Summary: Hal Jordan uses the power of the ring to confront old demons.

Hal Jordan stood and watched his father Martin - no, a ring construct of his father long dead, Hal had to remind himself - as he wondered what to say. His bad arm at least had the sling to restrain it, but his good right arm betrayed his nerves, fidgeting at his side.

Martin wore his classic baggy flight suit. His flight helmet was held under one arm as he always did, standing on the tarmac with that relaxed smile. But while he still looked every bit the all-conquering hero from the memories of Hal's childhood (still that relaxed smile), his eyes looked so... tired? Hal fidgeted where he stood, and wondered if he was smiling back.

“Got a busted wing there, son?” said Martin, glancing at the sling around Hal's arm. Hal's eyes darted down to the offending sling, which began fading into nothingness.

“Oh yeah”, Hal replied as he forced a smile of his own, “Nothing serious. It's healed, really. But thanks for asking.”

“Sure”, said Martin, standing there for a moment before putting his hands on his hips (as Hal would remember him always doing when lecturing Hal and his brothers in that 'never angry, just disappointed' way). “Did you want something?”

“Well... yeah,” said Hal, “I wanted to talk abut me. About me and you.”

Martin's smile began to fade. “So... talk.”

That lecturing look again. Hal realised his own hands were beginning to ball into fists.

“It's just... being here, you know, it gets me thinking. Brings back a lot of memories from my childhood. What I remember most is you...how I looked up to you. I worshipped the ground you walked on. Or flew over. I wanted to grow up and be you... which probably has a lot to do with who I am now. Growing up, though, I never felt like you... I don't know... thought that much of me.”

Hal unclenched his hands as he reached out to his father. “I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to hear that so much. Just to hear you say it once!”

Martin began to turn away. The smile was gone now. “Good Lord, Hal, that was a long time--”

Hal cut him off, his voice beginning to rise as he grabbed Martin by the shoulder to turn him back around: “Just once! But you hardly knew I was alive. You were always patting Jack or Jim on the back, telling them how great they were.”

Martin snatched from Hal's grip, causing the fight helmet to drop where it bounced across the desert rock. He strode across where it lay, stooping to retrieve it as he replied: “Your brothers; they'd done things. Had real accomplishments. You always had your head in the clouds, you were--”
“A space case?” snarled Hal, “Is that what you thought of me? Well why don't you take a look at what that 'space case' turned into? You didn't give me one damn bit of encouragement. And I'm a hero now, no thanks to you! Do you have any idea of the things I've done?”

“Like what?” asked Martin, the disdain plastered across his face, “Didn't do much to save Coast City, did you?”

The two stood staring each other down for the moment before Martin turned away, nothing more to be said. “Goodbye Hal,” he murmured, “I have a plane to catch.” He donned his flight helmet and began to walk away into the green mist.

Hal reached out to his father, the anger was gone - it didn't matter anymore. “Wait! I...” If he would just stop, he had to stop! “I didn't mean... I didn't want it to be like this.” Martin didn't stop. Why wouldn't he stop? Couldn't he hear? Didn't he understand? He had to stop! “Please, come back. I can't go through that again...” Hal's voice began to crack as his father disappeared into the mists. Hal tried to follow him, but he knew it was already too late. Gone. Like he'd never been there.

Hal felt strange, his ribs were tightening in his chest, his hands trembled. What was wrong with him? Hal couldn't understand what was wrong, this feeling - it was so strange, so... new? No, he realised, it wasn't. He had felt it before, so very long ago.

Then the sound, like a banshee. Hal looked overhead and saw the clouds part, and he knew. The tiny speck, growing larger as it came nearer, parted the heavens like the Red Sea. The jet hotdogged for the crowds, as it always did. But there was no crowd here, nobody to cheer. Nobody to scream. As they always did. As he always remembered. The jet was coming in for the landing. That landing. Hal knew. He knew! He couldn't watch, not again. (Please, not again!) He clamped his hands across his ears as the jet screamed past, for all the good it would do. He always heard it. He always would.

Hal turned. If he saw it, if he faced it, maybe he could...? He had the power now, he had saved so many, so many times he had saved his friends, he had saved Tom, Carol, John, Guy, so many times he'd saved... Coast City...

The thought died with a lump in his throat as he remembered. Reality checked in. Don't lose control, keep your head in the game, pull up! NO!

In that moment, Hal Jordan - greatest of all the Green Lanterns, knew fear.

Hal reached out with the ring just as it happened. A fireball (Hal didn't notice it was green, unlike the angry red from his dreams) tore free from the jet, tearing it apart like tissue paper as Hal could only watch. As it always did. He was too late, as he always was. Always would be, Hal realised as he sank to his knees, bowing in surrender to the pyrrhic monument to his father's last moments. It was no use, he couldn't save any of them. What was the point? Why was he trying any of this, why--

From behind him, a hand rested on Hal's shoulder. Hal turned to see who it belonged to, and couldn't hide his surprise. Even if he'd wanted to. There stood Jessica Jordan, still with her long flowing dark hair, pearls around her neck, and that blue dress. The same old dress. Hal stood up to look at her, his melancholy mood gone for the moment. “Mother. I didn't expect you to be here.”

“I thought you might need someone to talk to. I know how your father can be.”

“Yeah, he's still... well, he's still like he was. I'll always be a failure in his eyes, after all. Nothing I do is going to change that.”

“You can't keep carrying that around, Hal, or it's going to poison you. You have to leave it, and him, behind. I did.”

“What was that like? I mean, how did you get through it, when the plane went down?”

Jessica turned away, her gaze lowered towards her clasped hands. “Bit by bit. Your father was a hard man sometimes, you know that. But I loved him dearly. When he was killed, I thought I'd die. There were times I wished I would. Every time a jet from the testing grounds flew over the house, I was sure it was him up there, putting some new Ferris hardware through its paces. Then I'd remind myself the last time I saw him - the last time I'd ever see him - there weren't enough remains to identify.”

Jessica swallowed, tried to compose herself for a moment. Even mired in remembered grief, Hal's mother seemed even more beautiful than Hal remembered her as a boy. Yes, the dress was the same, and the necklace, but not a wrinkle on her face, and not a trace of grey in her hair. Hal subconsciously ran his fingers through his own greying temples. When had he become so old?

Her composure regained, Jessica continued. “But you just go on. One day after another. Eventually I didn't have to make a conscious effort not to set his place for dinner. It's like that. The grieving stops and you're left with memories. I remembered him dressing up as Santa Claus our first Christmas together. I remembered the way he smelled just after he'd shaved. I remembered all the good things, Hal.”

Jessica turned back towards her son, who looked down to meet her eyes. She began to fade into the mist, but not before she ran her hand lovingly across his cheek. “And that's what I really wanted to tell you. The loss you feel, the pain you're holding on to. They're dangerous things. They could ruin you, if you don't let them go.” She was almost gone now. “Move on, Hal. and take the memories - the good ones, with you. Be satisfied with the memories...” With that, she disappeared into the emerald mists, fading away just like all the other memories.

Hal's fists rose again, as he cried out in defiance: “I don't want memories, damn it! They're not good enough!” He glared at the power ring on his finger, glowing patiently.

It would be tempting, wouldn't it? All it would take, really, was the will. Oh, certainly every last vestige of willpower that could be summoned. But it would be tempting. Think of it. The power to resurrect that which no longer exists... or create that which only exists in the mind's eye. All of it perfect in every detail. The power to make the dead live again, to redress any wrong, to rewrite history with a happy ending. The power to be God.

Hal pictured Coast City in his mind; not the dead husk that surrounded him, but the real Coast City - vibrant, alive. He saw the grassy parks with the children running and shouting with joy as they chased kites past statues of war heroes long dead. He saw a police officer consoling a terrified woman on the suburban sidewalk - no crime in sight, their only concern was getting a cat out of a tree. He saw, outside an ice cream parlour, a teenage girl kissing the boy beside her on the cheek as he dropped his ice cream cone in surprise.

The ring burned like a star on his finger, but Hal noticed none of this, as he flew through Coast City on this sunny afternoon. Grinning with boyish wonder as he somersaulted over the church bell tower, he then spotted what he was looking for... There! Gently gliding down (where was the rush, when nobody needed saving?) he landed on a driveway in the suburbs.

Brushing the dust and creases out of his Green Lantern uniform, and smoothing his hair, Hal tried to collect himself before approaching the front door. He knew it wouldn't be locked, and there was no need to knock - they knew him well here. Impatiently twisting the door knob and stepping through, Hal declared “Mom, Dad... I'm home.”

Walking through to the kitchen, he found his father sat at the dining table holding his favourite mug. Hal wondered if it was filled with coffee or whiskey, and dismissed it from his mind. Now was not the time for such thoughts. No need to be afraid. Martin looked up as Hal approached the table. He was smiling again.

“Hey there, Hal. Come on and have yourself a seat. How's that arm of yours?”

Hal released the breath he realised he'd been holding since he'd opened the front door, and took a seat opposite his father at the table. “Uh... fine, Dad.”

“Good. That's good. Good to be home, too, isn't it? Good to be just here again, if you know what I mean.” said Martin, as he gestured with his mug at the spotless kitchen. A painting of Martin's USAF jet hung on the lime green wall behind him - Hal still remembered as it had been knocked down during one of his brother's roughhousing sessions, the frame smashed into a million pieces. And here it was again. Martin turned back to face Hal. “Son, this thing you put together here... everybody surely appreciates it.”