The memory brings everything to a halt.
I floated there for a moment, suspended in the stale air of the Archives,
The memory of what I did on Korvac Prime always sat on my chest like a stone—heavy, impossible to digest, and definitely something the Guardians would prefer I forget about entirely.
But these kinds of things stick with you. As if they carved into your brain chemistry and absolutely refused to leave.
A terrible joke that no one laughed at, an embarrassing moment that no one but yourself can recall or renovating an entire city, if renovation also included clusters of crystals that stretched toward the sky.
I sigh for the second time today, the sound echoing off the vast chamber walls in a way that makes me feel smaller than I already do.
It was time to get back to work.
In the record room of doom.
Thirty feet below me, that messy pile of crystalline storage units await like a monument to bureaucratic tedium. Tomar-Re has already flown off to terrorize some other poor rookie, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a job that makes watching paint dry seem like an extreme sport.
30 Minutes Later
I'm sitting in what might charitably be called an office. The chair tries to mold itself to my spine in ways that would be helpful if it weren't for the fact that I have a perfectly normal vertebral column.
My feet are propped up on the desk, an actual desk not a floating platform, and there's a pile of paperwork that reaches almost to the ceiling.
My power battery sits next to my elbow, twisted open and glowing soft green, serving as the galaxy's most expensive desk lamp.
"Incident Report: Tamaranean Trade Dispute," I mutter, skimming the first document before tossing it to the side
"Starfire's people arguing about shipping routes again."
Next up.
"Cultural Assessment: Rann-Thanagar Peace Talks."
Into the pile it goes.
"Border Incident: Khund Aggressive Expansion, Sector 2951."
Toss.
"Technological Theft Report: Batman Reverse-Engineers Brainiac Probe Technology Found in Gotham's East River."
This one actually makes me pause.
Interesting…
According to the report, the Dark Knight not only figured out how the Coluan tech worked, but managed to integrate it into his systems before anyone realized what was happening. The original probe "mysteriously disappeared" into where ever he keeps his collection of dangerous alien artifacts.
Well, at least someone on Earth knows how to have fun.
But even Batman's unauthorized alien tech acquisition gets boring after the third page of jurisdictional concerns and diplomatic protests from Colu.
Into the pile it goes.
"Invasion Alert: Apokolips Parademons Spotted Near Thanagar."
Toss.
"Incident Classification: Green Lantern Corps Pension Fund Audit Results."
This one makes my soul die a little.
"Diplomatic Incident: Czarnian Bounty Hunter Refuses to Pay Rann Parking Tickets."
Even Lobo's paperwork ends up here, apparently. Into the pile.
The monotony is soul-crushing.
Each moment spent filing away from boring documents like grocery receipts presents a moment spent absent of an actual crisis or diplomatic nightmare that's keeping actual important people awake at night.
I got demoted for caring too much about injustice, and now my job is to ignore injustice on a galactic scale.
"I hate it here." I mutter to the empty office. My hands frustratingly running over my tired eyes that weren't actually tired.
If only I could get access to some classified documents. Something actually interesting for once. Something that actually matters instead of this endless parade of territorial disputes and pension fund audits—
Whoosh.
The sound comes from the pneumatic tube system that connects all the Archive offices. I look up just in time to see a single document flutter out of the chute opening and land directly in my outstretched hand.
CLASSIFIED
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Sub-level twelve, section forty-seven of the Green Lantern Archives exists in a state of perpetual fluorescent purgatory.
The Lantern working there, Sector 1417's Graxos IV representative, sits hunched over a desk that makes Riley's cramped office look like a luxury suite. Purple scales catch the harsh lighting as he shifts in his chair, mandibles clicking with the rhythm of supreme boredom.
The file in his clawed hands:
CLASSIFIED: EMERGENCY DIMENSIONAL EVACUATION PROTOCOLS - GUARDIAN LEVEL ACCESS ONLY - SCHEDULED FOR DESTRUCTION.
Metal binding.
Official seals.
So 'official' official.
His multifaceted eyes drift to the industrial shredder ten feet away.
It squats in the corner like a mechanical beast, all chrome teeth and hungry darkness, waiting to devour whatever classified secrets get fed into its maw.
Then, to the pneumatic chute right next to his elbow. The opening yawns wide, a perfect circle leading down to the bowels of the Archive system where some other poor bastard is probably sorting through disposal requests.
Shredder. Ten feet away.
Chute. Right there.
Shredder. Ten whole feet of walking. Ten feet of standing up.
Chute. So convenient. So easy. So perfectly positioned that it's almost like the universe wants him to make the wrong choice.
Shredder again. Still ten feet away. Still requiring actual physical effort.
Chute. Still right there. Still beckoning with its perfect circular mouth.
The Graxos IV representative looks around his empty section. No supervisors making their rounds. No witnesses to proper procedure. No one who gives a damn about the correct disposal of classified documents that are probably too technical and boring to matter anyway.
His claw hovers over the document for exactly three seconds.
He wasn't lazy.
Definitely not.
He just hated… inconvenience.
So without a single coherent thought about consequences, proper procedure, or the possibility that some bored rookie might actually read classified Guardian protocols, he drops the file down the chute.
Gravity does the rest.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
I've received a gift from the universe itself.
I'm already floating in the air, reading it like it's the most fascinating children's book ever written, grinning like an idiot.
EMERGENCY DIMENSIONAL EVACUATION PROTOCOLS
Guardian Level Access Only
"Emergency dimensional evacuation," I read aloud, my voice echoing in the empty office. "In the event of cosmic-level threats that compromise the safety of Oa or its inhabitants, the following protocols may be activated to transport essential personnel to alternate positions within our dimensional realities..."
This is actually interesting.
I've finally found something that doesn't make me want to lobotomize myself.
According to this document, the Guardians have built actual escape routes to other positions within realities? I feel like I'm reading this the wrong way.
Either way, apparently all you need to activate it is the right device and the proper authorization codes.
Both of which, according to the attached inventory sheet, came down to this exact disposal center earlier today.
Lovely.
Step one: locate the Dimensional Transition Resonator.
Step two: input Guardian-level authorization codes.
Step three: activate emergency protocols and transport to "different positions within dimensional realities."
Different positions. That could mean anything really, different planets, different star systems, maybe even different sectors.
The document isn't exactly clear on the specifics, but anything is better than what he was doing previously.
Now, tucking the classified document under my arm, its time to head toward the disposal area.
According to the inventory sheet, the Dimensional Transition Resonator should be somewhere in the classified equipment destruction zone, scheduled for demolition along with about a thousand other pieces of "outdated Guardian technology."
The disposal center is located through a reinforced doorway marked with warnings in seventeen different languages. Most of them boil down to "Danger: Extremely Hazardous Materials" and "Authorized Personnel Only."
Since I'm technically authorized personnel, even if I'm the lowest-ranking authorized personnel in the known universe, I qualify.
Thumbs up.
I push through the door and immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment.
The disposal center isn't just a room.
It's a mechanical hellscape that stretches out like some kind of demolition derby designed by sadists with engineering degrees.
In any case, I wouldn't be surprised if the Masters of Korvac Prime would create something like this for an average 'fun' Tuesday.
The air reeks of burning metal. Massive crushers slam down from the ceiling at irregular intervals, their pneumatic hisses echoing through the chamber like the breathing of sleeping giants. Conveyor belts carry debris at speeds that would turn a human body into paste, while rotating blade assemblies slice through the air.
Floating platforms drift through the chaos, some stable, others spinning wildly as they navigate between crushing pistons and energy dischargers that throw off sparks in colors that don't have names. The whole thing looks like someone took a junkyard, gave it a physics degree, and told it to become as dangerous as possible.
And somewhere in this mechanical nightmare is one small device that I'm looking for..
The "obstacle course" before me isn't just dangerous, it's legendary.
This is the kind of challenge that only the best of the best have ever completed.
The kind of trial that separates true heroes must complete.
The kind of test that requires not just courage, but skill, precision, and reflexes that can only be forged through years of doing the extreme and near-death experiences.
This obstacle course demands perfection.
Every movement must be calculated, every decision precise.
One mistake means being crushed by machinery that could flatten a small moon.
One moment of hesitation means being sliced apart by energy fields that burn hotter than stellar cores.
This isn't just about finding a piece of equipment, this is about proving that I'm still the same guy who used to free-climb thousand-foot cliff faces without safety gear, who dove into underwater caves that had claimed the lives of dozens of other explorers.
This is about proving that I'm still a Green Lantern.
I crack my knuckles, roll my shoulders, and assess the first section of the course.
A series of crushing pistons slam down in sequence, their timing just irregular enough to prevent any simple pattern recognition. Between them, rotating blade assemblies sweep through the air in figure-eight patterns, their edges glowing with energy that could cut through a construct shield like tissue paper.
"Alright, Stone," I mutter to myself, floating up toward the entrance. "Time to show these machines what a real Green Lantern can do."
I launch forward at full speed.
The first piston slams down just as I pass beneath it, the rush of displaced air ruffling my hair. I twist left to avoid a spinning blade, then right to dodge another crusher.
A conveyor belt loaded with jagged scrap metal sweeps across my path. I dive under it, feeling the sharp edges whistle past my back, then immediately pull up to avoid an energy discharger that paints the air below me in brilliant orange flames.
This is what I was made for.
Not paperwork, not diplomatic missions where I have to smile and play nice.
This—the split-second timing, the calculated risks, the pure adrenaline rush of dancing with death, this is where I belong.
A massive crusher descends toward me, easily twenty feet across and moving fast enough to pancake a starship. I roll left, feeling the edge of the piston brush against my shoulder as it slams into the platform where I'd been floating a millisecond before. The impact sends shockwaves through the entire chamber, but I'm already moving.
Rotating energy fields create a deadly maze ahead of me, their patterns shifting in three dimensions as they slice through the air. I study them for exactly half a second, mapping their trajectories, then thread the needle between them like I'm skiing through moguls at high speed.
One field passes so close I can smell the ozone as it singes the air next to my face.
My ring flares instinctively, trying to create a protective shield, but nothing happens. The energy just... fizzles.
I try again, focusing harder, but the construct won't form.
That's when I notice the warning signs posted around the chamber, the ones I'd been too focused on the obstacle course to read properly.
"CONSTRUCT-DAMPENING FIELD ACTIVE - RING CONSTRUCTS DISABLED - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."
They didn't just mean "don't use your ring constructs." They meant you literally can't use them here. .
Well, that's just fantastic.
I'm flying through a mechanical death trap at suicidal speeds with no safety net, no backup plan, and no way to protect myself except for my natural human reflexes and whatever physical conditioning I've maintained while pushing paper around for the past month.
You know what? Even better.
This is how extreme sports were supposed to work back on Earth, no safety gear, no backup plans, just you against the environment and whatever skills you've developed.
Pure adrenaline, pure focus, pure commitment to not dying in embarrassing ways.
I grin like a maniac and push myself faster.
A series of plasma jets erupts from the walls in synchronized bursts, creating columns of super-heated gas that would vaporize anything they touch. My body moving in three dimensions as I spiral through the deadly pattern. The heat washes over me in waves, but I'm through before any of the jets can lock onto my position.
An industrial shredder the size of a building blocks my path, its rotating teeth designed to reduce starship hulls to component atoms. But there's a gap, barely three feet wide, between the uppermost teeth as they complete their rotation cycle. The timing window is maybe two-tenths of a second.
I don't hesitate.
I dive toward the gap at maximum speed, my body horizontal, arms pressed against my sides to minimize my profile. The teeth rotate past me, missing my face by inches, the spinning metal so close I can see my reflection in the polished edges.
And then I'm through, past the shredder, diving toward the next section of the course.
This is insane. This is suicide.
This is exactly the ridiculous, pointless risk-taking that got me into this mess in the first place.
I've never been happier.
A gravity manipulator catches me as I pass between two platforms, trying to drag me into its crushing embrace. It's difficult but I fight against the pull, gripping onto a steel platform and launching myself then immediately dodging a sweeping energy blade that carves through the space where I'd been floating.
The course ahead opens up into a vast chamber filled with floating debris, broken machinery, and automated systems that seem designed specifically to make retrieval impossible. Somewhere in this chaos is the Dimensional Transition Resonator, a device that probably looks like every other piece of broken Guardian technology in here.
I pause for a moment, floating at the edge of the debris field, trying to spot my target. The inventory sheet had mentioned that the device was cylindrical, approximately two feet in length, with crystalline matrix visible through transparent aluminum housing.
That practically describes maybe half the equipment floating around in here.
A massive piece of machinery, something that looks like it used to be part of a starship engine, tumbles past me, spinning slowly as it's carried along by the chamber's air currents. I follow its trajectory and spot what I'm looking for, wedged between two pieces of twisted metal about three hundred yards away.
The Dimensional Transition Resonator. Definitely the right device. I can see the crystalline matrix glowing softly through its housing, and the whole thing has that look of Guardian technology.
Elegant, efficient, and more powerful than anything Earth science could produce in the next thousand years.
Of course, it's positioned in the most dangerous part of the entire disposal area, surrounded by automated defense systems that are still active and consider anything that moves to be a potential threat.
I take a deep breath, assess the route, and launch myself forward into the mechanical maelstrom.
Energy beams crisscross my path as automated turrets track my movement. I spiral through the defensive pattern, using pieces of floating debris as cover, then dash forward when the firing cycle pauses to recharge. A plasma burst singes the air behind me as I duck behind a broken computer core the size of a small building.
More obstacles ahead, a field of micro-meteors created by a particle accelerator gone haywire, each one moving fast enough to punch through armor plating. I weave between them like a blizzard, my enhanced spatial awareness letting me track dozens of tiny projectiles simultaneously.
A fragment catches me in the shoulder, spinning me around and sending a spike of pain through my entire arm. I grit my teeth and keep flying.
Pain is just information, and right now the information is telling me I need to move faster and dodge better.
Almost there.
The Resonator is maybe fifty yards away now, floating in the middle of a clearing that's probably clear for a very good reason. As I approach, I can see why, energy fields that pulse in patterns designed to discourage approach surround the entire area.
Good thing I'm not sane.
I study the energy patterns for about ten seconds, mapping their timing and intensity. There's a window, maybe three seconds every thirty, where the fields dial down to levels that won't instantly kill a human being. I'll have to time it perfectly, fly straight through without hesitation, grab the device, and get out before the fields cycle back to lethal intensity.
The fields dim. I launch forward at maximum speed, cutting through the gap like an arrow fired from a bow. The Resonator is right there, floating within arm's reach, its crystalline matrix pulsing with internal light.
A massive hydraulic hammer swings down from nowhere, catching me square in the ribs with a CRACK that I feel in my bones. The impact sends me spinning through the air, wheezing and gasping as pain explodes through my entire torso.
"Damn, that hurt!" I wheeze, clutching my side as I try to regain control of my flight path.
And now I regret doing all of this when I could have avoided it all.
How?
The entire disposal area has a ceiling that's easily a hundred feet high, completely clear of obstacles except for a few harmless light fixtures and massive circulation vents.
I could have just flown above all of this.
I could have avoided every single obstacle, every death trap, every mechanical nightmare by simply flying up and over the entire course like a sensible person instead of threading the needle through a demolition derby.
But where's the fun in that?
I grin through the pain and continue forward at ground level, weaving between the obstacles because this is exactly the stupid, reckless challenge that makes life worth living.
The hammer swings again, but I'm ready for it this time, ducking under its arc and grabbing the Resonator in one smooth motion.
"Yes! Yes!" I hug the device to my chest like it's a long-lost friend. "Finally, something interesting. Something that actually—"
That's when I turn around and realize I have to do this entire course in reverse to get back to my office.
My body crumples in anguish.
And this time, I fly above the obstacles.
Thirty minutes later, I'm back at my desk, the Dimensional Transition Resonator sitting next to my power battery, both devices glowing softly in the dim light of my cramped office.
I'm battered, bruised, and pretty sure I'm bleeding from at least three different places, but I actually did it.
I navigated the disposal course, retrieved classified Guardian technology, and lived to tell about it.
Now comes the fun part.
I open the classified document and start reading through the activation procedures.
Step one: Connect the Resonator to a compatible power source.
I look at my power battery, then at the Resonator's input ports.
They're not exactly the same… but with a little creative construct engineering... there.
A simple adapter that should let me channel ring energy directly into the device.
Step two: Input Guardian-level authorization codes.
The document helpfully provides a complete list of emergency access codes, probably because whoever wrote this assumed that only Guardians would ever have access to it. I enter the sequence, watching as symbols light up on the Resonator's control surface.
Step three: Activate emergency dimensional transition protocols.
My finger hovers over the activation switch. According to the document, this will transport me to "different positions within dimensional realities" for the purpose of "ensuring Guardian survival during cosmic-level extinction events."
I press the button.
The Resonator hums to life, its crystalline matrix blazing with energy that makes the air around it shimmer like heat waves. The device starts pulling power from my ring, more power than I expected, draining my battery faster than I've ever seen it drain before.
And then I feel it, a tugging sensation, like gravity has suddenly decided to work sideways. The sensation builds quickly, becoming stronger and more insistent until the air around me starts to ripple and tear like fabric.
A dimensional rift opens in the middle of my office, a swirling vortex of energy that looks like someone took a hole punch to reality itself. The pull becomes irresistible, dragging me toward the rift whether I want to go or not.
"Whoa, no, no," I say, grabbing onto the edge of my desk. "Wait, this is—"
But it's too late. The dimensional transition has already started, and apparently it doesn't come with a cancel button. The rift expands, its pull getting stronger, and I realize I'm about to be sucked into this thing.
In desperation, I look around for something to take with me, something that might help me survive whatever I'm about to face. That's when I see it, sitting on the shelf above my desk where I'd forgotten about it for the past month.
My special edition complete Naruto manga collection.
All seventy-two volumes, mint condition, signed by Masashi Kishimoto himself.
The one thing I'd brought with me from Earth, the one piece of home that had survived my transition.
"NoOooooo!" I scream, lunging toward the shelf as the dimensional forces try to drag me away. "You're not taking me yet."
I grab the entire collection, clutching it to my chest as the rift's pull intensifies.
"You know I'd never leave you." I whisper.
That's when I glance back at my power battery, still sitting on the desk, still glowing softly, still very much not coming with me on this interdimensional adventure.
"Oh. I need you as well." I reach for it with my free hand, stretching as far as I can.
My fingers close around the battery just as I catch a glimpse of the classified document, still lying open on my desk. The page has flipped over, and I can see text on the back that I hadn't bothered to read before.
WARNING: DIMENSIONAL TRANSITION PROTOCOLS WILL TRANSPORT PERSONNEL TO ALTERNATE REALITY MATRICES
"Oh," I say, as the implications hit me just as the rift swallows me completely. "Dear God, please don't let it be Warhammer."
The dimensional tear snaps shut behind me with a sound like the universe clearing its throat.