Issue #216 FDC presents “Crime and Punishment” by TJ Burns and Dale Glaser

Kyle Rayner and Jenny-Lynn Hayden lay in each other’s arms, consumed and completed in each other’s eyes.  Every physical sensation communicated through Kyle’s body – the warm swell of Jenny’s breasts against his chest, the silky texture of her dark green hair as he twirled it around one finger, the trembling of her legs twined around his – was so powerful the rest of the world around them seemed to gray out to mute obscurity.  Nothing of consequence existed except for the two of them.                 Kyle drew his hand lightly down Jennie’s shoulder, across the small of her back, and gently ran his fingers back and forth along the curve of her waist.  His fingertips traced a line down her hip, up to the bottom of her ribcage, and back again.  Jenny smiled at him and it felt like a bright light cutting through his heart, wounding him with the sweetest pain he had ever known.                 He wrapped both arms around her even more tightly, pressing their bodies together as if they could occupy the same space at the same time.  Kyle knew for certain that there was no one else in the world he could hold so close and still feel so much need to bring closer.  He pressed his lips to Jenny’s, and as her mouth opened beneath his BREEEE BREEEE BREEEE BREEEE BREEEE                 The shrill warning sounds of a large truck backing through the alley outside blared through Rayner’s apartment like an alarm clock from hell.  He sat up suddenly amid the tangled sheets of his bed and blinked against the unforgiving sunlight.  The disorientation of awakening too fast from a profoundly deep sleep was almost dizzying, and Rayner sat on the mattress a few moments while reality solidified itself.  The sights around him reasserted their familiarity in his mind, and he regained his inner balance.  He could tell that he was hungry, and not entirely for food.                 Jenny.  She was gone.  No dream, no matter how maddeningly real it seemed at the time, could change that fact.  Jenny was gone.                                                                                                                                                 John Stewart traversed a corridor of the Guardians’ Citadel, flanked by Ganthet and Wununu Werro Wa.  The entire Citadel had been created through a concerted effort of all the Guardians, harnessing their incalculable energies to render the building into reality.  It stood in the center of Coast City Memorial Park, signifying that for the moment, at least, the Guardians of the Universe had adopted the Earth as their home, and pledged their Corps of Green Lanterns to the planet’s defense.  To John Stewart, however, the Citadel was also a monument to the Guardians themselves.  The Guardians gave power to a Central Power Battery, which in turn provided the energy for satellite batteries and the accompanying power rings of the Green Lanterns.  The rings could project and manipulate Oan energy, utilizing it to nearly any imaginable end, but the effects were ultimately short-lived.  Any construct of a power ring faded almost as soon as it had served its momentary purpose.  Solid light dissipated; energy succumbed to entropy.  Yet the same Oan energy, from within the unknowable hearts of the Guardians themselves, had brought into being the Citadel, a structure of real substance, permanent and inviolate.  The walls of the corridor radiated emerald light almost imperceptibly, but notwithstanding that familiar glow the Citadel was something much more than the immaterial projections of a power ring.                 John Stewart had spent increasing amounts of time of late contemplating the apparent gulf between the powers of the Guardians and the power entrusted to the Green Lanterns, since he himself had served both roles in some capacity.  When the Guardians had returned from captivity in Qward, they had claimed to be seeking a partnership between themselves and their agents, the Green Lanterns.  Stewart had agreed to mediate between the two groups as they worked toward building bridges of their own.  But after all the time that had passed since then, the Guardians seemed no closer to the ground on which the Green Lanterns stood.  Now Stewart was resolved to take a more active role in engineering the building of bridges.  He had requested time from the Guardians to air some ideas, and Ganthet and Wununu had responded.                 “There is something indubitably human about connecting a serious discussion with the act of walking,” Ganthet observed as the threesome progressed down the corridor.  He was clad in a red union suit with a small Green Lantern Corps insignia over his heart, and black boots.  Over his union suit he wore a black child-sized varsity jacket from Warrior’s, which Guy Gardner had given him at the end of his most recent visit to the Las Vegas theme restaurant.*  Ganthet’s white hair was slicked against his pale blue pate, and pulled back in a ponytail. (*waaaaaay back in Green Lantern #209 – DG & TJB)                 “It must then be human to resist progress,” Wununu Werro Wa responded, “for combining two disparate activities can only diminish them both.  If you wish to engage in serious discussion, John Stewart, we would be better served to avoid distracting physical activities.”  Wununu was garbed in the traditional attire of the Guardians, a flowing red robe with the Corps insignia prominent in the center.  His hair was shorter than Ganthet’s and curled unstyled around the shape of his large head.                 “I wouldn’t say humans resist progress, Wununu,” Stewart replied sanguinely.  “But you may be on to something about our lack of harmony between mind and body.  Most of us have to meet the needs of each aspect separately.”                 “You are one of the Guardians now, John Stewart, not bound by the limitations of most humans,” Wununu calmly stated.                 “True.  Which is why we’re not walking just to keep our bodies occupied while we talk.  I wanted to visit the Sciencells.  And they won’t diminish our conversation, they’ll form the objective basis of it.”                 Ganthet and Wununu seemed to consider Stewart’s words carefully as the trio descended a staircase to a lower level of the Citadel.  In this subsection of the structure, the Guardians had recreated the Oan Sciencells, holding chambers utilizing advanced Maltusian technology to counteract the powers of captives.  The corridor from which the Sciencells branched was composed of a pale, translucent green material.  The Sciencells themselves were spherical, largely featureless, and approximately twelve feet in diameter.  Each Sciencell was connected to the corridor by a small passageway, sealed off on both ends by massive irises which would only respond to the Guardians.  In the short time that the Guardians and Green Lantern Corps had returned to Earth, the Sciencells had already been put to use multiple times.                 Stewart proceeded to the first Sciencell in the corridor, peering through the walls at its occupant, the Aoran known as Evil Star.  He was stripped to the waist, wearing only purple tights with blue briefs and blue boots, and appeared to be sleeping fitfully, but roused himself somewhat as his observers approached.  Evil Star gazed back blearily at Stewart, Ganthet and Wununu.  With his body shape and skin color, he could have passed for a native of Earth, except for those far-gazing eyes – eyes feverish with a crazed hunger that was altogether alien.                 “The Aoran prisoner remains in the Sciencell to which he has been assigned,” Wununu observed dispassionately.                 “He does,” Stewart agreed, “but for what purpose?”                 “The same purpose for which the Guardians created the Corps, John Stewart,” Ganthet answered.  “The preservation of order in the universe.”  Stewart almost believed he could hear a trace of irony in Ganthet’s voice.                 “Evil Star has proven himself a grave threat in the past, imperiling entire solar systems,” Wununu added.  “Confined to a Sciencell, with his Starband dismantled, he threatens no one.  Order is preserved.”                 “While he slowly starves to death without stellar radiation,” Stewart said pointedly.                 “Untrue,” Wununu countered.  “His Sciencell has been specially configured to bathe him in a low-amplitude radiation similar enough to starlight to preserve his physiology.”                 “There are more ways to starve than physically, Wununu,” Stewart shook his head.                 “That sounds quite poetic, John Stewart,” Ganthet smiled slightly.  “Please explain.”                 “Evil Star is addicted to absorbing energy from stars.  He’s here because he sold his soul to Mongul to feed that very visceral need.*  Life without the way that absorbing starlight makes him feel … it isn’t really life, to Evil Star,” Stewart argued. (* Evil Star admitted as much in GL #210 – DG & TJB)                 “He is in no danger,” Wununu insisted.  “And so long as he remains within the Sciencell, he poses no danger to the galaxy.  Would you have us free him, John Stewart, to continue to visit death upon star systems in order to meet his own ‘need’?”                 “Of course not,” Stewart brushed aside Wununu’s remarks.  “I simply wanted to know if the Guardians were capable of seeing things in terms other than for and against order, of understanding how someone who opposes your goals actually feels.”                 “Emotions?  Subjective perceptions of reality?” Wununu asked.  “Such things were abandoned over the many eons of our transition to Guardianhood.”                 “Not the only things, in fact,” Ganthet put in cryptically.                 “So they mean nothing to you?” Stewart pressed.  He crossed the corridor to another Sciencell, and pointed at the occupant.  “What about Despero, fueled by his own hatred?  How do you wrap your minds around a concept like Despero if you negate the validity of feelings, even basic ones like hate?”                 Within the spherical confines of the Sciencell, Despero* sat with knees pulled up to his broad chest and powerful arms crossed around his shins.  His head slumped against his chest, leaving only his three eyes, dull and glassy, unhidden.  His red-violet skin and fin that crested the top of his skull seemed almost black behind the semi-transparent green of the Sciencell walls. (* Despero was defeated by the Justice League in JLA #268, and subsequently turned over to the Guardians as the JLA left on the Star Tsar mission – DG & TJB)                 “We do not argue the existence of a creature such as Despero,” Wununu said.  “We do not deny reality.  Emotions capable of equaling the power of rational thought occur in approximately 87 percent of all sentient lifeforms in the universe.  We understand the biochemical causes and even the physical effects of emotions, including an extreme case such as Despero.  But we lack the ability to share those emotions, to empathize, I believe you would say.”                 “Is that why you required the Green Lantern Corps to be composed of beings who are not just brave but completely without fear?” Stewart inquired.  “So that you would have at least that much in common with your…” – he stopped himself from saying ‘servants’ – “…agents?”                 Wununu ignored the question by pointing out, “Not all Green Lanterns are completely without fear.”                 “That’s true,” Stewart admitted, turning his attention to Ganthet, “not Kyle Rayner.”                 “No,” Ganthet agreed at once, a glimmer of satisfaction in his wizened eyes.  “Not Kyle Rayner.”                 “But the Guardians violated no natural order to create such living agents,” Wununu continued.   “Thousands upon thousands of life forms from as many species are fearless. Even human beings have fallen within that classification, John Stewart.  Yourself, Guy Gardner, and of course … Hal Jordan.”                                                                                                                                                 Hal Jordan made a low, airborne approach to Ferris Aircraft under the power of his ring, barely fifteen feet off the ground.  He had no desire to fly in high and disrupt an aircraft test by zipping through a carefully planned flight pattern.  Not only would it rattle the test pilot, it would probably grate on Carol Ferris’ nerves as well.  And Jordan had come to get himself back into Carol’s good graces.                 His first stop, as always, was the main hangar at the far end of the landing strip.  Jordan flew through the doorway and willed his ring to change his uniform to street clothes as he set his feet on the floor.                 “Hal!  Hey, how are you?” Tom Kalmaku asked, turning away from repair work on a jet as soon as he heard his friend enter the hangar.                 “Pretty good, Pieface,” Jordan answered amiably.  “How are things around here?”                 “They’re … all right …”                 “You don’t sound too sure about that, buddy,” Jordan pointed out with a quizzical expression for his friend.                 Kalmaku shook his head.  “Things are great,” he began to explain, “for me.  Business is good, I’m loving my job, all that.  But I’m looking at you, and I see that … that ‘Carol Ferris gleam’ in your eye.”                 “Am I that obvious?” Jordan laughed.  “Good thing you tell it like it is, Tom.  I can count on you to help me get my act together before I actually make it to Ms. Ferris’ office.”                 “Yeah, well, you see, that’s the thing, Hal,” Kalmaku forged ahead uncomfortably.  “You might not want to go see Carol today, actually …”                 “Why not?  Is she having a bad day?  In a lousy mood?”                 “Oh no, no, no.  She’s having a great day.  She just inked a contract to produce another twenty LONGBOWs*, including R&D stipends.  The head of Ferris Aircraft doesn’t have days any better than that.” (* The Light-Orbital Null-Gravity Battle-Optimized Warship prototype was unveiled in GL #213 – DG & TJB, on a recappin’ roll!)                 “So it’s me?” Jordan asked disappointedly.                 “Well, not you, not exactly …” Kalmaku sighed.  “But she spent all day singing the praises of the LONGBOW, including why Earth needs them … and you … remind her, I guess …”                 “Of aliens,” Jordan finished mercifully for his friend.  “Because there are aliens in the Corps, Carol can’t think of me without thinking of them.  And a day centered around her ultimate anti-alien weapon is going to have her ready to go off at just about anything.”                 “Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Kalmaku agreed, his face apologetic.  “So if you take my advice and don’t pay a call on your lady fair, what are you going to do?”                 “Don’t know,” Jordan admitted.  “I didn’t have any plans other than spending time with Carol.”                 “Okay, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” Kalmaku grinned.  “You’re going to help me finish this retrofitting.  Then you’re going to come back to my place for dinner.  It’s been forever since you saw Mukluk and the kids, hasn’t it?  They’ll love seeing you.  Then you’ll spend the night at our place – shut up, we’ve got plenty of room.  And then tomorrow’s my day off, and you and I can go catch a Dodgers game or something.  What do you say?”                 “Couple of days for the boys to be boys, huh?” Jordan asked, warming to the idea.  “All right, Pie, you got yourself a deal,” he smiled.                                                                                                                                                 John Stewart, Ganthet and Wununu Werro Wa had proceeded farther down the Sciencell corridor.  Now they looked in on a Sciencell that contained nothing except an opaque, mottled liquid, gray-green through the corridor materials.  The liquid filled approximately one-third of the spherical cell.                 “T’Amm S’Amga,” Ganthet nodded knowingly, “who took the nom du guerre of ‘Zenturion.’  A white Martian, left in our custody by Katar Hol of Thanagar.*  Oh, the tales which could be told of Sector 2814 Green Lanterns’ dealings with the planet Mars, long before life on Earth had proceeded beyond the multi-cellular, John Stewart …” (* At the end of Hawkman # 46 – TJB and DG, who know things in continuity that haven’t even been written yet!!!)                 Stewart regarded Ganthet with polite curiosity, but Wununu fixed his fellow Guardian with a withering glare.  “Tales which could be told … another time,” Ganthet finished with a wry smile, maintaining eye contact with his brother Guardian.                 “The tale of this particular Martian is simple enough, though,” Stewart said.  “Hawkman and the Atom stopped him from freeing all of the whites” – Stewart could not help but chuckle inwardly at the irony of speaking those words – “and loosing mass chaos on Earth, but realized no conventional restraints could lock down a shapeshifting Martian.  And another unearthly threat was dropped on our doorstep.  ‘Order is preserved’ via T’Amm S’Amga’s imprisonment…”                 “Although the manner of his imprisonment is most disorderly,” Ganthet interjected.  “S’Amga’s Sciencell resonates with a metamorphic inhibitor which prevents the Martian’s body from achieving any kind of meaningful cohesion.  His body is in the most entropic state imaginable.”  The wry smile on Ganthet’s face persisted.                 “As I was going to say,” Stewart finished, “his imprisonment as soup in a bowl.”                 “The Guardians have taken only the necessary measures to ensure the threats represented by these prisoners remain neutralized,” Wununu said unhurriedly, expressing the closest outward signs of impatience his kind were capable of manifesting.  “Your argument seems to return again and again to the unnatural states in which the prisoners are kept, John Stewart.  Bear in mind the Guardians did not arbitrarily impose these states, nor did they seek out these creatures for such imposition.  The prisoners in the Sciencells flagrantly and destructively violated the bounds of order.  They are criminals, on an order which surpasses the laws of Earthly governments.  As such, it falls upon the Guardians to deal with them, and to prevent the commission of future crimes against order.”                 “And so you would keep them prisoners … for the rest of their lives?” Stewart asked.  “Forever?” He directed his companions’ attentions to the Sciencell across from the Martian’s.  Within it, an upright mass of reptilian tentacles, their color washed out by the similarly hued walls, stood at attention.  Numerous tentacles formed the base of the creature, with two main off-shooting tentacles where a humanoid’s arms would be and a swarm of smaller tentacles in place of a face.  “This Durlan was a remnant of Mongul’s horde and attempted to slaughter a group of humans before Hal intervened.*  Now he is a prisoner of the Corps.  But he also has a name, Deef Kubbik, and a mind, but he will be paralyzed forever in a Sciencell because of one act of aggression?” (* It happened in GL #213 – DG & TJB, in our Final Footnote!  Thank You!)                 “Kubbik’s metamorphic lock is every bit as necessary as S’Amga’s metamorphic inhibitor,” Wununu answered, unmoved.                 “Although the Durlan’s sentence seems far more closely aligned with the aims of the Guardians,” Ganthet added, almost to himself.                 “Necessary, yes, just as necessary as isolating Evil Star from stellar radiation.  And bombarding Despero with alpha waves to make it impossible for him to hate the Justice League, or anything else for that matter.  But these kinds of absolute measures, they’re just a different shade of taking away the life of each and every one of them.  Why not simply kill them?” Stewart demanded, his own voice rising in response to the implacable demeanors of the Maltusians.                 “Are you advocating such measures, John Stewart?” Wununu asked, arching a bushy white eyebrow.                 “Absolutely not.”                 “Then we come to the true crux of the issue.  Rehabilitation, correct?” Wununu asked, and Stewart nodded.  “For if we keep an entity alive, but not free, is it not in the hope that one day they may be free again without threatening that which they once did?”                 “That would be the idea,” Stewart agreed.                 “But, John Stewart, you yourself have argued that hate is what makes Despero, Despero.  Is that creature capable of becoming anything that we would knowingly release upon the universe?” Wununu posed the riddle to Stewart.                 “All things are possible, in an infinite universe,” Stewart proffered.                  “That is a paradox, John Stewart,” Ganthet interposed, with some sadness in his voice.  “Somehwere, in the infinite universe, a rock exists which is so massive that no force can move it.  Somewhere, in the infinite universe, a force or forces exist that can be aligned in such a way as to move any object.  How can both statements be true?  Not all ideas are true, because some must by their nature preclude others.”                 “A means may exist by which to reform an avatar of hatred such as Despero,” Wununu expounded.  “Or, Despero may exist as the single possibility among the infinite of an absolute, immutable evil.”                 “But, how are we to know which of those is true?” Stewart asked.  “Or do we just err on the side of caution and assume the latter?”                 “Come, John Stewart,” Wununu said, gesturing to the entry to the corridor.  “You realize we must discuss this further, for there is no one, simple, correct answer.”                 “There never is,” Ganthet agreed solemnly.                 Stewart nodded and exited the corridor, ascending the stairs, followed by Ganthet and Wununu.  As their footsteps receded, a quietude came over the Sciencells.  All four prisoners began to concentrate intensely.  Even in a fluid state, the white Martian T’Amm S’Amga was a powerful telepath.  He was able to project his consciousness just outside of his Sciencell, as could Despero, emotionally stunted but still mentally strong.  Deef Kibbuk had shape-shifted the structure of his own brainstem before his imprisonment to maximize his own telepathic capabilities.  Even Evil Star was latently telepathic.  The four criminal minds merged psionically in the space outside their Sciencells, in the center of the corridor.                 The fools waste time arguing philosophy among themselves, Kibbuk thought to the others.  Now is the time for us to strike against our captors.                Yes, Despero agreed in an icy mental monotone.  The Guardians must pay for extinguishing the burning flame that is my need to destroy the Justice League.  They will regret allowing me to remember that need as they drove it from my black heart.                 Are you ready to do your part, Evil Star? S’Amga asked telepathically.                 Yes … Evil Star responded weakly.  Now, while I yet have the energy … it must be now …                 The three others focused their wills on the Aoran, and Evil Star could feel them boosting his mental prowess.  Urgently, Evil Star broadcast a telepathic summons, attuned for one collective.                 And then the Sciencell prisoners could do nothing but wait.                                                                                                                                                 As night drew inexorably toward morning, a moribund Kyle Rayner sat in his darkened apartment, sprawled uneasily across the couch, flipping impatiently through the television channels with the remote.  Rayner’s malaise had little to do with the programming on television, or lack thereof.  He could have stumbled across the beginning of a Robotech marathon on cable and still would have felt out of sorts.  He had spent too many nights watching TV in the same position on the same couch, the only difference being Jenny.  Jenny would lie across his lap, her head resting on his chest, and together they would make running commentary on the programs they watched, or simply enjoy each other’s nearness silently.  It was innocent affection, barely flirtation, just one of the perks of being roommates.  Now Rayner felt like he would give up ten years of his life only to have the comfortable weight of Jenny-Lynn Hayden in his arms at that moment.                 An urgent knock on the apartment door propelled Rayner into motion.  He made a mental promise to go to church in the morning if Jenny was on the other side of the door.  The mere thought of seeing her smile again hastened his footsteps, and he unlocked the door and swung it open as urgently as if he were escaping a building on fire.  Standing in the hallway opposite him was a beautiful girl, but with decidedly tan skin, not green.  Not Jenny.                 “Haven,” Rayner sighed, in a tone that sounded to his ears as if he had managed to keep at least half of his disappointment out of his voice.                  “Hi, Kyle,” Haven responded in a weak voice.  Now Rayner could see that her eyes were rimmed in red, as if she had been crying.  “Am I … bothering you?  I know it’s late …”                 “No, no, no,” Rayner reassured her.  “Come in.  Please.”  He stood aside as she entered the apartment, and he shut the door behind her.  Haven walked to the middle of the room and stopped, uncertain.  “Haven, what’s wrong?” Rayner asked.                 “It’s … it’s … everything …,” Haven managed just before her tears renewed themselves.  She buried her face in her hands in sobbed.  Rayner put his arm around her shoulder and guided her to the couch.  She sat down on one end, and Rayner eased himself down on the other.  As Haven regained her composure, Rayner watched her carefully.  Her long blond hair was pulled up in a careless ponytail, and she wore a baggy gray sweatshirt and a faded pair of men’s boxers, as if she had been getting ready for bed, certainly not expecting to see anyone.  Still Haven was an undeniable natural beauty who couldn’t look unappealing in the worst of states.  The fact that the boxers she wore were extremely short and rode up her shapely thighs only added to her appeal to male eyes, especially Rayner’s.  Rayner told himself to stop looking at Haven’s legs.  “Can I get you something…?” he asked.                 Haven rubbed the heel of her palm into her eyes and looked across the couch at Rayner.  She sniffled, gave him a meek smile, and said, “Diet soda?”                 “No problem,” Rayner smiled back, and rose from the couch.  He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a box of tissues from over the sink, and opened the refrigerator door.  He spied a can of Diet Sprite and pulled it out, trying not to dwell on the fact that he was not the occupant of the apartment who had bought that particular beverage.  He returned to the living room.                 Haven had regained most of her composure, and accepted the tissues and the soda with gratitude.  She wiped her eyes, dabbed at her upper lip, and let the wadded tissue fall to the floor.  Then she popped open the soda can, producing a fine spray of carbonated mist.  Slowly, she licked droplets of Diet Sprite from her fingertips.                 “So, what part of everything has you so blue, lady?” Rayner tried to restart the conversation, in part to distract himself from the action of Haven’s tongue across her fingers.                 Haven sighed.  “I talked to my parents the other day,” she began.  “That’s always hard.”                 “Not a good relationship?”                 “I love my parents,” Haven said earnestly.  “Despite their best efforts to make that impossible.”  For a moment she seemed ready to cry again, but she pushed forward, “They don’t like the fact that I’m a model.  They don’t care how much money I make doing it, or how many people I’ve met and places I’ve gone because of it, or how happy it makes me, or anything … they just think it’s…”  Haven’s breath hitched, but again she fought back the tears, “… trashy.”                 Haven exhaled slowly.  “And it always comes up, whenever we talk.  They want to know when I’m going to get a real job.  They … they just don’t care how much it hurts that they look down on what I do so much.  Well, this last time they pissed me off so much …  I figured if they’re going to think that I’m trash, I might as well do something trashy.  So … I got a tattoo.”                 “Really?” Rayner asked.                 Haven nodded.  “I was on such a rip.  Seeing red.  I just marched in and picked one out for the mood I was in.  It’s … well, here, see for yourself.”  Haven crossed her arms and grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt.  Rayner cleared his throat uneasily, drawing a smile from Haven.  “Come on, Kyle, it’s not like you’ve never seen me in my underwear before,” she offered, reminding him of their first meeting in the hallway outside her apartment.  Before Rayner could object further the sweatshirt was over her head and deposited on the floor.  With some relief Rayner saw that Haven was wearing a lacy red bra underneath.  Above the right cup, the dark ink of the tattoo stood out on her tan skin.  Rayner cursed himself, but couldn’t help but wonder if Haven had tan lines.                 “What do you see?” Haven asked expectantly.                 “It … depends,” Rayner answered truthfully, his artistic senses examining the image inked in Haven’s flesh.  “It looks like a heart, or if you come at it a little differently, like a skull.”                 “That’s right,” Haven agreed.  “That’s why I picked it out, because I could see both those things, just like the pretty girl I like to think of myself as and the nasty thing my parent’s believe I am …”  Haven’s voice had a strong edge of anger, but began to dissolve as her eyes welled up.  “But now I’m not so mad anymore and I still have this big tattoo on my chest!  I’m not going to be able to model anything but turtlenecks ever again!  My parents still think I’m garbage and I can’t do … I can’t …”  Haven burst into tears and stood up violently from the couch, moving toward the door.  A couple of steps, and then she stopped, crying into her hands once again, her entire body shaking.                 “Hey,” Rayner tried to soothe her, crossing the area rug to stand behind her.  “Hey,” he said again as he put his hands on her shoulders.  Haven spun around and fell against Rayner, and he automatically put his arms around her and rubbed her bare back.                 “I’m so … stupid,” Haven cried miserably.                 “No, no you’re not,” Rayner told her.  “You made one hasty decision.”                 “And ruined my career.”                 “They can remove tattoos, you know.”                 “Not right away.”                 “Haven,” Rayner breathed into her ear, enjoying the softness of her hair against his cheek more than he would like to admit, “it’s going to be all right.”                 Haven lifted her head from his chest and looked into his eyes, desperate to believe him.  “Kyle …”                 “It’s going to be all right,” he repeated.  Her eyes bore into his, and no amount of restraint in the world could convince him that she was not beckoning him closer.  He lowered his face slightly, and she turned her own up as he did, and their lips met willingly.  It was a kiss that burned as hot as the sun.  Haven’s nails dug into Rayner’s sides as their mouths moved hungrily against each other.  The pain intensified Rayner’s passion and he kissed her more urgently.                 The escalation of the pain in his sides was so rapid that Rayner could not consciously react to it.  The charge blasting out from Haven’s fingertips engulfed Rayner like a lightning rod in a storm and dropped him where he stood.  He crashed in a heap to the floor, curling tendrils of smoke rising from his unconscious body.  Haven’s mouth twisted into an expression of predatory triumph and she headed for Rayner’s bedroom.                  On a shelf in Rayner’s bedroom closet, Haven found his power battery.  She took down the green device shaped like a lantern and pressed a finger to her wrist.  Her visual inducer ceased broadcasting and the image of her tan body clad in a red bra and gray and yellow striped boxers was replaced by a full suit of red armor trimmed in deep blue.  Only her face and her long blond hair remained unchanged.                 “Mankind shall not escape the Manhunters,” Haven proclaimed, and flew out the window of the apartment clutching the battery to her chest.  NEXT ISSUE: The Guardians’ greatest failure – on the offensive again!  The Earth’s deadliest extraterrestrial prisoners – plotting the Great Escape!  The most explosive Green Lantern storyline yet – beginning next month!