps is continually planning to induct new members into its ranks to fill the void left by those who have gone before them. To that end, the rings are sent out to the cosmos to find those rare individuals possessing extraordinary will.
Unfortunately, now and again, a ring comes back on the hand of a kid who is maybe ten or twelve years old.
This is the story of how a boy from Earth came to wield the powers of Green Lantern. Drawing inspiration from Ender’s Game, the New Mutants, and Jonny Quest, this concept combines 50s pulp sci-fi adventures with slice of life elements in order to tell the story of the kids who might be the next generation of Green Lanterns.
Unfortunately, now and again, a ring comes back on the hand of a kid who is maybe ten or twelve years old.
This is the story of how a boy from Earth came to wield the powers of Green Lantern. Drawing inspiration from Ender’s Game, the New Mutants, and Jonny Quest, this concept combines 50s pulp sci-fi adventures with slice of life elements in order to tell the story of the kids who might be the next generation of Green Lanterns.
C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
I’ve written Kai-ro a few times before, but always cast him in the role of Hal Jordan. This eschews that approach for a different take that better uses my talent for world-building by using a concept capable of both sandboxing and collaboration across storylines/locations in our shared universe. The goal is to start with the story of how Kai-Ro became a Green Lantern candidate, transition into Alien-of-the-Episode type adventures, before unveiling a larger storyline at the conclusion of the initial story run.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
The following are characters, concepts, or organizations in use with this story:
• Al-x: An alien from Sector 0424, who has a Greys-like appearance. He is 104 years old, but young for his species. Strategic and analytical, but hesitant to act without all the information.
• Arisia Rrab: A young Graxosian, with golden hued skin and hair, as well as pointed ears. Hot-blooded and precocious, she often acts without thinking.
• B’dg: A diminutive H’lven, with a squirrel-like appearance. What he lacks in size or strength, he makes up for with a large personality.
• Alisand’r: A Green Lantern from the planet Tamaran, the chosen instructor for the current class of Green Lantern cadets.
• Ganthet of Oa: One of the Guardians of the Galaxy, who has adopted the role of overseer to the Green Lanterns training program and mentor to the young cadets.
• The Planet Mogo: The headquarters of the Green Lanterns cadet training program, and also secretly one of the Green Lanterns most secret weapons -- a sentient planet who is, itself, a Green Lantern.
• The Spider Guild: An insectoid race of spiders that have spread across the galaxy, preying on the worlds that they conquer.
• The Reach (background mention only): An interstellar empire that assimilates other planets into its collective through careful political manuevering and subterfuge, subjugating the populace only after its collaborators and sleeper agents have established control over the populace. Rebellions are usually bloody and short.
• The Manhunters: The precursor to the modern day Green Lantern Corps, robotic peacekeepers created by the Guardians of the Galaxy and empowered to preserve order in the galaxy. Unfortunately, the Manhunters determined that organic life was a threat to order and massacred the planet Ryut before the Guardians could put a stop to them.
• Tybalt Bak’sar: An intergalactic bounty hunter who wields anti-Green Lantern weaponry.
• Al-x: An alien from Sector 0424, who has a Greys-like appearance. He is 104 years old, but young for his species. Strategic and analytical, but hesitant to act without all the information.
• Arisia Rrab: A young Graxosian, with golden hued skin and hair, as well as pointed ears. Hot-blooded and precocious, she often acts without thinking.
• B’dg: A diminutive H’lven, with a squirrel-like appearance. What he lacks in size or strength, he makes up for with a large personality.
• Alisand’r: A Green Lantern from the planet Tamaran, the chosen instructor for the current class of Green Lantern cadets.
• Ganthet of Oa: One of the Guardians of the Galaxy, who has adopted the role of overseer to the Green Lanterns training program and mentor to the young cadets.
• The Planet Mogo: The headquarters of the Green Lanterns cadet training program, and also secretly one of the Green Lanterns most secret weapons -- a sentient planet who is, itself, a Green Lantern.
• The Spider Guild: An insectoid race of spiders that have spread across the galaxy, preying on the worlds that they conquer.
• The Reach (background mention only): An interstellar empire that assimilates other planets into its collective through careful political manuevering and subterfuge, subjugating the populace only after its collaborators and sleeper agents have established control over the populace. Rebellions are usually bloody and short.
• The Manhunters: The precursor to the modern day Green Lantern Corps, robotic peacekeepers created by the Guardians of the Galaxy and empowered to preserve order in the galaxy. Unfortunately, the Manhunters determined that organic life was a threat to order and massacred the planet Ryut before the Guardians could put a stop to them.
• Tybalt Bak’sar: An intergalactic bounty hunter who wields anti-Green Lantern weaponry.
S A M P L E P O S T:
P O S T C A T A L O G:
With apologies to @mattmanganon, this application competes with his concept.
However, this sheet is designed to compliment @Hillan's concept and so I'd ask the GM doing the judgment to view them together. Hillan's being the Earth-centric/Starheart focused side of the Green Lantern lore, while my sheet is the space-centric/Corps focused side of the shared story universe.
However, this sheet is designed to compliment @Hillan's concept and so I'd ask the GM doing the judgment to view them together. Hillan's being the Earth-centric/Starheart focused side of the Green Lantern lore, while my sheet is the space-centric/Corps focused side of the shared story universe.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
K A I - R O
G R E E N L A N T E R N C A N D I D A T E 2 8 1 4 ♦ T R A I N E E ♦ M O G O ♦ G R E E N L A N T E R N C O R P S
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
The rings of Oa are the most powerful weapons known to man. Across 3,600 mapped sectors of this galaxy, the rings of Oa enable the heroic agents of the Guardians of the Universe -- the Green Lantern Corps! As peacekeepers, these Green Lanterns come under attack by all manner of force, natural and man-made. Through hard won victory or bitter defeat, the Corps is continually planning to induct new members into its ranks to fill the void left by those who have gone before them. To that end, the rings are sent out to the cosmos to find those rare individuals possessing extraordinary will.
Unfortunately, now and again, a ring comes back on the hand of a kid who is maybe ten or twelve years old.
This is the story of how a boy from Earth came to wield the powers of Green Lantern. Drawing inspiration from Ender’s Game, the New Mutants, and Jonny Quest, this concept combines 50s pulp sci-fi adventures with slice of life elements in order to tell the story of the kids who might be the next generation of Green Lanterns.
Unfortunately, now and again, a ring comes back on the hand of a kid who is maybe ten or twelve years old.
This is the story of how a boy from Earth came to wield the powers of Green Lantern. Drawing inspiration from Ender’s Game, the New Mutants, and Jonny Quest, this concept combines 50s pulp sci-fi adventures with slice of life elements in order to tell the story of the kids who might be the next generation of Green Lanterns.
C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
I’ve written Kai-ro a few times before, but always cast him in the role of Hal Jordan. This eschews that approach for a different take that better uses my talent for world-building by using a concept capable of both sandboxing and collaboration across storylines/locations in our shared universe. The goal is to start with the story of how Kai-Ro became a Green Lantern candidate, transition into Alien-of-the-Episode type adventures, before unveiling a larger storyline at the conclusion of the initial story run.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
The following are characters, concepts, or organizations in use with this story:
• Al-x: An alien from Sector 0424, who has a Greys-like appearance. He is 104 years old, but young for his species. Strategic and analytical, but hesitant to act without all the information.
• Arisia Rrab: A young Graxosian, with golden hued skin and hair, as well as pointed ears. Hot-blooded and precocious, she often acts without thinking.
• B’dg: A diminutive H’lven, with a squirrel-like appearance. What he lacks in size or strength, he makes up for with a large personality.
• Alisand’r: A Green Lantern from the planet Tamaran, the chosen instructor for the current class of Green Lantern cadets.
• Ganthet of Oa: One of the Guardians of the Galaxy, who has adopted the role of overseer to the Green Lanterns training program and mentor to the young cadets.
• The Planet Mogo: The headquarters of the Green Lanterns cadet training program, and also secretly one of the Green Lanterns most secret weapons -- a sentient planet who is, itself, a Green Lantern.
• The Spider Guild: An insectoid race of spiders that prey upon the planets that they conquer.
• The Reach: An interstellar empire that assimilates other planets into its collective through careful political manuevering and subterfuge, subjugating the populace only after its collaborators and sleeper agents have established control over the populace. Rebellions are usually bloody and short.
• The Manhunters: The precursor to the modern day Green Lantern Corps, robotic peacekeepers created by the Guardians of the Galaxy and empowered to preserve order in the galaxy. Unfortunately, the Manhunters determined that organic life was a threat to order and massacred the planet Ryut before the Guardians could put a stop to them.
• Tybalt Bak’sar: An intergalactic bounty hunter who wields anti-Green Lantern weaponry.
• Al-x: An alien from Sector 0424, who has a Greys-like appearance. He is 104 years old, but young for his species. Strategic and analytical, but hesitant to act without all the information.
• Arisia Rrab: A young Graxosian, with golden hued skin and hair, as well as pointed ears. Hot-blooded and precocious, she often acts without thinking.
• B’dg: A diminutive H’lven, with a squirrel-like appearance. What he lacks in size or strength, he makes up for with a large personality.
• Alisand’r: A Green Lantern from the planet Tamaran, the chosen instructor for the current class of Green Lantern cadets.
• Ganthet of Oa: One of the Guardians of the Galaxy, who has adopted the role of overseer to the Green Lanterns training program and mentor to the young cadets.
• The Planet Mogo: The headquarters of the Green Lanterns cadet training program, and also secretly one of the Green Lanterns most secret weapons -- a sentient planet who is, itself, a Green Lantern.
• The Spider Guild: An insectoid race of spiders that prey upon the planets that they conquer.
• The Reach: An interstellar empire that assimilates other planets into its collective through careful political manuevering and subterfuge, subjugating the populace only after its collaborators and sleeper agents have established control over the populace. Rebellions are usually bloody and short.
• The Manhunters: The precursor to the modern day Green Lantern Corps, robotic peacekeepers created by the Guardians of the Galaxy and empowered to preserve order in the galaxy. Unfortunately, the Manhunters determined that organic life was a threat to order and massacred the planet Ryut before the Guardians could put a stop to them.
• Tybalt Bak’sar: An intergalactic bounty hunter who wields anti-Green Lantern weaponry.
S A M P L E P O S T:
P O S T C A T A L O G:
ACT 1: AD ASTRA PER ASPERA
• Post link goes here
ACT 2: UNACCOMPANIED MINORS
• Post link goes here
ACT 3: AND ALL MY DREAMS, TORN ASUNDER (Part 1)
• Post link goes here
A T L A N T I C C I T Y
HALY’S CIRCUS
It was some time after one in the morning.
The crowds had all gone home. Now, the clean up began. Clowns and freaks changed out of their colorful costumes and set to work, not only in cleaning up the grounds but also in breaking down the tents and booths. The work would take them into the next day, where they’d get a brief rest while waiting for the trucks to arrive. And then it’d be down the road to set it all up again in Gotham.
They were going to do one more show, a big July celebration in Vegas, and then go on hiatus for a few months. A little breathing room for vacations, then the planning for the next series of shows would begin in earnest. Swap out different acts, hold auditions and take on a few new routines before the next tour would be announced.
“Jason!”
Trina Todd had changed out of the colorful leotard. Instead, the acrobat look the part of working mom in a pair of worn jeans and her hand tied back with a bandana. “Jason Todd, get out here this minute!” the woman was going through the broken down carnival, in an otherwise mundane pursuit for a family that was anything but.
She turned a corner and nearly ran into C.C. Haly. “Oh, C.C. Have you seen Jason?”
The aging entertainer just gave a knowing smile. “Watching the tamers put the lions into their cages,” the former magician supplied, putting a thumb in the direction that the woman should travel.
It was when Trina had turned to walk away that the man caught a glimpse of someone walking toward him. Waldo Flynn. Still in his clown make up.
Once upon a time, he’d have been relieved to have seen Waldo. His make-up off, bow tie askew, and usually two glasses of whiskey that they’d share.
But that had been when the Graysons had still been with them. Everything had changed after the Graysons had died.
Especially Waldo.
A cellphone was extended out toward him. “Call for you, Mister Haly,” Waldo stated, the clown make-up appearing to twist the man’s smile into something strangely wicked.
The hair stood up on the back of the man’s neck. Gritting his teeth, the old man refrained from accepting the phone. “I’m busy right now,” the man uttered brusquely.
If the smile was creepy, then the gleam in Waldo’s eye was down right dangerous. “It’s a very important call, Mister Haly.”
The patriarch had started to step away, and hesitated then. He lingered, unsure of whether to take one step forward or one step back, for a moment longer. Then relented and accepted the device.
“I hear every show in Atlantic City was sold out. Congratulations on your success.”
The voice -- graveley, with a thick Jersey accent -- immediately sent shivers through the old man’s body. Gooseflesh crept up the back of his hand as he held the phone to the side of his head.
“Of course, none of us would be where we are if we didn’t have help, now would we? You’ll be in Gotham this week, and I still haven’t received my invitation. Frankly, I’m a little insulted. Haven’t I been good to you? Star City, New York, Atlantic City... no problems with the cops. No social services breathing down your neck about the minors in your crew. No hustlers, you just do your thing. You think that kind of protection is cheap? I’m charging you pennies on the dollar. Now, tell me, I ain’t on your side.”
“It is way past your bedtime!”
At the sound of Trina’s voice, the old man looked off to one side. The woman was dragging Jason, still in his Little Lord Fauntleroy clown suit and make-up, off toward the trailers.
The fact that there were families counting on his business for their livelihoods was not lost on the entertainer. With a sigh, the old man finally spoke into the phone. “I’ve just been distracted by all the showtimes, Mister Dent,” the old man said. His free hand dipped into his pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief to dab at his forehead. “You know I appreciate everything that you’re doing for us, sir. If this is about more money..."
“I got money. And I’ve spent a fair amount of it to your benefit. What I want is to see what the return on this little investment of mine is. I’ll need a private show while you’re in Gotham. And I trust this little talent show of yours will prove worthwhile. Capice?”
It was cordial, but something about it sent a cold terror straight through the man’s soul. “I understand, Mister Dent.”
The connection ended with a click. Never had C.C. been so happy with having been hung up on.
Waldo’s hand reached for the phone. As he gestured for the man to hand the device back, the clown’s twisted visage mocked the former magician as he happily offered, “Didn’t I say it was an important call?”
C.C. slapped the phone back into the palm of the clown’s hand. “What happened to you, Waldo?” the man demanded, staring down the man who’d been with him since the beginning. A man he’d have said he knew best, except he was starting to realize that he didn’t know him at all.
This time, the clown face seemed genuine as he gave a laugh. “I’m only laughing on the outside. My smile is just skin deep,” the clown stated, using his free hand to trace the drawn smile upon his face. “If you could see inside, you might join me for a weep,” he said, the poetic recitation ending with a flourish, before the clown turned and walked off.
The sound of his fading laughter made the man only grind his teeth more.
The crowds had all gone home. Now, the clean up began. Clowns and freaks changed out of their colorful costumes and set to work, not only in cleaning up the grounds but also in breaking down the tents and booths. The work would take them into the next day, where they’d get a brief rest while waiting for the trucks to arrive. And then it’d be down the road to set it all up again in Gotham.
They were going to do one more show, a big July celebration in Vegas, and then go on hiatus for a few months. A little breathing room for vacations, then the planning for the next series of shows would begin in earnest. Swap out different acts, hold auditions and take on a few new routines before the next tour would be announced.
“Jason!”
Trina Todd had changed out of the colorful leotard. Instead, the acrobat look the part of working mom in a pair of worn jeans and her hand tied back with a bandana. “Jason Todd, get out here this minute!” the woman was going through the broken down carnival, in an otherwise mundane pursuit for a family that was anything but.
She turned a corner and nearly ran into C.C. Haly. “Oh, C.C. Have you seen Jason?”
The aging entertainer just gave a knowing smile. “Watching the tamers put the lions into their cages,” the former magician supplied, putting a thumb in the direction that the woman should travel.
It was when Trina had turned to walk away that the man caught a glimpse of someone walking toward him. Waldo Flynn. Still in his clown make up.
Once upon a time, he’d have been relieved to have seen Waldo. His make-up off, bow tie askew, and usually two glasses of whiskey that they’d share.
But that had been when the Graysons had still been with them. Everything had changed after the Graysons had died.
Especially Waldo.
A cellphone was extended out toward him. “Call for you, Mister Haly,” Waldo stated, the clown make-up appearing to twist the man’s smile into something strangely wicked.
The hair stood up on the back of the man’s neck. Gritting his teeth, the old man refrained from accepting the phone. “I’m busy right now,” the man uttered brusquely.
If the smile was creepy, then the gleam in Waldo’s eye was down right dangerous. “It’s a very important call, Mister Haly.”
The patriarch had started to step away, and hesitated then. He lingered, unsure of whether to take one step forward or one step back, for a moment longer. Then relented and accepted the device.
“I hear every show in Atlantic City was sold out. Congratulations on your success.”
The voice -- graveley, with a thick Jersey accent -- immediately sent shivers through the old man’s body. Gooseflesh crept up the back of his hand as he held the phone to the side of his head.
“Of course, none of us would be where we are if we didn’t have help, now would we? You’ll be in Gotham this week, and I still haven’t received my invitation. Frankly, I’m a little insulted. Haven’t I been good to you? Star City, New York, Atlantic City... no problems with the cops. No social services breathing down your neck about the minors in your crew. No hustlers, you just do your thing. You think that kind of protection is cheap? I’m charging you pennies on the dollar. Now, tell me, I ain’t on your side.”
“It is way past your bedtime!”
At the sound of Trina’s voice, the old man looked off to one side. The woman was dragging Jason, still in his Little Lord Fauntleroy clown suit and make-up, off toward the trailers.
The fact that there were families counting on his business for their livelihoods was not lost on the entertainer. With a sigh, the old man finally spoke into the phone. “I’ve just been distracted by all the showtimes, Mister Dent,” the old man said. His free hand dipped into his pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief to dab at his forehead. “You know I appreciate everything that you’re doing for us, sir. If this is about more money..."
“I got money. And I’ve spent a fair amount of it to your benefit. What I want is to see what the return on this little investment of mine is. I’ll need a private show while you’re in Gotham. And I trust this little talent show of yours will prove worthwhile. Capice?”
It was cordial, but something about it sent a cold terror straight through the man’s soul. “I understand, Mister Dent.”
The connection ended with a click. Never had C.C. been so happy with having been hung up on.
Waldo’s hand reached for the phone. As he gestured for the man to hand the device back, the clown’s twisted visage mocked the former magician as he happily offered, “Didn’t I say it was an important call?”
C.C. slapped the phone back into the palm of the clown’s hand. “What happened to you, Waldo?” the man demanded, staring down the man who’d been with him since the beginning. A man he’d have said he knew best, except he was starting to realize that he didn’t know him at all.
This time, the clown face seemed genuine as he gave a laugh. “I’m only laughing on the outside. My smile is just skin deep,” the clown stated, using his free hand to trace the drawn smile upon his face. “If you could see inside, you might join me for a weep,” he said, the poetic recitation ending with a flourish, before the clown turned and walked off.
The sound of his fading laughter made the man only grind his teeth more.
+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +
B L Ü D H A V E N
LATER THAT MORNING...
He’d tried to go back to sleep. Instead, he’d just found himself staring up at the ceiling for hours on end, the demarcation of time marked by the clicking of the clock that hung on the wall in the kitchenette. By the time the sun came up, Dick had been seated inside the bay window that looked out into the downtown and already two cups into a second pot of coffee.
He’d managed to do some laundry, stumbling around the inside of the apartment with his arm and leg in a cast. Nevermind the impact that had to Nightwing, how was Dick Grayson supposed to manage like this?
It was around eight when his phone rang. The number was familiar, though it wasn’t someone that Dick spoke to more than about once every year. Usually his birthday.
The name on the caller ID was C. C. HALY. He almost let it go to voicemail. Hesitated even as he reached to pick up the phone and swipe to answer the call.
He didn’t say hello. Why? He couldn’t have offered a reason. After that dream, after that nightmare, it was still just too real that he’d be talking to Old Man Haly of all people right now.
“Dick? C.C. Haly. We’re coming to Gotham and I just thought that I should give you a call before we came.”
A lump formed in his throat. Swallowing that down, Dick finally managed to find his voice. “Yeah, Mister Haly. I appreciate that.”
“Would you come by to see the circus?”
The old man sounded hopeful just now. It made it hard for Dick to answer. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“I understand.”
Silence. Had that been the only reason for the call? Dick had seen the advertisements about Haly’s Circus returning to Gotham. It would have been impossible not to have. All the Gotham Gazette had been talking about was the fact that this was the first visit by Haly’s Circus to Gotham since the death of the Flying Graysons.
It wasn’t that they had any bad blood between them. A lot of good memories in fact. But the bad one hung like a cloud over every facet of his childhood.
“What about a job?”
As though hit by a bolt of electricity, Dick froze. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He wanted to hang up. Hang up, be done with it, and not give it a second thought.
He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “A job, sir?”
“I’ve got a pair of acrobats. Husband, wife. You know how that goes.”
Dick’s heart stopped. His chest was tight, like there was an elephant sitting on it.
“They’re good, but they’re not John or Mary. They’re as good as natural talent and repetition can make a person, but the right coach would get them to their potential. And, you know there aren’t a whole lot of people that I’d trust to do that sort of thing.”
Dick’s free hand had come up to his chest. He’d broken out into a sweat. “Yeah. I know, Mister Haly.”
“Obviously, we’d reimburse you for your time. With a little extra, because, I know this probably doesn’t sound like something you want to do.”
That fact didn’t so much as require a reply.
They both knew it was true.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you, Dick.”
“I’ll come by and see the circus, Mister Haly.”
“Good! We’ll talk then--”
He hung up on the old man. Cradling the phone in his lap, Dick just stared down at the blank screen for a long minute.
The fuck was he doing?
He’d managed to do some laundry, stumbling around the inside of the apartment with his arm and leg in a cast. Nevermind the impact that had to Nightwing, how was Dick Grayson supposed to manage like this?
It was around eight when his phone rang. The number was familiar, though it wasn’t someone that Dick spoke to more than about once every year. Usually his birthday.
The name on the caller ID was C. C. HALY. He almost let it go to voicemail. Hesitated even as he reached to pick up the phone and swipe to answer the call.
He didn’t say hello. Why? He couldn’t have offered a reason. After that dream, after that nightmare, it was still just too real that he’d be talking to Old Man Haly of all people right now.
“Dick? C.C. Haly. We’re coming to Gotham and I just thought that I should give you a call before we came.”
A lump formed in his throat. Swallowing that down, Dick finally managed to find his voice. “Yeah, Mister Haly. I appreciate that.”
“Would you come by to see the circus?”
The old man sounded hopeful just now. It made it hard for Dick to answer. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“I understand.”
Silence. Had that been the only reason for the call? Dick had seen the advertisements about Haly’s Circus returning to Gotham. It would have been impossible not to have. All the Gotham Gazette had been talking about was the fact that this was the first visit by Haly’s Circus to Gotham since the death of the Flying Graysons.
It wasn’t that they had any bad blood between them. A lot of good memories in fact. But the bad one hung like a cloud over every facet of his childhood.
“What about a job?”
As though hit by a bolt of electricity, Dick froze. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He wanted to hang up. Hang up, be done with it, and not give it a second thought.
He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “A job, sir?”
“I’ve got a pair of acrobats. Husband, wife. You know how that goes.”
Dick’s heart stopped. His chest was tight, like there was an elephant sitting on it.
“They’re good, but they’re not John or Mary. They’re as good as natural talent and repetition can make a person, but the right coach would get them to their potential. And, you know there aren’t a whole lot of people that I’d trust to do that sort of thing.”
Dick’s free hand had come up to his chest. He’d broken out into a sweat. “Yeah. I know, Mister Haly.”
“Obviously, we’d reimburse you for your time. With a little extra, because, I know this probably doesn’t sound like something you want to do.”
That fact didn’t so much as require a reply.
They both knew it was true.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you, Dick.”
“I’ll come by and see the circus, Mister Haly.”
“Good! We’ll talk then--”
He hung up on the old man. Cradling the phone in his lap, Dick just stared down at the blank screen for a long minute.
The fuck was he doing?
“T H E G E O M E T R Y O F S H A D O W S”
Part I
G O T H A M C I T Y
NEW JERSEY, 2008
The ground is forty feet below me.
There’s no net.
Nothing holding me up. I let go of the flying trapeze and, for a moment, I’m flying. I can hear the gasps, the collective holding of breath, and even a few shrieks rise from below. I’m starting to fall, but I’m not afraid. I just stretch out my arms, and I know she’ll be there to catch me. Because she’s always there. Because she always does.
The gasps echo, louder this time, as we both go sailing through the air. Me, dangling in mid-air, and my mother holding onto my arms with her legs hooked around the trapeze bar.
Then she lets go.
The screams pierce the air. I shut out the audience - the blur of faces and lights - as I tuck into a ball and flip through the air. Once. Twice. What they don’t see is my father, standing on the platform. He let the trapeze bar go right as I finished the first rotation. Coming out of the second, I plane my body out. My hands open wide, the trapeze bar smacking right against the palms. Holding fast, I sail through the air. Dismount, tuck into a backflip, and make the landing on the platform.
The cheers break out, even as my mother is following suit, until all three of us are standing on the platform together. The applause grows in intensity as she dismounts and joins us, then transforms into a standing ovation as we take a bow.
“The fearless Flying Graysons! Let’s have a great Gotham round of applause for ten year old Dicky Grayson. The youngest acrobat performing today!”
I step back, and soon I’m the only one standing on the platform. The performance goes into the second act and I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Stepping back from the platform, I put my back against the tent pole and slide down. The strength seems to go out of my legs and I’m starting to realize that my arms are numb. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m still trying to catch my breath. Below, it probably feels a little cool inside the tent. Up here, with all the lights, it feels like it’s a hundred degrees.
There’s a strange twang overhead. I look up, but it’s just the tension wires. In between the platforms, mom and dad are really putting on a show. I know every move. I know each routine. But it’s still incredible to witness. It takes my breath away, and I get to see this every day. The audience below? Amazed would be an understatement. I wish that I could be out there with them, but I’m still too little. Mom and dad are worried that I’ll get tired. Tired during practice is one thing. We have nets and safety harnesses while we learn a new routine. It gives us that little extra security to push ourselves to the limit to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Which, in my case, usually doesn’t. I hit the net four or five or even a dozen times some days.
But that’s practice, and this isn’t. So I come in at the start of the performance for the first act, then I’m sidelined for the second, and come back toward the end of the third. But I don’t really have any stunts after the first act.
The sound again. Louder, the cable and support structure giving a snap-CLAP of protest that echoed like a roll of thunder. I heard it. I bet the audience below heard it.
My parents heard it.
They’ve paused their routine, missing the jump. They’re lower than they should be. From this vantage point, I can see that the trapeze is sagging. My dad’s looking up at the cables. My mom’s looking at me. I can see her face.
I can see her fear.
“Mom?”
The cable snaps before I can even get back to my feet. “DAD!” I see them drop, and lunge forward. I collapse onto the platform, peering over the ledge and I see everything.
I see the end of the world.
There’s no net.
Nothing holding me up. I let go of the flying trapeze and, for a moment, I’m flying. I can hear the gasps, the collective holding of breath, and even a few shrieks rise from below. I’m starting to fall, but I’m not afraid. I just stretch out my arms, and I know she’ll be there to catch me. Because she’s always there. Because she always does.
The gasps echo, louder this time, as we both go sailing through the air. Me, dangling in mid-air, and my mother holding onto my arms with her legs hooked around the trapeze bar.
Then she lets go.
The screams pierce the air. I shut out the audience - the blur of faces and lights - as I tuck into a ball and flip through the air. Once. Twice. What they don’t see is my father, standing on the platform. He let the trapeze bar go right as I finished the first rotation. Coming out of the second, I plane my body out. My hands open wide, the trapeze bar smacking right against the palms. Holding fast, I sail through the air. Dismount, tuck into a backflip, and make the landing on the platform.
The cheers break out, even as my mother is following suit, until all three of us are standing on the platform together. The applause grows in intensity as she dismounts and joins us, then transforms into a standing ovation as we take a bow.
“The fearless Flying Graysons! Let’s have a great Gotham round of applause for ten year old Dicky Grayson. The youngest acrobat performing today!”
I step back, and soon I’m the only one standing on the platform. The performance goes into the second act and I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Stepping back from the platform, I put my back against the tent pole and slide down. The strength seems to go out of my legs and I’m starting to realize that my arms are numb. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m still trying to catch my breath. Below, it probably feels a little cool inside the tent. Up here, with all the lights, it feels like it’s a hundred degrees.
There’s a strange twang overhead. I look up, but it’s just the tension wires. In between the platforms, mom and dad are really putting on a show. I know every move. I know each routine. But it’s still incredible to witness. It takes my breath away, and I get to see this every day. The audience below? Amazed would be an understatement. I wish that I could be out there with them, but I’m still too little. Mom and dad are worried that I’ll get tired. Tired during practice is one thing. We have nets and safety harnesses while we learn a new routine. It gives us that little extra security to push ourselves to the limit to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Which, in my case, usually doesn’t. I hit the net four or five or even a dozen times some days.
But that’s practice, and this isn’t. So I come in at the start of the performance for the first act, then I’m sidelined for the second, and come back toward the end of the third. But I don’t really have any stunts after the first act.
The sound again. Louder, the cable and support structure giving a snap-CLAP of protest that echoed like a roll of thunder. I heard it. I bet the audience below heard it.
My parents heard it.
They’ve paused their routine, missing the jump. They’re lower than they should be. From this vantage point, I can see that the trapeze is sagging. My dad’s looking up at the cables. My mom’s looking at me. I can see her face.
I can see her fear.
“Mom?”
The cable snaps before I can even get back to my feet. “DAD!” I see them drop, and lunge forward. I collapse onto the platform, peering over the ledge and I see everything.
I see the end of the world.
+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +
ATLANTIC CITY
PRESENT DAY
The brass echoed through the big top.
Entry of the Gladiators, Op. 68 was the comical march that played through the circus, setting the mood for the proclaimed greatest show on Earth. Jugglers and clowns. Acrobats and freaks. And somewhere in the middle of all of them was a young boy.
Balancing precariously atop the back of an elephant, the youth was costumed as a little clown, white greasepaint and bright colors adorning his face, as he juggled a variety of balls while, around him, his parents jumped through rings of fire and twirled batons that were ignited on either end.
It was an ordinary day in the extraordinary life of a child brought up in the midst of the circus, putting on a show in Metropolis or Las Vegas or Star City. The shimmery blue of his parent’s leotards matched the piping on the comical Little Lord Fauntleroy styled clown suit that he wore, with its ruffled collar. As the parade of the performers marched slowly on, through the cheers and gasps of the crowd, the boy-clown settled into the rhythm of the routine.
It was, after all, an act. Something that they practiced time and time again on the road. He hadn’t started out juggling atop an elephant. No one started out juggling atop the elephant.
A few had broken their necks juggling atop the elephant.
It was practice, practice, practice. Until it was nearly perfect. Until it was nearly perfect each and every time, because it had to be perfect. Because there couldn’t be any mistakes in front of the audience. No surprises.
Surprising an elephant was going to be a bad day for everyone, the elephant included.
And then it was over. In so brief a time, the elephants had done their parade through the Big Top and now the ring was being cleared as the circus transitioned into the next part of the act. As an intermission, a clown car was brought out, distracting the audience’s attention as the acrobats moved up the tent poles and into position.
“And now the moment you’ve been waiting for! The fearless flying trapeze!”
Safely in the shadows, the small clown dismounted from off the back of the elephant in a single, graceful backflip. The hairpins that fastened the conical hat to his head still didn’t quite manage to secure it in place, as the boy flipped upright and was oblivious to how disheveled he’d become from the motion.
Instead, rushing up to the edge of the shadows, the small clown poked his head back into the Big Top as the trapeze act began.
Turning his head up, the boy stared up at the aging patriarch that was standing there watching from the sidelines. “Will I ever be up there, Mister Haly?”
He had to know that the question was coming. The boy asked it every day. Sometimes multiple times in a day. He practiced with his parents. He knew the routines. He knew the act. But if was always when you’re older or when you’re taller or maybe one day.
“Maybe one day, Jay,” the old man uttered. Reaching down, the aging patriarch straightened up the child’s costume. A patient smile tugged at the corners of the man’s well-lined face, as he said, “Maybe one day.” Then, clapping the small clown’s arms, said, “Why don’t you go outside the tent and run around for a bit? I’m sure there’s some stragglers out there that would love to be entertained.”
The boy’s face betrayed any number of emotions. “Okay, Mister Haly,” the youth said, before turning and ducking low across the floor as he gathered up a few balls to juggle. And then he slipped underneath the tent and was gone.
As the old man watched the boy leave, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was watching another boy. Except, the person he was thinking of hadn’t been a ‘boy’ for some time now.
Entry of the Gladiators, Op. 68 was the comical march that played through the circus, setting the mood for the proclaimed greatest show on Earth. Jugglers and clowns. Acrobats and freaks. And somewhere in the middle of all of them was a young boy.
Balancing precariously atop the back of an elephant, the youth was costumed as a little clown, white greasepaint and bright colors adorning his face, as he juggled a variety of balls while, around him, his parents jumped through rings of fire and twirled batons that were ignited on either end.
It was an ordinary day in the extraordinary life of a child brought up in the midst of the circus, putting on a show in Metropolis or Las Vegas or Star City. The shimmery blue of his parent’s leotards matched the piping on the comical Little Lord Fauntleroy styled clown suit that he wore, with its ruffled collar. As the parade of the performers marched slowly on, through the cheers and gasps of the crowd, the boy-clown settled into the rhythm of the routine.
It was, after all, an act. Something that they practiced time and time again on the road. He hadn’t started out juggling atop an elephant. No one started out juggling atop the elephant.
A few had broken their necks juggling atop the elephant.
It was practice, practice, practice. Until it was nearly perfect. Until it was nearly perfect each and every time, because it had to be perfect. Because there couldn’t be any mistakes in front of the audience. No surprises.
Surprising an elephant was going to be a bad day for everyone, the elephant included.
And then it was over. In so brief a time, the elephants had done their parade through the Big Top and now the ring was being cleared as the circus transitioned into the next part of the act. As an intermission, a clown car was brought out, distracting the audience’s attention as the acrobats moved up the tent poles and into position.
“And now the moment you’ve been waiting for! The fearless flying trapeze!”
Safely in the shadows, the small clown dismounted from off the back of the elephant in a single, graceful backflip. The hairpins that fastened the conical hat to his head still didn’t quite manage to secure it in place, as the boy flipped upright and was oblivious to how disheveled he’d become from the motion.
Instead, rushing up to the edge of the shadows, the small clown poked his head back into the Big Top as the trapeze act began.
Turning his head up, the boy stared up at the aging patriarch that was standing there watching from the sidelines. “Will I ever be up there, Mister Haly?”
He had to know that the question was coming. The boy asked it every day. Sometimes multiple times in a day. He practiced with his parents. He knew the routines. He knew the act. But if was always when you’re older or when you’re taller or maybe one day.
“Maybe one day, Jay,” the old man uttered. Reaching down, the aging patriarch straightened up the child’s costume. A patient smile tugged at the corners of the man’s well-lined face, as he said, “Maybe one day.” Then, clapping the small clown’s arms, said, “Why don’t you go outside the tent and run around for a bit? I’m sure there’s some stragglers out there that would love to be entertained.”
The boy’s face betrayed any number of emotions. “Okay, Mister Haly,” the youth said, before turning and ducking low across the floor as he gathered up a few balls to juggle. And then he slipped underneath the tent and was gone.
As the old man watched the boy leave, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was watching another boy. Except, the person he was thinking of hadn’t been a ‘boy’ for some time now.
+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +
B L Ü D H A V E N
1013 PARKTHORNE AVENUE
The man's eyes snapped open, his breath frozen in his throat as he awoke to a world inverted and a sudden feeling of vertigo. He screamed -- out of fear, out of rage, a well-spring of frustration and despair -- as he flailed out with his arms to try and feel for his bearings. He hit the floor less than a second later, as the bed sheets followed shortly after, entangled as they were in his legs.
A second sound escaped his throat then, exasperated as pain shot up through his leg and side. It dropped him to his knees.
As he crouched there, it was some time before Dick Grayson truly knew where he was. He had been back there, that circus in which he had spent the earliest part of his life. Which might well have been the better part it, yet remained the bane of his existence. Surviving and living were two distinct and separate realities, a lesson which Dick had found hard learned. And not forgotten. Through the fog of memory and dream, amid halting breaths, the man came to cope with the fact that he was not where he had believed himself to be.
This wasn’t Haly’s Circus. This was his apartment. Standing upright on his knees, the raven haired Roma caught his breath, before pressing a hand down on the bed and pushing himself to his feet. Staggering through the confines of the brownstone to the bathroom, the former Boy Wonder rubbed at his eyes before plunging his hands under a sink of cold water and splashing it on his face.
Letting the water run down, the man felt up the wall for the medicine cabinet concealed behind the mirror. There was a prescription there, staring back at him as he held it in his hand. An anxiety prescription, one intended to be taken on the rare occasion that Dick experienced traumatic memories from the Flying Graysons, the adventures of Batman and Robin... In reality, Dick subsided on it. Become so routine with its use that he feared what life might be like without the pills and only the nightmares.
The clock on the wall mocked him with the question of whether he should go back to bed, though the thought of more dreams was enough to dismiss that idea. So, instead, he showered and changed into fresh clothes as he went through the motions of someone living a normal life. Someone who didn’t check behind every door for an instrument of paranoia and imagination.
Replacing the bottle in the cabinet, the man caught his own reflection in the glass as he swung it closed and beheld the mirror. His face was gaunt. Bags having long settled under his eyes. There was always an excuse not to sleep. Dreams. Duties. The man in the mirror wasn't at all the Boy Wonder he recalled, almost a stranger, made all the more haunting by the echo of that which was familiar. He was that which survived. And this was the price for living, he supposed.
He made his way into the kitchen. As he pulled out what he needed to get the coffee maker going, he found a stack of envelopes on the counter. Picking those up, Dick shuffled through the bills. Insurance, medical claims...
Even with Wayne Enterprises coverage, he still had deductibles and co-pays. And regular bills. And rent. As he set aside the stack of papers and got the coffee started, Dick casually picked up his phone and scrolled over to his mobile banking app.
His savings really wasn't what he needed it to be. A glance over at the new 65-inch 4K HD television in the apartment was a recent purchase decision that seemed to be kicking him in the ass about now.
He might be Bruce Wayne’s foster kid, but asking the old man for a hand-out was not on Richard Grayson’s To-Do list for this morning. Or any morning.
So what now?
A second sound escaped his throat then, exasperated as pain shot up through his leg and side. It dropped him to his knees.
As he crouched there, it was some time before Dick Grayson truly knew where he was. He had been back there, that circus in which he had spent the earliest part of his life. Which might well have been the better part it, yet remained the bane of his existence. Surviving and living were two distinct and separate realities, a lesson which Dick had found hard learned. And not forgotten. Through the fog of memory and dream, amid halting breaths, the man came to cope with the fact that he was not where he had believed himself to be.
This wasn’t Haly’s Circus. This was his apartment. Standing upright on his knees, the raven haired Roma caught his breath, before pressing a hand down on the bed and pushing himself to his feet. Staggering through the confines of the brownstone to the bathroom, the former Boy Wonder rubbed at his eyes before plunging his hands under a sink of cold water and splashing it on his face.
Letting the water run down, the man felt up the wall for the medicine cabinet concealed behind the mirror. There was a prescription there, staring back at him as he held it in his hand. An anxiety prescription, one intended to be taken on the rare occasion that Dick experienced traumatic memories from the Flying Graysons, the adventures of Batman and Robin... In reality, Dick subsided on it. Become so routine with its use that he feared what life might be like without the pills and only the nightmares.
The clock on the wall mocked him with the question of whether he should go back to bed, though the thought of more dreams was enough to dismiss that idea. So, instead, he showered and changed into fresh clothes as he went through the motions of someone living a normal life. Someone who didn’t check behind every door for an instrument of paranoia and imagination.
Replacing the bottle in the cabinet, the man caught his own reflection in the glass as he swung it closed and beheld the mirror. His face was gaunt. Bags having long settled under his eyes. There was always an excuse not to sleep. Dreams. Duties. The man in the mirror wasn't at all the Boy Wonder he recalled, almost a stranger, made all the more haunting by the echo of that which was familiar. He was that which survived. And this was the price for living, he supposed.
He made his way into the kitchen. As he pulled out what he needed to get the coffee maker going, he found a stack of envelopes on the counter. Picking those up, Dick shuffled through the bills. Insurance, medical claims...
Even with Wayne Enterprises coverage, he still had deductibles and co-pays. And regular bills. And rent. As he set aside the stack of papers and got the coffee started, Dick casually picked up his phone and scrolled over to his mobile banking app.
His savings really wasn't what he needed it to be. A glance over at the new 65-inch 4K HD television in the apartment was a recent purchase decision that seemed to be kicking him in the ass about now.
He might be Bruce Wayne’s foster kid, but asking the old man for a hand-out was not on Richard Grayson’s To-Do list for this morning. Or any morning.
So what now?
S H A Z A M
S H A Z A M
S H A Z A M
"Five thousand years ago, the world needed a hero. Instead, it got me."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Teth-Adam _________________________________________________________ Ancient Egyptian (Canaanite) | Earth’s Champion _________________________________________________________ Mount Justice | Rhode Island | USA C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G | C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T Thousands of years ago, the Council of Wizards protected the developing human societies from all manner of threats. Over the course of centuries, those battles took their toll on the Council, until Shazam was the last. It was only then that the man recalled the life he’d left behind, the family that he’d forgotten, and went in search of the tribe that he’d turned his back to many generations before. He discovered his people massacred, a single boy pulled from the fire to survive his family line, placed in shackles and cast into the turquoise mines of Ancient Egypt. When the spark of rebellion was ignited by the boy’s brash nature – courage or foolishness - he was to be executed, a child sacrifice to serve as a slave to the god Toth. The Wizard saved the boy from death, keeping their relation concealed as he allowed his powers to flow through the youth. Shazam’s purpose was to mold the boy into a proper champion who could protect humanity after him. That was 5,000 years ago. Teth-Adam is still learning, and it’s been a rough road to get here. Shazam gave the boy the power to overcome his demons. Instead, the child conquered his enemies. Leading a revolt, the city-state of Kahndaq in the ancient world was founded upon a turquoise mine as the slaves cast off their shackles and drove out their Egyptian masters. And, for a time, there existed a place of prosperity, knowledge, and peace that was unrivaled by any, a desert analog to the fabled Camelot. A classless society, where all men were free and equal to one another. But women were traded as property, not even second-class citizens. Order was maintained through a strict series of laws, with public executions carried out in the middle of each week. For hundreds of years, this jewel shone brighter than Egypt’s dynasties, until an usurper known as Ahk-Ton seized the throne of Kahndaq through an infernal pact known as the Crown of Sabac. The Wizard Shazam intervened in the battle that unfolded, which laid waste to the great city of Shiruta. He broke Ahk-Ton’s crown and banished the demon Sabac back to the flames of Hell, and then entombed Teth-Adam in the wreckage of his city to dwell over the choices that had ushered in the tragic rise and fall of Kahndaq. That tomb was unearthed by a British archaeologist in 1928, but it wasn’t a boy who stumbled out of his prison – it was a young woman. Stripped of his (her) powers, Teth-Adam found that the only spell that he (she) was capable of casting was the name of Shazam. Adopting the identity of Mary Bromfield, he (she) would become a member of the Justice Society of America during the Allies European campaign in World War II. Unable to say the name Shazam, the red, gold, and white garbed hero became known as Captain Marvel, though the heroic actions of both herself and her companion Liberty Belle were often denigrated in comparison to their male counterparts - precisely the lesson about walking in the shoes of the oppressed that the Wizard had in mind for Teth. At the end of the War, Teth/Mary was tasked to stop the atomic bombing of Japan. Refusing, Teth/Mary instead allowed the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima to take place, as he/she believed it a strategically sound move on the part of the Allies. For this defiance, the Wizard summoned Teth-Adam to the Rock of Eternity, restoring him to his original form before casting him across the cosmos, to make his way back (literally and metaphorically) to being Earth’s champion. Billy returned to find the world embroiled in war once again, this time from the sea as Atlantis invaded. With his youthful appearance, violent disposition, and brash manner, Teth-Adam clashed with the Justice League and instead found more of a kinship with the teenage titans that operated on the fringes of the League’s tolerance (or apathy, whichever may have been the case). Today, he is a solitary figure who often sits atop Mount Justice and looks out over the world that has caused him so much grief. He’s supposed to be Earth’s champion. It’s a job he’s been training for since time immemorial, and he’s still got a lot to learn. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) Drawing inspiration from Justice League Beyond’s interpretation as Billy, Shazam, Black Adam, Mary Marvel, and Captain Marvel being 5 separate identities sharing 1 body, this is a reinterpretation that pitches Teth-Adam singularly in those roles. Typically, I focus on Billy Batson but my vision often chafes against the modern retelling of his personality. In this instance, I merge the idea of “Asshole Batson” with Black Adam, probably not at all from having watched the movie recently and I think it makes for a more compelling and interesting character than either Billy or Teth-Adam by themselves. I’ve worked out a connection with Static with @Retired owing to their shared “titans” history. Other characters of the period are also welcome to work in connections. |
© 2007-2024