What you just missed... an alien mercenary arrived on Earth in search of an object simply known as the dial. It tracked its location by following a man named Robby Reed, who narrowly escaped the hunter's grasp. Several hundreds of miles west, in Hub City, Detective Shawn Stevens and his partner, Kelly Robinson, apprehended a strangely compliant gang, though an unidentified gunman nearly killed Robinson. The next day, Stevens discussed the incident with Chief Izzy O'Toole, one of the few decent men in the HCPD. After returning home, Stevens was contacted by Reed, a man from his past, and not far behind him was an impatient mercenary from the stars...

Shawn Stevens - Nick, to very, very few people, and no one in Hub, by the way - felt an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu in the pit of his churning stomach. As bad as Hub City was, even now, without the Question watching over it, it didn't bother him as much as the scene played out in front of him did. Even when Heatwave ambled through, torching a building or two just for the hell of it... even when Quakemaster was hired by someone on the City Council (though no one could prove it) to demolish the second-most travelled bridge in town... they were just guys. And Stevens never actually saw them do their dirty work, either.

This was a different, turn-back-the-clock-type of matter. Back in Fairfax, years ago, Stevens (and Reed, especially Reed) were used to facing creatures and rogues of varying sizes and shapes, He never thought it would follow him to Hub. But it did.

"I want the dial," the hunter repeated, more intensely than before. It was obvious that English was not his native tongue, and Stevens supposed that made sense. Why would aliens living millions of light-years from Earth, with physiologies and cultures that were radically different from any based on this little blue-and-green planet, be up to date on 21st century North American English? Why not Spanish or Chinese?

To compensate for his linguistic failing (though one could argue Stevens and Reed were equally culpable for not understanding his language), he was orbitted, for lack of a better term, by a metallic globe that interpreted his words a second or so after he spoke them. This resulted in a waiting game of sorts, wherein the two humans looked at the mercenary like he was being voiced over by a high-pitched Stephen Hawking. If he wasn't carrying such a big fucking gun, it might have even been comical.

"I don't have it... anymore..." Reed wheezed. He shot a hard glance at Stevens, as if to tell him: deny everything.

"You are lying," the bounty hunter said via the robotic translator. "I can smell it on you. It's close. "

Stevens held up his hand in protest. "Hey, no, it's not. It used to be, but when Robby gave it to me, I pawned it a little while later. Sorry, guy, can't help."

"So why would he run to you then?"

"Gee, I don't know - maybe to warn me about the goddamn alien psycho-killer trying to retrieve the thing that no one has?" Stevens was a good liar - sadly, it came with being a detective in Hub City - and he prayed that his confrontational attitude would serve as a bluff. "If you 'smell it' on him, then you probably smell it here, too, though I don't know why you'd want to smell anything in Hub. Maybe that's what screwing up that nose of yours."

For a moment, the mercenary actually seemed to be contemplating the veracity of the detective's proposal. Then he pointed his very large rifle at Reed. "Tell your friend to shut his mouth. This is your last chance to tell me the truth, little human. Find the dial, or prepare for a night of pain you cannot possibly comprehend. Furthermore, if I have to find it myself, and find myself confronted by other beings like yourselves, I will have no choice but to treat them as hostile. I would prefer not to do so, but I will."

Reed and Stevens looked at each other helplessly. Finally, the detective muttered, "I'll get it. Stay here before you freak out the whole neighborhood."

"I should have just kept the damn thing," Reed said mournfully. "It would have kept you out of this."

"You did the right thing, Robby," Stevens argued. "That dial was a magnet for trouble - at least, in your hands. And look, you were getting too old for that superhero shit, anyways. It was a lot safer in my hands."

"Until now."

"Yeah... stay here, don't do anything dumb, and let's just let the weirdo have it, OK? What're the odds he knows how to operate it?"

"I don't think he wants to use it himself," Reed offered. "I think he's been hired -"

"Get. The. Dial." The mesomorphic death-dealer aimed his rifle at Stevens' skull. "I don't want its previous owner touching it. Now go."

Seeing zero options left on the table, he reluctantly turned his back to his friend, hoping that he would still be alive when he returned. Shawn Stevens trusted about five people in the entire world; he fully expected whatever the hell was ordering them around to leave them lying on the pavement. Fuckin' aliens...

He ran up the stairs three at a time, unlocked his door, and jogged to his closet. Buried underneath a pile of blankets was the trunk that he also kept locked; he also bolted it to his floor, just to be on the safe side. The street-savvy cop kept a variety of items in it - nothing incriminating, but nonetheless intrinsic to perfomring his tasks a bit more efficiently. Guns, his body armor, a few thousand dollars to pay the informants he wanted to keep off the HCPD ledgers... and the dial. The original Dial.

Several years earlier, Robby Reed discovered the enigmatic device in Littletown, Colorado. A small, circular machine that bestowed him with exotic and unique abilities but only for a finite time, and never the same alter ego. He used it to fight equally bizarre threats, until one day, he vanished from public view. A couple of years later, as if to fill the void, two teenagers obtained similar dials, and they were transformed into one-of-a-kind adventurers, defending themselves from both mundane criminals and macabre creatures. Eventually, Chris King and Victoria Grant encountered the Master, the villainous aspect of Robby Reed, as well as the Wizard, his heroic side. The two personas merged, Reed gave his dial to Stevens, and the teenagers "retired" to try to assume normal lives... but that was not to be.

Stevens never used the dial, not once. His involvement with the trio of semi-active metahumans was rather incidental... you'd think. He was a young aspring artist, inspired by the exploits of Superman and the Justice League and all of their compatriots. Nick, as he was known to all in Fairfax, drew make-believe superheroes in his spare time, at home or at school. He never wanted to be one, of course... it was just art. But as fate would have it, he was inadvertantly, subconsciously, affecting the very powers King and Grant were "issued" each time they pushed the letters H-E-R-O. Later on, he refined this control, and they discovered that he could influence their abilities to a far greater degree. Thus, the artist was basically an equal partner, an equally important hero, during their brief period in Fairfax's history.

The angry detective put the first device under his left arm. Then he loaded his Remington 870 shotgun, ready to blow the blue-skinned bastard's head off just in case.

When he got back outside, Stevens held the dial in front of him, and said, "Here you go. No tricks. Let us go, and I'll throw it over."

"Throw it to me, and I will let you go." Same words, different meaning.

Before he could continue the debate, the mercenary lifted his heavy firearm and pulled the trigger. A muted bolt of energy, akin to a laser, went through the bridge of Reed's nose and exited through the back of his skull, and the retired hero pitched forward on his face, dead before he hit the ground.

"It served no purpose letting its former owner live," the alien frowned. "He might have been tempted to use it again... also, I was hired to kill him once he led me to it. You do not have to suffer his fate, human. In fact, I would prefer not to kill you."

Stevens was dazed; he barely heard the second-hand words emanating from the translating globe. He and Reed were not close friends, but for a very brief time, they shared a bond, albeit one that seemed to be forced upon them rather than mutually chosen. In truth, they barely knew each other, but Reed trusted Stevens, so much so that he handed him a device - a weapon, really - that was part Pandora's Box, part Aladdin's lamp. He gave it to a young stranger and settled in Fairfax to live a normal life, and until a few days ago, that was that.

That was before his frontal lode was baked and scattered like fiery embers.

When the murderer fixed his gaze on Stevens, the angry cop slowly held up his shotgun by the barrel, and threw it away in a show of compliance. As the Remington skidded across the pavement and onto the cold grass, the alien smiled a fractional smile. He was more than satisfied when it came to a stop underneath a battered, graphitti-riddled wodden fence.

Which was exactly what Stevens was praying would happen. He needed every millisecond he could wring out of the situation, because he knew he only had one chance to dial the word H-E-R-O.

The transformation happened so quickly, he never even had time to wonder if the sensations he experienced mirrored those of the dial's previous users. His senses were overloaded; every one of the five seemed to be amplified tenfold, but only for a fraction of a second. The gaudy attire that replaced his jeans and jacket would not be his first choice if he was picking something out of the closet for a date, but all things considered, it was not bad. Hell, it wasn't the cape-and-speedo look that seemed to be all the rage of the superhero set.

After his body stopped tingling, Stevens checked out his garb. The one-piece suit were solid red, and he wore boots, gloves, and a wide belt that was closer to orange. There was a fiery logo stitched over his chest; upon closer inspection, it was his initials, and he could not help rolling his eyes.

All of this took place in less than a second. The nameless mercenary bellowed in rage, never anticipating that the stranger would try to actually use the dial... but after witnessing the change, he realized he should have done just that. After all, the other humans were randomly chosen, intuituvely able to understand a weapon that was more complex and powerful than their pitiful brains could possibly fathom. But now, this one had activated it, and if he acted unafraid before, he was certainly fearless now.

He fired at Stevens, who did not attempt to dodge the lethal energy bolt. Indeed, he could not - he did not even see it coming. However, to the gunman's dismay, it had no effect on Stevens, who stared down at his chest as he bore the full impact of the blast. Tiny, fiery sparks ricocheted from his upper body. He took a small step backward, as if surprised, or unsettled by the fact that he was still drawing breath. Then, as he had seen Chris King and Vicki Grant and others do on television, the costumed cop extended his arms in front of him, and pointed at the bounty hunter.

The laserlike beam that the blue-skinned alien shot at Stevens was fired back at him. The body armor he wore under his tunic proved to be no defense for the energy ray, and it went right through him. His heart exploded like a overcooked pizza pocket, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Stevens waited for several seconds, then he cautiously walked toward the quivering assassin, whose massive limbs were twitching as death ultimately set in. The street-savvy detective kept his hands up, all but one of his fingers curled into his palms like he was a child playing guns; he was fully aware of the absurdity of his gesture, but it was just as ridiculous as the uniform he wore.

"Stop or I'll shoot," he hissed as he peered down at his fallen foe. Once he was sure that the bounty hunter was no longer a threat - and as he mused later, how the hell was he ever going to be sure? - Stevens took a look around. While he was not completely surprised that there were no witnesses to the surprisingly brief showdown, the transformed detective could not help wondering if anyone saw it. The sidewalk was clear; the street was bare. If anyone was in the vicinity, he or she was doing their best impersonation of a silent shadow now. Just as well... I feel like a goddamn clown in this outfit.

Then he turned his attention to Reed. As awful as he felt - as guilty as he felt, needlessly assuming the burden upon his own shoulders - he had to sanitize the area. This sort of shit might fly in Metropolis, but he really didn't want to be the first cop on the HCPD to fill out a report about it in his hometown. Magic dials and gun-toting starmen.... and dead friends... it just wasn't something he wanted to do. Tonight, or any other night.

In fact, the only thing that did not surprise him was the fact that no officers were dispatched to investigate the ruckus. More accurately, they probably were dispatched, but decided that other matters warranted their attention, like beating up vagrants or getting wasted. And if he had to be honest with himself, how fast would he have gotten to the scene if that came across his radio? Not very.

Unfortunately for Stevens, the only guy he would have trusted to help him was still laid up in the hospital. Kelly Robinson was shot at point-blank range, saved only by his Kevlar vest, the night before, and it would be a couple of more days before he was released. He could trust him to keep his mouth shut, too... dammit. What am I supposed to do with this?

The suddenly weary cop exhaled heavily, staring at the heavy rifle the dead marksman still held. If it could fire a narrow beam, could it fire a wider one? Stevens wrenched it out of the corpse's grip and analyzed the alien weapon for a few seconds, trying to decipher the switches and gauges. As morbid as the thought was, he wanted to literally burn the evidence. Remove all traces of both Reed (reluctantly) and the bounty hunter (as fast as he could). But as experienced as he was with firearms manufactured on the planet Earth, he could barely figure out how to unlock the trigger.

Then he wondered - no, he realized - with nauseating and literal finality that he would have to take matters into his own hands.

Still charged by the energy beam that No-Name McKiller hit him with, Stevens pointed his index finger at the massive man and vaporized him with a single stream of cosmic fire. Shaking his head in sorrowful disgust, he did the same to his former friend a moment later.

An hour later, far from his apartment, Shawn/Nick sat in his car a few miles north of the city. He was tired, emotionally drained and physically numb. The red uniform was gone. His energy-reflecting powers were gone. He was the same guy as before... well, except for the fact that he was carrying around a small dial that seemed capable of transforming him into Bat-this or Super-that. The idea of throwing into the river passed through his mind, albeit fleetingly. if he just abandoned it, who was going to prevent the next psychopathic E.T. from coming down and taking it?

Then again, why the fuck was that his problem?

If he had just given the dial to the mercenary, maybe Robbie would still be alive.

If he had activated the dial sooner, maybe he could have saved Robbie.

If he had just gotten assigned to Opal like he dreamed several years ago... aw, hell. Why am I overanalyzing this?

"Why am I overanalyzing this?" he said aloud, staring at the engimatic instrument sitting in the passenger seat. The detective mumbled a few other profanities under his breath, and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

"You have questions. They can be answered." The words came from the Dial.

"It began millions of years ago, on the planet Oa..."

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa," Stevens said slowly, incredulously. Robby never told him his Dial could talk, nor did Chris or Vicki. He picked it up and inspected it, looking for a speaker. The unexpected, metallic voice emanated from somewhere within the circular device, but after a full two minutes, he gave up trying to find its source. After everything that occurred tonight, what did it really matter?

"It was created by the Guardians -"

"I said shut up, dammit!"

"There is nothing to 'shut up'. You are hearing these words in your mind. You are subconsciously accessing the Dial's black box, and though you deny you want to know the origin of the device with your words, you do want to know its secrets."

Stevens pondered that for a moment, then asked, aloud, "Black box? I always kind of figured that was a... human phrase."

"It is. But that's the phrase that makes the most sense to you."

He sighed.

"The Guardians were responsible for the formation of the Green Lantern Corps, as well as the Manhunters. Both groups maintained law and upheld justice on behalf of thousands of planets, and trillions of sentient beings. However, it recently occurred to the Guardians - as you measure time - that they needed a third type of defender. One unlimited by the conventional weaknesses that impeded the Lanterns' rings, a weapon that required equal amounts of bravery, skill, and imagination."

"Scientists from a hundred planets worked on a new weapon. Their goal was to create an instrument that would intuitively react to the threat it faced. By analyzing the abilities and weaponry of the opponent, in a span of nanoseconds, with scanning technology that dissected its foe to the core. Within its presence, the instrument 'knew' immediately what the strengths and weaknesses of the threat were, and how best to combat it."

"By giving the guy that wore it random powers? How is that best?" Stevens asked.

"The Dial, as it came to be known here, activates the latent metagene contained by every member of your species. The randomness you refer to is not a design flaw. It does work as intended, activating and specifically manipulating the gene so that the person using it would be, in essence, perfectly protected from the threat. Protected, and empowered to defeat it."

The cop looked up to the roof of his car as if in pain. "So... it works. But... what? It's activating the wrong gene? Seems to me that Chris and Vicki weren't exactly given the right set of powers every time they had to fight somebody. Hell, they usually won despite the fucked up powers they got."

"They were never meant to wear the Dial, therefore it didn't work as intended. The Guardians had a different human in mind - but he never received it."

"Who?"

"A man named Will Everett. He was born almost a hundred years ago -"

"I know who he is," Stevens interrupted. "He was in the '36 Olympics, ran track with Jesse Owens, and won a couple of races in Germany."

"Later in life, he became the hero called Amazing Man. He was the Guardians' chosen protector, possessing every attribute they sought. But the Green Lantern assigned to deliver it was ambushed during her flight to Earth, attacked by a fleet of Daxamite pirates. Injured, but less than halfway to her destination, she pressed on. Unfortunately, it was a long journey, and others tried to steal the weapon as well. She fought bravely, but by the time she reached your solar system, the Green Lantern had endured numerous attacks, and she was gravely injured.

"The killing blow was inflicted as she crossed over your West Coast. She was pursued by a military jet, and fatally wounded. Flying for a few hundred more miles, she finally fell. She dropped the dial and continued on foot until she died, hiding herself from where anyone could find her remains. And of course, no one found her, or the Dial, for over thirty years."

"But Robby didn’t find his Dial that long ago, he’d’ve been just a kid," Stevens interrupted.

"He wasn’t the first Earthman to use it," countered the mechanical narrator. "It was discovered in the forests of northern Colorado by an unemployed drifter, an ordinary and unassuming man that the Guardians obviously never intended to bestow the Dial upon. Yet fate had indeed made sure that an appropriate individual was given the power of the Dial. He used it honorably, and bravely, using it to fight crime and corruption… but like Reed later on, not being its intended recipient, he was unable to utilize it to its full potential. Like Reed, he could only manifest randomly-assigned abilities, and only for a short period of time. The technology that activated his latent metagene was… improperly calibrated."

"Hold on. Who’s this guy now? I’ve never heard of a hero before Robbie."

"Why would you? This occurred before you were born, in a relatively sparsely populated region of your world. This occurred in an era that did not have cable TV, or tabloid print media, or a worldwide web. And he only used the dial a handful of times."

"What happened to him?"

"He died."

Stevens waited for more, but the Dial was silent. "…Can you elaborate? Christ, you’ve told me everything else about everything else!"

"He was injured in combat, fighting a creature called Solomon Grundy. But before he died, he used the dial one last time. He did not spell ‘hero’, though – he spelled the word ‘live’."

The bewildered detective pondered that for a moment. He knew that, years earlier, Reed spelled different words on the device as well. Doing so, he was split into two entirely separate entities that hated each other, a fact the Hub City detective never quite wrapped his head around.

"So when he typed in 'live', he... came back to life?"

"Yes."

"And retired?"

"No. You misunderstand. The man's body died, but he was reborn. Reincarnated. As you."

"What the fuck?" As if he had not experienced enough insanity - even before moving to Hub City, even before the events of the last few hours - he was utterly shellshocked. "I've... I was alive before now? Bullshit."

"Why do you suppose you were able to influence the appearance and characteristics of Grant and King? You were subconsciously reaching out to the dial, a device you 'remembered' using thirty years earlier. If tonight is any indication, you might even be able to utilize it to its full potential. The abilities you demonstrated tonight seemed ideally suited to disposing of the threat you faced."

Stevens rested his forehead on the steering wheel in exasperation, and forced himself to analyze the situation as calmly as he could. He sat in silence for three minutes, during which time he came to only one immutable conclusion - he was keeping it. It had to be protected, and kept away from anyone or anything else that came looking for it. And he couldn't deny that he might even be able to use it to keep Hub from getting any worse.

"So what now?" he asked. "Are you gonna keep talking to me in my head?"

It was silent. Maybe it revealed everything it had to. Maybe Stevens was unable to hear it telepathically.

Maybe the fucking thing's broken, he thought sourly.

He turned his car back to the city. He had had enough.