His last year of school, Evan had a kindly, old lady teaching his Fundamentals of Biology class, the last period of the day. She had watched him all year, desperately trying to coax out some potential from the class slacker, who's only motivation when he came to school (which wasn't often) was to crack up his other friends in the back of class. She would kick him out of class for catching him with pot, and the kids in the back of the class would hoot and holler as he shuffled out of class. He wouldn't be seen again, staying home for longer than his required suspension period, and then every few weeks, he would just show up again, drunk as ever. She would talk to him and talk to him, trying to be hard, trying to be soft. Trying desperately to do nothing more than slip some nugget of motivation through his eyes. He didn't have to understand the concept of hard work or education, the message just had to reach him.

For a full year, she pushed and pulled. And at the end of it all, when she watched him walk out the door to go watch all his peers graduate she sat at her desk and cried. Because for the first time in her life she had met a child she truly considered beyond help, and her faith in her abilities as a teacher and her faith in human potential itself, was shaken.

….But then, Evan had that effect on people.

Evan thought vaguely of his teacher as he sat on a couch in his basement, although the setting would be impossible to discern. It was completely dark, like a snapshot of something, framed in pure, black space. The only source of light was a dim light bulb hanging by a long thread, swinging back and forth with no clear direction, as though lost. The light caught on rising whips of smoke in an unnerving fashion.

But Evan noticed none of this. In fact, after his dull mind glanced past the thought of his defeated teacher, he slid slowly into images of an enjoyable encounter with an ex-girlfriend. And then he returned to his joint. And then he grabbed a needle and shot up.

Shadow painted itself on his face, as his eyes twitched in pain, then rolled back, as a pleasant, if slightly painful sensation started in his arm, then slowly burned it's way up to his shoulder. His breathing increased, and the short, rough pants were the only sound in the room as a feeling like hot glue dripped slowly through the veins in his body.

He stood up, to stretch the aching muscles in his legs. He pushed forward, stumbling a bit, unsure of his feet. Four steps… Five steps… his breathing got more ragged, and one leg faltered beneath. He whipped out his arm obliviously, knocking over various personal effects as he searched blindly for support.

Blinking to clear the haze before his eyes, he leaned over and dragged his fingers across the carpet, trying to reclaim whatever he'd knocked down. His breathing was heavy, and over it's ragged procession he didn't hear the phone until the third ring.

At first he wondered what it was, this blaring intrusion from the corner of the room. He ignored it as he searched in vain for the fallen items. Every movement was a struggle, muddled and confused. Fine motor skills didn't instantly respond if they did at all. He felt like he was swimming through dirty jelly, and the murky atmosphere of the room made it feel as such. As he bent down, his mind barely registered his knees giving out beneath him. It was like the muscles around the area were responding, but no knees at all existed, just that kind of "sleeping-foot" tingle.

He fell.

His body thudded onto the ground, and his heart beat furiously against his chest. The excitement within his body, and the redness creeping in from the corner of his eyes a stark contrast to the shifting blackness of the room around him. He could feel his blood running franticly through his veins. Hot like lava. His heartbeat surged in his head, as the horse raced through his body. All sound was drowned between the unsteady thump of his heart.

*Beep!*

The answering machine clicked on, and Everett focused on whoever was calling him. "Mr. Hollis, this is Mrs. Eas, your parole officer. I'm just calling to remind you of our meeting tomorrow morning to assess your progress. I'll be at the police station in the city at eight. I hope this message gets to you, because I don't need to stress the importance of your being there. Failing to attend this meeting could be the only thing keeping you out of jail, after that unfortunate incident with the old man you knifed in the back… He's doing fine by the way. Just got out of the hospital, if you care… I hope to see you tomorrow Everett."

*Beep!*

He lay there, on the ground, silent, for what seemed like hours, but was likely only minutes. His body racked in pain, he tried to shiver or shake, but couldn't. The silence was stale in the room, and all he had to quiet his thoughts of pain was the thump of his heart.

A door creaked, and bright scared eyes looked to see who was coming into his basement.

"Oh man, not again…," a friendly voice said, upon discovery.

A stocky, young black man, his hair tied back in mild dreadlocks, knelt down to inspect his friend.

"Hey, man. You okay? Hey Ev," he implored.

But Everett couldn't respond. The man bent down, pulling his friend up, and supporting him over his shoulders. He led him to a sink and splashed some water on his face.

Everett reached up, the thunder in his body quieted. He wiped the water from his face. "I'm okay, man. S-S'okay."

"Why were you on the ground, man?"

"Jus- I jus' fell. S'all…" he slurred. "I'm okay."

Everett felt for support against the wet sink, balance returning to his body.

"Hey, can I crash at your place, tonight? I gotta' meet with that… fem-cop again tomorrow. Stuck up…," he trailed off.

"Yeah, yeah sure, you can crash at my place tonight. Too bad though. We're gonna' have some fun goin' down right here tonight."

But Everett ignored him. "Yeah…yeah, whatever. I gotta meet with that cop again tomorrow. G-Gotta' crash at your place tonight…" he sputtered, marching towards the small wooden stairwell. "Help me to your car, man."

So the two men, walked up the stairs together, out of the dark, silent room into the bright, white square that was the door out into the evening.

Everett's father sat alone, his usual custom. He was a short black man, and fat. Not so much in the gut, but in the disgusting sag under his arms that shook when he talked. The middle-aged man's eyes were set far apart from each other and were so squinty it was impossible to draw any emotion from them. He sat by himself in a big, dark living room. He liked it dark, just like Everett did. He chewed cheetoes in his mouth, and the orange stained his lips and fingers.

It had been past Everett's curfew. His friends had taken him out, and they had partied late into the night. That night was not his first exposure to alcohol, but it was his first exposure to marijuana. His mind struggled to recall, but his age must have been about 13.

Nice, new sneakers gave the entrance away, as he tried to sneak into their small house. The squeak on the linoleum slipped out like a brat of a young best friend, eager to turn him in for doing something naughty.

"Sit down here, boy," Everett's father called out, spitting cheetoes upon himself. "I'm s'posa talk to ya... don't know why I gotta' wait up so late to do it...," he trailed off, mumbling to himself.

A young punk in a small afro and an earring, newly pierced, sauntered over to the chair beside the couch. A poker face was put in place, as his permanent one had not yet been developed. The boy flung himself down onto the chair.

The word "mute" set itself on the bottom of the TV screen, and a flickering blue light bathed the room in it's glow. Everett's dad set the remote control down on a tacky pink tv tray.

"Whatchu' doin' back so late, boy?"

"I was out with some fri-," Everett began.

"You was out witcho' friends. I know, I know. Rodney right? Heesa' only one I know. The girl too. And whatever buncha' hoodlums you associate yo'self with these days. Buncha' good for nothin'.... You're motha', she wants me to have that... "sex talk" with you, and here you go makin' me wait up all night, so's I gotta' deal with you when it's late."

The everyday ramblings of his father were being sifted for important tidbits. Everett got up to leave. "Sex talk?" Oh man... Pops, I'm going to bed. This is stupid...," he turned to leave.

But his father swung up in the recliner. He pointed his finger dead at his son. "Now, you- you sit you're-," he started, before a wet mass of Cheeto caught in his throat and started up an ugly, gargling coughing fit. He raised up a fist, and wiped the spittle from his chin, and pointed his finger back at the boy. "I said, you sit your little butt down and listen to me!"

Cowed by the look in his father's eyes, he sat down.

"Alright, now sex is very important... lessee' now," he started, uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, and pulled out a cigarette. "Completely ridiculous…Now, you gotta' always protect yourself. No son of mine is gonna' be too cheap to go out and buy his'self a pack of condoms. You don't want to make a mistake and wind up with some kid like your mother did. Cuz' lord knows you can't raise a child, and if you think I am, you got another thing coming."

The words caught Evan's attention. His parents had often told him of the circumstances of his birth, in less than political terms. He was a mistake.

"God, what else?… Oh, for God's sake, a fool boy like you shouldn't be messin' around with girls anyway! You got one job, 'cuz you only got one thing you're good at, working here in the junkyard with me. This is where you belong. In the yard, with the cars, 'cuz you just ain't good for anything else. This is where your life is, and I want you here, not out foolin' around with young girls."

Evan fought down the urge to yell, and reached for a cheeto. He leaned back in the chair, it's scratchy fabric rubbing his back raw every time he moved. It was falling apart, and creaked underneath even his lithe body. It let out a long, high creak as he sat back.

"No way, pops. I hate that junkyard! It's boring out there, listening to you yell at your customers, and it's hot out in the sun, and those cars stink. I'm applying at the diner in town. The girls come by there all the time-"

Surprisingly, like lightning, a thick fat hand flew out, and backhanded him across the jaw with a sick THWACK. His father's face flinched in anger, and the tv hummed silently in front of them. He lifted his arm for another strike, then tucked it back into his jeans pocket.

"Don't argue witcho' elders, boy. Listen to you. Applying at the diner. Look at you twitchin' boy. You couldn't hold plates or take orders. What are you good for there? Nothing. You'd just screw it up. You were born to be where you are, and you just don't have the brains to do anything else. Being a junkman's a perfectly respectable position in society, and it was good enough for me, to support your mother, and your lousy self all these years!"

He got up, and loomed over his son, who still rubbed his sore cheek. Wetness welled up in the boys eyes. "Or is that? You think you're too good for this place? You're so much better than this? Is that it?"

Evan shook his head no.

"Good," he stated flatly as he sat back down in his chair again, and turned up the volume. Sharply he whispered, as if too himself, "Never say you're too good for something…"

Evan closed his eyes, and waited until the tears were gone from his eyes, and his body stopped shaking. He looked at his father, and contemplated apologizing, or smashing him in the face. Darkness crept in, and the flickering TV was the only light in the room. The buzz filled his ears. Finally, he just got up to leave.

He turned on his way up the small flight of stairs. "Dad… I-I got this teacher. She said…"

"Shut it, boy," his father commanded.

Dreams. Since being forcefully bonded to the Spectre, they had been the worst part of the package. Because no matter the harrowing experiences Corey Jobe had been through in the past few weeks with his new immortal partner, at least he knew they were real. Be it the showdown in the church, or pursuit of John Jemas from his apartment, Corey could always reach out, and feel cold wall against his fingertips, and though it never eased the terror, at least the young boy could be sure he had not yet gone mad.

But the dreams… he would close his eyes at night, and instantly he would be attacked. A barrage of visions would set itself upon his sleeping mind. Night after night, the silent Spectre would glide along the chilled Atlanta streets, stopping his tireless march only at the sign of his prey. And Corey would wince along with every rapist stabbed by his own knife, or serial killer thrown from the top floor of their apartment to the hungry ground below.

And it tainted his other subconscious meanderings as well. Whenever it seemed the midnight life of the Spectre would give him a moment's respite, whatever dream he might have slipped into would slowly transform into a synopsis of the life of some poor soul. Snapshots of their most intimate past was open before his eyes, complete with details regarding every cold-blooded murder they may have committed. Eyes that had only had so many years to condition themselves to PG-13 movies, were subject to the most brutal first degree murder. Every night.

But this night, and this dream, were different. It was not so much like a dream as a nightmare, but then it wasn't so much of a nightmare either. Because the intent did not seem to be to frighten so much as to convey some kind of message. But that didn't make it any less terrifying.

The first thing he noticed was that everything was red. Dark red. Blood red. And it was hot. Even through a dream he thought he could feel it. It ebbed and flowed, although their was no wind, like streams of sweltering heat, riding upon the back of other such streams. The floor and wall were rough collections of jagged rock. And Corey wasn't alone. At least six unclear individuals circled him, standing abrasively in a dark corridor, lit by torches. They were of varying ages, and physical characteristics but all stood strong and proud, and looked gallant and mythic, despite their strange apparrel. F he concentrated, he thought he could correctly clarify them as a group of all men… and one woman.

And that was when he would look down. His hands were white and effervescent and a thick cloak, in a dark shade of green, hung about his shoulders. At this point in the dream, it always surprised Corey too realize he looked not through his own eyes. He was the Spectre. When he awoke, Corey could not muster up any more disturbing thought.

The scene changed. Corey/The Spectre fought in the middle of a cramped dungeon, built by bones. Some armored menace a demon legion against the dream's other brightly-garbed characters. Horrible goblins poured out of every crevice, in all shapes an sizes. None looked like the other. Their flesh was hot and dry, some with scales, some with chunks of rock or even bone peeking out from beneath the sinews. Their teeth were sharp and jagged like razors, and their eyes burned dumb hatred.

They surged forth as one, collapsing like a wave. And the others fought back. An old man would disappear one second, and then reappear the next. His feet were as fast as lightning, but with such little room to move, his speed was of no use. Even so, he fought fearlessly, every movement dedicated to the protection of his companions it seemed. He wore a stylized red sweater, with a lightning bolt on the front. And as he ran, the torch's flickering light bounced off of his silver cap, a helmet that made him look like some Midwestern god.

Corey remembered that at one point he saw the old man fall. A gruesome devil stood above him, about to bring a jagged broad sword down upon his neck. Death was only a hair's breadth away, and any who could save the fallen champion were separated by a huge wall of fire. A high ring of dancing flame writhed and crackled, sealing his fate. Corey could barely see through the orange flame, and almost looked away until he noticed a spark of green from the corner of his eye. Then, a tongue of emerald flame parted the fire, and shot outward, a glowing green shield erected just in time to shatter the sword brought down upon it.

Another man, bathed in, but not singed by his own green flame, flew forward. He moved like a whirlwind, his purple cape flowing around him, and blonde hair stuck to his forehead by sweat. He punched the demon, attacking him physically with sheer brawn, enough to weaken the ugly beast, before releasing a pillar of his own majestic emerald light, sending the monster writhing backwards into a pit of his own brothers.

There were others… One younger man held his own in the midst of a thrall of demons. They cluttered around him, screaming, reaching grasping. Dripping teeth gnashed and occasionally snipped at his body. All Corey could see from his distance was a bright red cloak and hood, and arms flailing out to send the occasional freak cascading away. His costume was in tatters, and the faintest hints of blood could be seen, but it was impossible to discern whose it was. He lashed out all alone against the fury of his assailants, never stopping for a minute. Strong arms pounded away, crushing the jaw of some unfortunate demon. His muscles strained, but radiated incredible strength. He leapt from opponent to opponent, sending any near him flying. He would not go down.

The other went almost unnoticed amongst the furious throng. His body was lithe, and translucent, like a living shadow. His form shimmered with the movement of the torchlight, and he was able to slide from enemy to enemy, choosing battle with whatever intended victim he pleased. But when he materialized, he was solid black with a blue cape, and he was all strength. He attacked with the shadow, using it against the creatures who were already too accustomed to it. It flowed out from him, wrapping itself around the demons, and squeezing, simply squeezing until the fight had gone out of them. But there were too many, and even shadow could not stop them as they pressed their assault.

But they were nothing compared to Corey. Corey and The Spectre. He rose above them all, closing off his own perimeter for battle. Another soldier, one in black and red circuitry, with a shining gold helmet stood impassively next to him. They turned, back to back, and flew down to the scourge below. The other threw beams of light and magic, but the Spectre only tore like a scythe threw the crowd. He never paused for breath, only grabbing random demons by the neck, dragging them through the air, snapping the neck and throwing the carcass back down to the ground below. He stood above them all, a symbol of simple, unforgiving power, killing whomsoever he set his sights upon. His gaze, however hidden by the shadow of his hood, was death, and no demon could lay a hand upon him. He swam through their ranks like water, beating mercilessly upon his attackers.

And then there was the woman. She was tall, and strong, and beautiful, with long black locks of hair, and trim, muscular body. Despite her American themed outfit, a blue skirt with white stars, and golden eagle set over her crimson chest piece, she seemed like a genuine goddess. Her eyes spoke the peace of a loving mother, but her grim frown had all the likeness of a warrior in battle. She grunted and sweat, as she strained herself, flying above her adversaries, hefting a mighty battle axe, swinging it with expert precision. She was different from the others in this battle, perhaps because she would not allow herself to be a target. She had a goal. Slow as it was, Corey could see a rough path being cut between her and the armored behemoth of a man who led the crusade.

It was on her the dream centered. Corey watched her the longest. So unconcerned was he with his own battle, that he didn't notice when the dream became all one made kaleidoscope of grasping demon claws and fangs. It continued like this, a nightmare of Hell, but for the final, haunting image.

The monster in the armor stood in triumph. His lance ran straight through the stomach of the woman who had so courageously fought him beforehand. Her pure blood mixed with the ugly red huge of the floor beneath her, and as it drained from her body the life left her eyes. The old man in the helmet cradled her head with a look of agony on his face, and the monster just laughed. Corey could see him clearly now. He was great and terrible, with eyes that looked like pools of light with no source. His face was void, simply an abyss, and his smile sent chills through Corey's body that carried over even into his awakened form.

And then all of the costumed fighters stood together, pouring their energies forth, creating a blinding light which rocked the whole realm. In his dream, the monster was gone, but he could still hear the laughter…*

*(Recounting the incredible encounter of the JSA and the Anti-Monitor in JSA #9 at FDC- Jonah)

"AAGH!," Corey's eyes flew open as far as they could stretch, and he screamed as he awoke. The sound of his voice was muffled and he couldn't understand why. Fluttering eyelids beat against each other, trying to purge the nightmare, and Corey's fingers searched vainly for some clue as to his location. His hands grasped soft leather, and in swinging around, his head dashed upon something hard.

He closed his eyes, and lay back, attempting to collect his bearing. Shallow breathing grew slower, and farther between gasps, until he felt he had regained his composure. He sat up and took in his surroundings. He was in the backseat of a car. It was the middle of the night, and deathly quiet. Moonlight pierced the clouds only enough to reveal a big yard, littered with the bodies of broken, defeated automobiles. The place was filled to bursting with destroyed old husks of cars. These hunks of metal were packed one on top of the other, higher than physically safe. Shredded tires were thrown haphazardly off to the side. And matted green grass climbed up out of random corners throughout the ground. Nothing moved.

He blinked furiously, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the effects of twilight. Then suddenly, out of the corner of his vision he saw a speck of green. His eyes twitched, and his heart raced at the thought that he was not alone in this scary place. His head whipped around, breathing returned to it's earlier frantic pace. Sounds of scuttling motion were all that could be heard from inside the car as he shifted uncomfortably to try and look out the other windows.

He looked outside the right window… only to see the light shimmer off a pale blue Chrysler. He looked through the rear window… a rusted jeep stared at him with it's one broken headlight.

His head turned too the left, where the window had been painted over by a layer of fog. His heart pounded against his ribs as he eased himself over to the window. Dirty hands scrubbed away at the steamed up window, and he peered through it. His eyes narrowed in an attempt to see through the dark. Something was before him, but he couldn't make out…

Then out of the nothingness of night, the stark white nose and mouth of the Spectre appeared in the window, inches of Corey's face.

"GHAA!," he screamed again, faltering backwards. He flailed his arms and legs, pushing himself backwards, away from the ghost's face. He clutched at his breast, trying to calm himself down, while the Spectre patiently knocked on the door.

Corey ignored him, trying to quell the adrenaline burning in his chest, and the Spectre simply clicked open the broken door of the car, and beckoned Corey out.

"Hey!," Corey demanded, clumsily hustling himself out of the car. "What was that? What do you think you're doing?"

The Spectre stood aloof next to the corpse of the Ford next to him. He was tall, and stood at least a head above Corey. His green cloak sat heavy upon his head and shoulders, and extended down past his feet. He looked up at the sky, as if questioning something, but Corey couldn't really tell. The top of his head was hidden in a thick black layer of night under his hood. Only his strong jaw and nose were visible, a sheer contrast to the darkness, as they were a pasty white hue. He pulled his mantle closer about him.

"I felt I should wake you," was all he said.

"Wake me? Wake me?!," Corey sputtered. His hands were furiously massaging his temples, and the confusion over his placement, as well as his fear over the Spectre's appearance were warring in his head. "You come out here, at god-know-what time, and scare the sweat off my back… for what? You got a sense of humor now, Mr. Spirit of Vengeance?"

"No," the Spectre replied flatly.

But Corey did not even register the comment. He panted vehemently, rage at the Spectre pushing to forcefully for him to form coherent sentences. But then he stopped for a second, and looked thoughtfully at his surroundings. "And wait a second! Where ARE we? You must have some balls, Mr. Spectre, if you think you can just not show your pasty face for a few days, and just drop me somewhere different each night, ESPECIALLY not the back of a car, and ESPECIALLY not just so you can come up outta' nowhere and try to spook me!"

He paused his tirade only for a second's breath.

"I had no intention of frightening you, Jobe."

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't, you creepy…," Corey trailed off, mumbling to himself. He walked over to the hood of the beaten-down car, and pushed himself up on it. A chilly night's breeze blew up the sleeves of his thin, dirt-stained shirt, and he shivered slightly. He set his large white eyes on the Spectre's face. "So what is this? You need to explain to me how our deal (if you can call it that) works. For the past week, I've been going out of my head. I spend my days walking around, thinking about my brother, or that whack-job in the church, or the guy who was holding his kids hostage in the apartment."

"But when I'm not walking the streets alone, without any kind of family-," he shot venomously, directly at the Spectre, "-I go to sleep, and I keep seeing you. Just brief shots of you, and these other people, fighting with you."

He paused again. "Do you go after people at night?"

The Spectre turned to look at him. His head was parallel with the large, partially hidden moon, and it' rays caught the hood of his cloak in a disturbing manner.

"Yes," he said.

"And is that what I see at night?," Corey continued. "You going after people? How is that possible? How can I see what you see?"

"You can't truly "see what I see." No one can. But you do, as you say, receive "shots" of my activities. This bond placed upon us allows us to dip into a shared consciousness in a way. Although, it's not really equal enough to be called sharing. Your memories and thoughts lay open before me to read at my discretion… and I have read them. Make no mistake, I know you inside and out, Corey Jobe…"

"But as for your dreams, you simply receive the strongest images I perceive and send out, like waves to a radio. Some of my experiences are sent out, and picked up by your subconscious mind."

"What?," Corey asked, completely bewildered, and enough so to momentarily make him forget his rage.

"It is unimportant, save that you are now privy to my world," the Spectre summarized curtly, before returning his gaze to the black space above his head.

"Whatever. And what about the super-heroes in the fiery place?"

With that, the Spectre's stare swiveled again, a bit more jerkily, towards the boy before him. "What fiery place?," he questioned.

Corey closed his eyes, and waited patiently. He tried to slow his mind enough to recall the dream from only a few scant minutes before. He breathed once, long and loud and lifted his head to recount it. "I've been having this recurring dream. I'm in this red, fiery place, except I'm not me. I'm you. And there are these other guys. They're all dressed weird, so I figure they must be superheroes or something. And they were fighting these… demons, I guess."

"They were everywhere. They didn't look the devils in cartoons or anything, they were huge, and real freaks, with teeth, and claws and all and… and they were everywhere…," he stopped, to compose himself. "It was really scary," Corey finally admitted.

"But me… and the guys in costume, all fought them. There was some guy in a red hood, and some other that was all shadow. And there was this woman. I didn't see it, but some man in armor, stabbed her and… and I think he killed her…"

The Spectre looked straight forward, saying nothing.

Corey continued softly, "It was the worst dream I think I've ever had. It was like being in Hell or something."

Still nothing came from the Spectre. Finally… "It was Hell."

The night lay heavily around the two figures. Moonlight shot lethargically from the sky above, to the rusted metal of the cars, and off the shiny interiors of their dashboards and other such assets. It came to rest as a natural spotlight upon the two. A long cricket chirped far away. The junkyard was so quiet though, that when a spider snuck up and landed on the cricket, sounds of the scuffle, and subsequent meal, could almost be heard.

Impressed by the seeming gravity the night held, Corey's voice was starting to sound like a whisper. "What are you talking about?"

"It was Hell. The literal place. Hell is not just an abstract term, or a myth of human consciousness, fabricated to provide balance to the concept of good. It is a cage. And in that cage is contained a great evil."

"You went to Hell?," asked Corey.

"Years ago, before your time, this entire world was threatened by a monster. A creation of a universe not our own, it's entire body was made of simply nothing. It's touch was deadly this world, and it had come closer than any other being in existence to ending the very universe as we know it, in addition to many others. Only a united front between the various super-heroes of five Earths, and the sacrifice of many of those heroes, was enough to defeat it."

"It was called the Anti-Monitor, and as the most pure form of evil and power I had ever met, it was my responsibility to take him to a point before time, and lock him in the lowest depths of Hell."

Corey's eyes had been opened wide and focused throughout the explanation, but had gradually returned to cynicism as it continued. His eyebrow cocked. "This is a total load. You're telling me Hell is real, and you just go there whenever you want. And not only that, but you have some Saturday-morning-cartoon "Great Evil" locked in it's basement. That's just stupid. It's one thing that you ask me to swallow your whole deal about being a ghost sent from God to Earth, whose mission is to act mysterious and wander around in the dark slashing up people, but now you're getting into some cosmic, LSD craziness."

"Ok, I can accept you've got these strange powers, but that's only because I've seen it with my own eyes. For all I know, you beamed that stuff right into my mind. You don't understand where I'm coming from. You're telling me all this fantastic stuff that up until a week ago, didn't apply to me! Now, you've swept me up into your crazy world, shown me things that shouldn't be physically possible! But do you know what that means? It means I have no way of knowing if what you say is true. I've got no source to refer too. I have no rule book to read, because you threw it out the minute you get shot at and the bullet's disappear. So that means I've got no one's word to rely on but yours, and back when I lived in the real world, with real people, that meant someone was pulling a scam!"

The Spectre simply turned around and spoke over his shoulder. "You believe only what you can see with your own eyes? Understandable. But you saw this with your own eyes." The Spectre somehow proceeded to climb down the wreckage-pile beneath him without seeming to take a step. He glided softly, cloak rippling over the dejected carburetors beneath him, all the way down to the ground. "…You were there."

And he walked away.

Corey waited, furious at the constant mysterious act. He watched the Spectre walk away, trying to convince himself that it truly was crazy, and whatever it said had no bearing on reality. But night closed in around him, and the creaking sound of rusted car parts being pushed along by the breeze picked up volume. The junkyard was a very scary place.

Fear, and curiosity at the Spectre's words pushed him down of the pile. He caught up to the Spirit of Vengeance. "What do you mean, "I was there?," he shot.

"This bond that unites us does not allow for one to be in a plane of existence without the other. I took you with me… inside me, to rescue someone from Hell."

"Who?"

"An old wizard, and a champion in the quest for order. He was imprisoned by a demon named Neron. Myself and one of his agents needed to call on some former allies to enact his release. Those were the costumed ones you saw."

The Spectre kept walking and Corey followed, struggling to keep pace. His brain throbbed at the Spectre's attempt at "explanation." Questions assaulted him. "Who are they? Who's this agent!? Why can't you just give me some straight answers?" But the Spectre continued on. Corey tried to grab his arm and tried to turn him around, but only met with dead air. His frustration skyrocketed and he stopped. "This doesn't make any sense!!"

The Spectre turned again. "You need only ask the right questions. The agent is Dr. Fate. A mystic, and powerful sorcerer, his powers were given to him by Nabu, the wizard we needed to rescue. He has long been an ally of mine, though his power rests now with a new host. A situation similar to my own. And "they" are the Justice Society. A team of mystery men from the earliest days of crime fighting, they are an old set of costumed crime-fighters. During the Second World War, I was included in their ranks, and it seems they have reformed recently. I no longer have dealings with the group."

A critical look overtook Corey's face. "So… you were a superhero?"

"I included myself in their ranks. I have never been a "superhero."

"Right," Corey smirked again. "So you fought evil with a club of supermen way back in the forties. Did you wear tights too?"

Silence.

Corey dropped his grin. "Why don't you fly with them any more?"

Thinking himself unheard, he asked again.

"Whey don't you fly with the JSA anymore?"

Silence.

"I asked you…," then he stopped, unsure of the reason. "What the deal was with that "carrying me inside you thing." How does that work?"

This time the Spectre returned to conversation. He gestured with his hand. "As a spirit, I enjoy more freedom from the rules of space. During the day, when I have no purpose to fulfill among the public, I stow myself away within you and watch until nightfall, and I have some action to perform. You can be apart from me, though only at a certain distance, and with some discomfort to you-"

"Discomfort? I could feel my stomach in my throat."

"-But," the Spectre continued flatly, ignoring the interruption, "our two forms can not be separate by dimension. Thus, when I went to Hell, I had to bring your mostly dormant consciousness with my own. That is not the limit of our pairing either. You should know that if I deem a situation too dangerous for you, I have the power to send you away for safety."

Corey pondered this, before he spoke. "So let me get this straight. When you have nothing to do, you hitch a ride with me, correct?"

The Spectre nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement.

"You hide inside me all day, watching me live my life, is that it?"

The Spectre nodded.

"And when you need to go to Hell, you can just tuck me away and drag me along, right?" Again, the Spectre acknowledged his summary.

"And if you want me gone, you can just blink and I'm gone, off to wherever you want me to be…?"

Corey exploded. "What kind of partnership is that?!" He turned on his heels, and kicked recklessly, sending a piece of scrap-metal flying. "It's bad enough I get forced into this situation with you but to have those two guys up in wherever-it-was try to pass it off as an equal deal? You get to toss me around the world as much as you want, live my life, read my thoughts, and go on killing sprees any night you want, and all I get to do is watch? I have to follow you around, but you make all the rules? What about choice? What about my life?!"

Moving shadows licked at their feet. "I sympathize. No one resents the choices made above our head than I, but they are unchangeable. And as for your role in my affair, our benefactors belief is that your being human will somehow influence my decision, despite the fact that I have lived among men for centuries and am a force free from bias anyway. That is why you perceive the scales as balanced in my favor. I have no desire to see you involved in my dark affairs, and reserve the right to remove you from them. This isn't supposed to be a partnership as with Corrigan."

The name stopped Corey but he could not place why. "Who's that? Who is Corrigan?"

The two moved further into the junkyard. It was a huge place, surprisingly lengthy for a space with such a narrow purpose. In truth, this junkyard was the only one in the county, a king among scrap-heaps really, and a tremendous financial boon to it's owners. Corey picked out a pink Chevy which was still mostly intact except for the absence of a hood and sat himself down on an old rusted-out engine.

"My former human anchor in this realm. He was a man of the law and he was bound to me in a desire to deal out punishment to those who took his life. We were bound to each other for the better part of a century, but he went on too his eternal reward."

"And you had this same boy on a leash arrangement set up with him too? Could you drag him along whenever you wanted to go somewhere, and send him away when he wasn't needed?"

"…No."

"Why? Why with me?," Corey pressed.

"That knowledge is not my own. But perhaps it is because Corrigan was a man, and knew the ways of evil men. He did not need to be dragged, because he understood our mission, and would have gone willingly with me anyways. You are still a boy, and do not need to be involved in my affairs. I will do my best to spare you from them." In truth that was what the boy wanted to here. But men are men, and even more, teenagers are teenagers. Faced with superiority and control, even their own best interests can fall to the wayside in response to stubbornness. He didn't know why, he said it, but he was sure it was true.

"It shouldn't be your choice to make."

An old Chevy sputtered down the road, crossing unsteadily into the concrete tapestry of Atlanta. Rap music blared from the radio with it's bass cranked up past the capabilities of the ancient stereo. The bass turned to annoying feedback, a loud buzz which would have been considered noise pollution had anyone else been on the road that late at night. Noxious black fumes spilled out the back of the grotesque goldenrod car, releasing a sharp, potent odor like old road kill, but with the sensational intensity of good champagne.

The sound of the motor in it's death throes and the crippled bass completely overpowered the late night sounds of the flies buzzing in the night. Outside the speeding car, a picturesque country scene went unnoticed. Long green grass swayed back and forth, still dry and crisp from yesterday's heat. Light passed in waves over the car, as it droved under one streetlight, then back into shadow, then repeating the pattern again. And again.

Despite the company of friends, both young men sat in silence.

Illuminated as they were in punctuated waves of light, their facial features could be seen. Evan's face was unusually grim, the black of his skin melting eerily with the black of the night. Blue eyes stared off vacantly out the window, and his mouth was dedicated to a stony frown. His friend had accepted the silence after the first few attempts at conversation. He resigned himself to focusing on the road, only sneaking a few curious glances at his companion.

"So… um, you gotta' meet with your parole officer tomorrow?," he tried once more.

Eli Marcum held his eyes on the passenger seat next to him, indicating desire for response. Evan tried to avoid the gaze, and maintain concentration on his own thoughts, but the peace was lost. "You mean today?," he corrected.

"Oh, yeah forgot it ain't twelve no more… so, that's a drag, man. Is she going to bust you because of that fight at the bar last week?"

"I don't know. I mean, I don't think so. This is just our scheduled thing. I haveta' do it like, every month now."

"That's too bad." Eli smiled. "Boy, that fight was so wild! You remember? That guy was, like, ranting and yelling! Huge guy, too. But, the second his back was turned, you just nailed him with that bottle. Cut up his neck and stuff, and he was just crazy after that! You remember that?"

Evan had to smile at the memory. "Yeah… were so drunk. It was you, me, and… wait, was, Tebow there?"

The car continued on down the road. Eli tapped his head briefly, trying to conjure up a mental picture. "Naw…..naw, man, that was just you and me. Tebow had to be in prison then, wasn't he?… No, wait, he was with that girl! The one with the freak hair?"

Evan couldn't remember any better, but he feigned understanding anyway.

"Oh, yeah, yeah… wait…"

His eyes darkened again, just a bit, but he couldn't hide his growing smile. "Does that mean you were the one who tossed your dinner in my car?"

Realization hit Eli, and he stopped for a second. Looking for words, as the memory of that night's martinis fighting their way up his throat and out into the glove compartment hit him, and conjured up an unwelcome queasiness in his stomach. He then looked over at his friend, and caught the smile, and they burst out laughing.

"Oh, man…," he lamented, wiping a tear from his eye. "That was crazy!"

"Yeah… Hey! I never told you! You know the last time I got picked up by the cops, for the spray painting?"

"Yeah?"

"Turns out it was on his house! It was, like, a month later, and we're doing up the front door of the house, and this ugly mother comes out, all screaming and yelling, and his neck is all taped up! God, I was so high, I didn't even recognize him, until he started smacking me around."

Eli shook again in spurts of laughter, clutching his stomach. He switched the radio off, so the hilarity of both young men could be enjoyed by the other. But outside the car nothing could be heard. Only a steady hum, punctuated by coughs of exhaust droned on, the dashed yellow line on the tar road having divided at some turn into two. The city lie in the distance, like a point at the end of the horizon, attached to the shrinking road ahead. Bright lights could be seen dotting the tall buildings, and the city's neon glow caught the small, night-shrouded clouds above in a majestic way. Like a glimpse of something heavenly at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

"You are the funniest man ever, when you go and get yourself stoned, boy!"

Evan hadn't heard the last comment. "Huh?"

"I said, you're a freakin' riot when you're stoned! No lie, you wouldn't believe some of the crazy stuff you do after you go smoking' with the boys. You haveta' be the most popular guy ever, fun as it is watching you get busted for act. Oh, man…." he chuckled, taming his shakes, "hilarious."

He didn't notice as Evan's laughter stopped, and his eyes drifted back towards the window again. Evan tried to laugh along with his friend. "Yeah… hilarious."

"I mean, remember when you beat up those kids? It was like, broad daylight, but you still had them crying and all? You remember that?"

Evan's mood darkened. "Yeah. I went to jail for a year. We… had just graduated.

Eli cracked up again, and slapped the wheel hard. He continued, oblivious. "Pssh, right. Graduated. Oh, I laughed so hard I cried, when that cop was dragging you into the car, and you were on so much acid, you were just, like, screaming and babbling and making no sense."

"Yeah," Evan mumbled, barely audible.

"Now see, that's what I'm talking about. That's why people love you so much, kid. You're a sick freak, with no morals, and you'll do anything for a laugh. It's like, you don't even know what's good for you, or you don't care and you'll either hurt yourself or some other fool, just because you're bored. You're crazy, man! Or stupid. Isn't that right? You're a stupid, crazy, fool aren't you?"

He leaned over and poked his friend in the ribs, laughing good naturedly, as though both men were in on the joke. He continued to prod Evan, whose eyes twitched in annoyance, mysteriously troubled by words he was used too, and focusing on something outside of the car. "Yeah, yeah… I'm an idiot," he feigned a laugh. "That's right," Eli said. "Even back when we were in school, and the teachers would get all up in your face about your future, and you'd be like, what future? That's why they couldn't touch. They knew you didn't have none. You can be funny, and make everybody love you now, because everybody knows you got no future."

"We don't need a future. You and me, dog, we're just wastes of space, and we like it that way right?," he shouted to no one, laughing wildly, all sense of tact gone. He slapped his friend on the back encouragingly, but received no response.

"We belong back in that junkyard," he mumbled.

Shadow blanketed Evan's face, his eyes just a tiny glint of light in the dark, twinkling. Angrily. He was no longer in the car. Not in his mind. He was sitting in a room next to his father, drool hanging off the old man's lips, comfortably seated in their own depravity. You're an idiot, boy. You just can't amount to anything. Some people just got no purpose or ability, and God sets 'em down on this Earth by mistake. You're junk, boy! You're junk! His eyes clouded with tears, but the colors didn't blend. All Evan saw was a blurred crimson, and his father's ugly, yelling face. Something welled up inside his chest, something undistinguishable. It rose up into his mouth, and he pondered for a second if perhaps that was what anger tasted like, but he closed his eyes, and it was gone, and all that remained was a familiar numbness.

Eli had not stopped his incessant speech. "It's too bad you have to see your parole officer. You know those bums that have been sneaking in your junkyard, like that nasty Puerto Rican hombre we roughed up, like, three months back?"

"Yeah?," Evan answered, not really listening.

"Well, Johnny-boy told they've been coming back. You know, they're all sneaky about it, hiding underneath piles and stuff. He got some of his crew together, and he's going to go smoke them out. Have some fun, and teach them to stay off your land, you know? It's your yard, you should go. But you have to meet with your social worker and all, so that's cool."

"Is that so?," Evan asked smiling. He thought for only a moment. "Stop the car, Eli. Turn it around."

Evan took one last look at the bright lights of the approaching city, and gave one last thought to the lady in the business suit who bugged him to keep out of trouble. He looked at the city that seemed to glow white, and turned his head back in the direction they came, and for no apparent reason, he thought he could see a deep red hue in the horizon.

"Forget parole. I belong in the junkyard tonight," he smirked to his friend.

On the black canvas that was night, a bright orange speck flickered and died. It lit up brightly, wavering like a firefly, then faded back into the night.

An old man with a grease-caked face and a gnarled beard watched the ember of his cigarette burn out, then start up again as he brought it too his lips and dragged in a breath of warmth from the tobacco. A small fire was lit between himself and three other men, each one huddled in around it's flame. Everything was black, but for the shimmering fire, which reached out to their faces, lighting only what was closest to it, and accenting the rest with shadow. The old man sucked on the cigarette, ignoring the biting cold wind that ran through his hair, nipping at the back of his neck. He pulled his soiled jacket in closer around his shoulders

Three other men sat around him, leaning in close to the do the same. The fire flickered, reflected on all of their faces. Their features flashed bright orange, the light moving effervescently across their faces, each one accentuated by the night's shadow. They had slept during the day, nocturnal instinct pulling them out of their hiding places after the sound of the car pulling out of Evan Hollis' driveway caught their ears. Waiting until it was sufficiently dark, they crawled out of their holes in tandem. Like bugs, they emerged into the night air from the honeycomb patchwork of dead cars in the junkyard.

There were many, like a little colony. Little tribes of two and three formed behind an old car. Fire had been the first priority. "Start a small one, not big enough to attract attention, but big enough to warm," the only mandate. Next came food. Stolen cans of soup or vegetable, the occasional half-full bag of potato chips found somewhere between the city and the junkyard. Some shared. Others didn't, huddling alone and cold in hollowed-out Fords, greedily devouring an old sandwich or cup of coffee.

They were the underbelly of Atlanta, these three and all the others, who had been broken and hungry too long. They're stories are remarkably similar. Longtime workers of this or that steel mill or warehouse, they had always skirted the edges of "okay." Always one step behind on the rent, always feeding a young child less than he or she really needed. Gambling debts for some, drug addictions for others, and for a few lack of education or just plain chance had kept them down. And when their steel mill or warehouse went under, so also did they. Under the city, under society, under notice. Where they learned to be unseen.

None among them associates strictly with the side of the angel or any alternative. Their clothes match their demeanors, which match their morals. All a bitter gray.

The punks came first. Seven boys, just out of their teens. Still wild with adolescence and immune to consequence. Whooping and hollering, they jumped the wire fences, the bang of metal made even louder than it usually would be, throwing echoes out into the night. They carried flashlights, and assorted weapons. One had a crowbar held in his belt. The other had a long, wicked looking hunting knife. Two had guns. They screamed and shouted to each other, all familiar with the area, having played there with Evan Hollis as kids. They knew all the cars, all the corners, all the dark passageways and shortcuts.

This was their playground.

The vagrants occupying the junkyard, shuddered in fear when they heard the first human howl. Some hid, hoping to escape their fate. One or two tried to stamp out the fire, naively believing that they could still spare themselves and their companions of any harm. Some stayed put, shivering in fear, because they knew the boys would be on them any minute.

High above, the calmness of the junkyard scene was visibly shattered. Stars were just starting to peek out, tinting the night with blue From all four corners of the fenced in junkyard little white dots of light darted around curves and corners toward the center, where the dying ember of flame that had been a fire was kicked out and ground into the earth.

Suddenly, the teens flew out into the open air, and ran down the junkyard mountains, scattering machinery as they went. They came from different sides, closing in as a cage on the three old men who had been sitting around the first fire. Two covered their heads with their jackets in fear, feigning camouflage, while one franticly kicked at the small fire, ignorant of the presence of anyone else. Their feet kicked up dirt as they ran forward. The oldest man at the fire turned and realized his mistake. Fear was in his eyes as a young man with blonde hair and a tattoo on his neck, the smallest of the group, reached forward and punched him in the face. Teeth flew from the hobo's stubble-covered mouth, and he fell to the ground with a cough. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, he reached up and grabbed the rear view mirror of a dismembered car door, and tried to get up, tripping on his trench coat and falling back down.

While the tattoo-man's attention was on his victim, so also was the group's. The two men who had hid before pushed their creaking bones upward and shot out, running as fast as possible. They breathed hard, and rasped and spit as they went, but just before the fateful corner was rounded, a flashlight flew out from one of the youth's hands, and struck him square in the back. He cried out, stumbled and fell, directly on top of his fellow bum, and they dropped, tangled in each other, fighting for escape. Immediately the four younger men were upon them. Ripped from their entangled mess, both were held at the arms. They struggled, and shook. One slipped out of his old navy jacket, but was subdued. They were dragged forth, and the youths just laughed and jeered at them, insulting them.

"This is sweet," one commented dully, as he painfully locked his arms behind the old homeless man's head.

Both men were confined, faces forced towards the ground. Their attacker's faces were lost to shadow, but every brief pass showed a sick smile. They were boys and this was their game. Remorse and guilt were emotions to be feigned for their mothers, and in the freedom of night they looked for victims do one would miss. Flies that needed their wings ripped off. They justified it mentally once day and sense returned, by saying they were removing undesirables from private property, but deep down, they knew it was a lie. They were undesirables as well, just as poor and ignorant and slovenly, but gifted by fate with a home, job, and placement somewhere at the bottom of the society. They belonged in the junkyard, because that was where junk went, but at least, they would subconsciously reason, they had a place.

An older boy, stocky, of Hispanic heritage, wearing ridiculously baggy jeans, and no shirt, was the first to step up. He hoisted up his pants around his waist, and lurched forward, delivering a swift kick to the hobo's stomach. The man wretched and wheezed, wanted to contract and recover, but he was held fast. He gasped for breath, and coughed. His empty stomach shuddered at the attack, as he had to muscle on his bones to shield the blow. He gasped like a fish but no air came. The shirtless boy swung back, and kicked him in the rips. Then again, until he heard a crack, and a cry of pain. He got closer, and pulled the man up by his hair, and punching it back down. He clenched his fist and his teeth, venting any of a thousand furies on his victim, raining his fist down again and again on the man's skull. He beat the man till his breathing was ragged and sweat poured down and he had to wipe it over his eyes. The beaten man was barely conscious, bruises developing on his face, supported only by his assailant holding him up.

The other old man, fought bravely as well. He swung out a leg behind him, and clipped some boy in the knee. But the strength just wasn't there, days full of walking having sapped it away. The pain felt was just an annoyance, and the boy grabbed the old black man by his scraggly beard and jerked his head around. The old man winced in pain, and let out a whimper of pain. His eyes filled with murky tears, and he tried to mumble out some plea for mercy. A fat young man in a white baseball cap licked his lips as he withdrew a crowbar from his jeans. Sweat caked his white muscle shirt, and he smacked the cold metal playfully against the palm of his fat, wet hand. He cocked his eyebrow, swung back, and clubbed the old man painfully across the face. The victim whipped his head around with the blow, and howled out from a pain he'd never known before. In their cars, the other homeless denizens of the junkyard shrunk away in shame, and fear that the same would soon happen to them.

He was dropped, and fell limply to the ground, clenching his broken jaw, as if touching it would repair it. He started to sob, but only for a minute, before that same crowbar came down upon his back with a sick, wet crack. The fat boy kicked the fallen man in the stomach, then stomped on his back, denying him the respite that air would bring. The cold seeped in around all the men, and they stepped up their attack to keep warm. The man who had held him ended his voyeurism, and entered the fray, getting down on the ground, and flipping the senseless old man onto his back. He started to punch blindly, striking against the head. The old man tried to see enough to bring up his arms enough to block his face, but it wasn't enough, and both men began the throw punches towards whatever piece of decrepit body they could.

The indescribably sounds of heavy fists on soft bodies, and the struggle of those being beaten rang out, bouncing and reverberating off the shells of the old cars. The other two men crept around the sides of the lot, flashlights poking in every known hole there was. They knew there was more prey.

The motor sputtered as it was shut down and Evan and Eli got out of their car. Eli swiftly walked up to the metal gate closing off the junkyard and Evan moved slowly behind him. Eli's eyes danced with life and he waited at the gate like a kid outside a toy store, eager for his goodies. Something stirred inside him, and he could just barely hear the shouts from inside. The sounds had no pictures to go with, though, and he was forced to let his imagination paint the picture for him until he could experience it for himself.

Evan however, looked at the junkyard with disgust. He always had. He was just as eager to enjoy a night of fun with his friends, and release whatever demons poked at him from the inside. He had fought numerous times. Sometimes men stronger or higher up in society than him, more often than not it was the bums that took up residence in his junkyard though. This wasn't the first time he had bashed the skull of a vagrant just to hear the sound it made. But he did hate the junkyard. Forced to work there every day since he was a teen, when his father died, he inherited it, the house, and nothing else. He spent his days either loosing himself in fights, drugs, or friends, or being held to grim reality. When no alternative was provided, this was where he came. He sat and wasted away with hunks of metal that had outlived their purposefulness, if they ever had one. He watched television here, like his father had done, and attempted to quell the sound of his subconscious. It repeated what life had told him. That he was not a man. He had no power to choose things, because there was no choice in life. He had a place, this place, where things were forgotten and useless, and life started for him here, and ended for him here. He was not meant to leave.

He walked up to his giddy friend and smiled. He brought out the key, popping the big metal lock open with a loud click, and they both walked in.

On the tallest mountain of car bodies, the Spectre stood, with Corey climbing up behind him. Corey faltered as he neared the top, tripping and hurting his leg briefly, on a discarded muffler. He winced, and when his eyes opened, everything could be seen. A short distance away from them, three men were on the ground being beaten to death. They lay helpless, being trampled with abandon by five younger men. They shouted into the night for both help and mercy. Corey gasped in fear and awe, and his eyes wavered. He saw, further away, two men with flashlights running into the night, chasing some other people, who tried to run towards the shadow, in fear for their life. And even further away, two featureless dots ran slowly towards the center.

"W-What's going on?," he asked.

The Spectre watched the episode from beneath his hood. "Seven young men are beating on a troupe of homeless men and women who have taken up residence in this junkyard. Does this bother you?"

Corey whipped his head, anger in his eyes, towards the larger figure. "Yes it bothers me! Don't ask stupid questions! So what are you going to do? Go kill them?"

The Spectre turned his back. "What makes you think I will do anything?"

Corey faltered, his eyes glancing back to the black on the ground, blood running from his face as fists pounded his chest. His eyes searched the sky for help. "T-That's what you do. You… you saved that guy in the church? And those cops at the guy's apartment…"

Cold wind whipped at the Spectre's green cloak, softly catching each fold. "I also took the life of two men. I took the life of your brother. You were angry at me for doing so. Which do you want of me? Action or inaction?," he asked, this time turning to aim his face directly at Corey's.

"You have to save those people!," Corey screamed in confusion.

Spectre waited, then spoke. "So you would direct me? You have taken it upon yourself to decide when I should act, and when I should not? You've taken that responsibility, have you?"

"I…," Corey stuttered.

"But you don't want it," the Spectre pressed from above him. "You consider that isn't yours, to bring violence on some men, but not others, to save some and not others. But in the end you are concerned that no one has consulted you when binding you to me, and that I hold more power in the relationship. Perhaps that is why you were not given the control over me once displayed by my former counterpart."

Corey couldn't speak. His eyes drifted towards the beaten men. "I didn't say anything about violence-," he started.

"You talk too much," the Spectre stated and leapt into the fray.

The man with the tattoo had broken his victim's left leg. The old man in the trench coat hugged his knee and gritted his teeth in pain. He yelled curses at the man above him, and spat in defiance, only to receive a kick to the teeth. The tattoo-ed man, just stood above him and smiled, readying another blow.

The old man looked to the ground, steeling himself for the punch, and when he felt none, he looked up. The Spectre stood beside the boy, hands on his shoulders. Out of nowhere, it seemed he had come. He flipped the young man around, throwing the surprised kid into a pile of wreckage. Rusty metal scraped his face as he looked around wildly for the source of the attack. He pushed himself up, and turned around, but the Spectre was on him again. Pieces of car scattered as he hit the pile hard. The poked against his back, and he gritted his teeth to fight the pain. The cold white figure, wrapped in emerald sat upon him, his full weight keeping him down. He struggled and pushed to get up, but couldn't. Shifting so that the metal was no longer in his back, the roared, and threw up his fists for a blow to the head.

The Spectre grabbed his fist, and looked into his eyes as he squeezed, crushing the fingers. The pained boy looked for an expression in the hidden eyes of the Spectre, but the mask of shadow could not be broken, and all he saw was the grimace etched into this ghosts mouth. With his other hand, the youth felt along the wreckage for some kind of weapon. His chilled fingers wrapped around a piece of jagged iron pipe, and he threw up his good arm again, seeking to slash the ghost's face. Again the Spectre reacted without acknowledging, not even looking up to block, and grab the pipe from the man underneath him. He raised up his body and threw a fist with his left to the man's temple. He shuddered under the blow, and, thus disoriented, provided no resistance when the Spectre drew back the pipe and jabbed it swiftly through the man's heart.

The Hispanic boy watched from behind, as soon as the silent battle caught his attention. He could not see the exact events, the Spirit of Vengeance having cloaked both men from sight under his long green tunic. Only struggles and muffled grunts could be discerned, until the sound of metal piercing flesh was made apparent, and the struggle beneath the cloak stopped. Starlight shone down directly on the Spectre's back, and the boy stared in terror at the awesome sight, of the spirit's form slowly rising up, shoulders hunched, body stately and regal despite the awkwardness of the metal ground beneath his feet. He turned, and flipped his cloak to the side, revealing the dead body of the boy's former friend, now dead. No face could be seen under the hood, only the faintest hit of a ghastly white body visible under the dark green cloth. The had was pointed down, and looked at the dead body, then slowly turned, and stared directly at the scared man, his discarded plaything long forgotten.

He was backed up against a wall of cars, no way too go. He couldn't even speak, all words dying in his dried mouth. The cold wind blew harder, whipping up the Spectre's cloak as he stood, and running through the man's veins as he stood also. His eyes darted wildly, all joy gone from them, for an escape. The Spectre took a step towards him, and he cried out, flinging himself into the passenger seat of some old truck. He climbed inelegantly over the leather seat, jeans catching against a stick shift. He didn't look back, just throwing out his arm, grabbing for the lock on the passenger door. He pulled and kicked to get his foot loose, and climbed through the door into the middle of a pile of the haphazardly discarded automobiles. The feeling was claustrophobic, as the metal affects of different machines closed in tightly around him. Metal scraped his body as he surged through whatever tiny hole he could find, arms out in front clutching from freedom. Every breath of cold air into his tired lungs ached, but the air was becoming even more stale in his present situation. Nothing could be seen, only the sharpness of the metal indicated it's nature.

He climbed higher and higher, unsure of wear he was going. A tiny window of light became visible to him, and he pressed his frantic eye to it. His friend was out there, laying on the ground, the pipe lodged in him. The battered bodies of the hobo's sat on the ground, some churning as they lay, and groaning. And further off too the side… he could almost see… a body. Not moving. Probably dead. And fat, with a white baseball cap on. His other friend. Dead.

But he couldn't see the strange thing trying to kill him.

Until he looked down at his feet, and there it was.

He screamed, and kicked forward, just out of reach, and tried to push against the metal, but it was a dead end. No opening was available. He pushed his arms against it, and grunted and strained, pushing, trying to force a path, push the metal of his way, but there was no budge. At least five to six cars were directly above his head, and his muscles couldn't lift it. He was trapped.

A cold hand grabbed his ankle and he screamed again. He kicked and kicked, but couldn't shake it. Looking down, his terrified eyes only registered a long white arm in the darkness, clutching out from the nearly invisible sea of car parts. He grabbed the man's ankle, and pulled dragging him down. The man clutched at whatever was above him, trying to fight the pull, but nothing was there to grip. The Spectre pulled him down, somehow managed to slide up on top of him, bearing down on his body in the enclosed space, and using all his weight suffocated the frantic hood.

From outside, screams could be heard, traveling out from the heart of the mountain, but they were muffled and sharpened by the cold metal. Slowly, they would decrease in intensity, in volume, and finally stop for a good, giving way once more to the stillness of night.

Corey Jobe slipped and fell as he bounded down the mountain of cars. His legs gave way beneath him, and he tumbled painfully down the slope. He landed hard, but was undamaged, only slowed by the pain. He ran too the old black man, his face shriveled by bruises and age, kneeling down at the moaning man's side. He pulled him up silently into a sitting position, and propped him up against the mountain. He did the same with the other two, his numb hands working clumsily along the greasy exterior of their ancient clothes. He sat them next to the first old man, checking the pulse of the one not moving. Still alive, but badly heart. They were a sorry lot, badly beaten, with blood soaking everything they touched.

Corey couldn't find the words to say anything. He had never been so appalled before, death from a gun, and the death of a beating being worlds apart in his mind. Sorrow swam in his soul. These men's situations were terrible. Forced onto the streets, pushed into such a hard life already… to be made the victim of a senseless massacre at the hands of ignorant kids…

He closed his eyes and turned away from them, thankful once again that he had a… home… and a brother…

The realization slapped him in the face. He looked back at the defeated old men, alone in the world with nothing to depend on, and discovered that this was the face of his future. Spectre or no Spectre, he was in a very bad way now.

He shook his head and cleared the fears away. Or at least tried to. He walk gingerly over to the body of the tattoo wearing man. He only focused on the feet, unable to gaze at the cause of death stuck in his chest. He touched the man's shoe, and images flashed through his head. They were red, angry images, of him beating an illegitimate child, and of him getting drunk and shooting other people when he went out hunting with this buddies. The sound of a shotgun fired by him, sang in Corey's mind and he recoiled from the body pushing away the thoughts.

He looked to the man in the white hat, and saw him knocking his wife down the stairs in a common fury. He had had them a lot, getting kicked out of school for knifing kids when he got mad, or striking teachers.

Both men were killers.

He blinked away the red clouds from his eyes, and focused on the blackness of his present situation. He remembered the Spectre and his quarry, and cautiously approached the hole they disappeared into. He inched forward, one foot first. Then the other. He reached out a shaky hand into the pitch black of the whole, and was almost knocked back my the images flashing through his mind. They seared and burned with intensity, and his eyes flew open in response. The Hispanic boy had been in gangs. Raping. Killing. Drugs. Fighting. Shooting. He shot a boy for fooling around with his girlfriend. He beat the girlfriend to death when she got pregnant. And then Corey saw him underneath the Spectre, clear as day, getting the life choked from his lungs. Corey shivered in fear, and looked into the black hole. He strained his eyes to see what he could, but all that was visible was a limp foot in a brown boot, sitting motionless in the dark. Corey did not need to see the rest.

The Spectre pressed his back against a wall of metal, his neck craned to the side, listening. Footsteps pushed forward, propelling some young man through the dark alleys of the junkyard. The Spectre could hear every breath, every scrape of pant leg against pant leg, as clear as day. Even more, the man's sins passed before his eyes. In that instant, he knew all. The Spirit of Vengeance pushed his cloak to the side, and stepped slightly closer.

The man's footsteps pounded…

The Spectre moved closer…

The footsteps were nearer, louder, the running man was almost near the corner.

The Spectre moved, still closer…

Footsteps…

And the Spectre was on him. He threw out a strong white arm, which collided with the runner's jaw. The flashlight flew, bouncing off the fence, then skidding in a circle on the dirt ground. Close-line, the man lay gasping in surprise on his back. His long brown hair and dirty face twisted in shock. He could not see who had attacked him. His eyes flew about, as the flashlight's spinning slowed. The flashlight spun once, the yellow beam of light catching something… a standing figure. It spun again… something green it was larger now, and finally the flashlight made it's arc, slowly, and stopped, resting, completely illuminating the angry visage of the Spectre. The runner's eyes flew wide, and his mind instantly registered. Superhero. Trouble. Death. He kicked out, and snapped to an upright position. His body was strong and lithe, and he flew for the nearby chain-link fence. It rattled in acceptance as his hand grasped the cold metal. He didn't look back, just put one hand above the other, trying to scale the cold metal. One hand went as high as it could, grasping for the top rung of the fence, when cold ghost-like hands grabbed his sides and pulled. All balance was gone, and the man shrieked as he was hoisted mightily up into the air. The Spectre held him aloft, completely over his head. He tensed to drop the man, until something caught the corner of his eye.

A dirty, pale woman, with two sickly children behind her. Their eyes were dark and searching, unable to see in the night. She held their hands, and led them out of a corner, unaware of the scuffle going on there. When she saw the Spectre, her hands gripped her children's hands, and her mouth dropped. She twisted just slightly, aware of her mistake, but it was too late.

From behind them, equally unaware of the Spectre's presence, was the last hoodlum. Tall and cocky, he wore a bright red sweatshirt, the hood pulled tight over his head. He held a small shotgun in his hand, and aimed it at the old mother.

He fired. The Spectre dropped his man.

He flew forward, cloak spreading out in the air behind him.

He bent his head down.

The mother screamed, but was cut off as the Spectre tackled her and her children, dragging them both to the ground under his cape.

Everything froze. The Spectre looked up from his position, the beating body of the woman and children under him. The gunman realized the situation, and aimed at the Spectre, who stood. He ran forward, and the man shot. Once. Twice. Three times.

No effect. The Spectre was on him. He punched the man, sending his weak human body flying against the chain fence. He sought to push himself off, but the Spectre punched him in the gut, knocking the air from his lungs, and sending him back with a clang against the metal. He punched again, and again, sending fists down upon the man's temples. The gunman struggled and kicked but to no avail.

The mother tried to stand up, but her ankle was twisted. She exhaled sharply, and fell to the ground again. Stuttering in blind fear, she managed to shoo her crying children away into the night.

The gunman raised his weapon once again, but the Spectre swept his arm aside, sending the shotgun off into the air. The man tried to curse, but cold hands, as strong as steel wrapped around his neck and lifted him off his feet. He raised the man straight in the air, supporting with no effort at all, like he was lifted up by strings. A puppet. The man struggled to choke, and yell, but no sound was granted. The Spectre squeezed until the gunman stopped twitching.

He then dropped the body.

And found himself interrupted once more.

Two black men, young men both, had arrived. Both stared blindly in fear. Evan held the other man's gun. Eli had a shotgun propped in his arms. His own. Corey raced up behind the two, only to stop dead in his tracks.

The runner tried to escape, but something caused the old woman to reach out her hand, possibly the fear that he would somehow find her children, but whatever it was, when her hand flew out, she caught his ankle, and he fell with a thud to the dirt. He reached back and smacked her in the face, forcing her to cry out, and struggled to get to his feet once more. But he stumbled and fell.

He tried to get up once more, but the Spectre was upon his back. He grabbed the back of the man's head and again and again drove in into the ground until he was sure the man was dead.

Eli watched in horror as his friend died before he could think. His eyes traveled over the sleek green form of the Spectre and for a split second, thought he saw the Spectre's attention turn to him. He raised the shotgun.

Corey's mind reeled once more. Though neither faced him, for an instant, he almost thought he could see both sets of eyes. He looked into each man's past.

Eli had no life of his own. Kicked out of his house at a young age, he wandered the streets mostly, living from friend's house to friend's house. He frequented every bar and club, instigating fights in a drunken or drug-induced stupor. He had killed more than one man. And he thought it was funny. He kept no real friends, instinct for survival his only motivation.

But Evan… Evan had no motivation at all. He had fought, he had stole, had victimized the innocent. But his soul… not dark. If anything, he was… morally neutral. He took no joy from his misdeeds, just from the respite they brought his confused mind. He had done so many things in his lifetime. But never killing. He had no desire to kill.

Every aspect of Evan's life sifted through Corey's faster than he could interpret it. He saw the old man knifed in the alley. He saw the girls, and the drugs. He saw the fights and arguments with his father, the lousy grades, the fake friends, and more than anything, Corey saw the junkyard.

Back in reality, Eli cocked his gun to fire. His eye twitched, unsure, and he pulled the trigger aiming for the Spectre. The bullet passed through his ethereal form, striking the dirt harmlessly as the woman screamed and fainted in shock. The Spectre leapt upon Eli, grabbing him forcefully and wrapped his hand around the man's neck. Eli choked and fought, but all was stopped with a crack. The Spectre tossed him to the side, and he fell limply to the floor.

"Oh my god! Eli!," Evan shouted.

The shotgun had landed at his feet, and after his eyes wavered in indecision, he reached down to grab it. Sloppily, but quickly cocking it he held it in his hands, unsure of a course of action. He watched the Spectre look at the dead body on the ground, then turn towards him. The Spectre stood there, the frigid night air making his cloak billow and flow. He took a step forward and then stopped, motionless.

He raised the two guns in his hand and swung out his arms. The small gun was pointed at Corey's head and the shotgun at the fainted lady.

"Stop right there!," He cried, voice wavering. "I swear to god! You stop right there or I'll shoot the lady!… A-and the kid!"

The Spectre just stood and watched.

Corey stared down the barrel of the gun, his second such experience in little more than a week. The dark hole in the guns barrel reminded him of the one he had crept towards just minutes ago, the one containing the body of one of the Spectre's victims. His lips quivered, and he wondered if it was possible for the emotionless Spectre to let him die. Because he was alone here, with no police men coming to the rescue. No authority figured to break up the ruckus. No brother to love him enough to pull him out safely. All he had was himself, Evan Hollis, the Spectre, and the cold wind that crept up his shirt.

He looked at the Spectre and wondered about the cause of the standoff. His eyes followed down the long barrel of the shotgun, pointed at the poor, dirty woman and it dawned on him.

"Stop!," he shouted. "You can stop this! He…," he faltered, looking at the Spectre. "He can't kill you yet!"

"What?," Evan questioned. "W-What do you mean "yet?" I mean… Shut up, kid!" He jerked the gun in his hand, trying to indicate his command. "I'll kill them both, if you don't back up off me!"

"He can't!," Corey pleaded, sweat pouring down his chin. "You haven't killed anyone! You never have!"

"How do you k-"

"I just DO!," Corey silenced him. "I can see these things! You've done a lot of things, screwed stuff up before. You've screwed up your life, but not that bad! The Spectre… he- he kills people. Bad people! But you've got to do enough to be officially considered "bad." It's his twisted system of justice! But he can't kill you unless you deserve it!"

Evan waved the gun at Corey again, stepping closer to the terrified boy. "Shut up, kid! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Put the gun down!," Corey screamed.

"He'll kill me!," Evan screamed back, his eyes flashing erratically from boy, to woman, and always back to the menacing form of the Spectre.

"Enough, Jobe. He has no choice in the matter. He knows nothing but violence. Would you ask a gun to hold back it's own bullet?"

"No! You shut up!," Corey directed at the Spectre. "You can walk away Evan. Please, just walk away."

All was silent. The Spectre's cloak made flapping noises as the wind lapped at it. A cricket chirped in the distance, it's note carried on by the wind, and sharpened as it traveled through the metal of the cars. The three stood, deadlocked.

Evan's arms were sore. The guns were heavy and his biceps ached under the weight. Further more, his palms were hot and clammy and just holding on to the guns was uncomfortable. But for once, he ignored what was going on around him and focused inward.

…You don't want to make a mistake and wind up with some kid like your mother did…

His father's angry voice burned his ears. His mind let go of the present, and for a split second he was a child again. Just familiarizing himself with the evils of the world.

…Fool like you shouldn't be messing around with girls anyway…

He mentally flinched at the unwelcome sight of snack food and spittle hanging from his father's mouth as he yelled.

…You just stay here and work at the junkyard…

His mind rolled over his entire past like a clip show. One second he was getting kicked out of Fundamentals of Biology with his friends as his teacher looked on sorrowfully. The next, he was shooting up for the first time. Getting in a bar fight for the first time. His mind flashed again, and his friends were watching as he sexually harassed some young girl. And he remembered sitting alone, running the junkyard when there was nothing else too do.

His eyes opened and he looked around himself. He looked past the people, avoiding the eyes of the boy at the end of his gun. He looked at the tall hunks of cars, stacked high, reaching clumsily up to the sky. They sat awkwardly on top of each other, laying about like dead bodies without the decency to bury themselves. Their metal guts were strewn about all over the yard, sticking out of the bland earth, covering up what little grass there was. The fences seemed to grow taller and close in around him, choking him off from the world.

He hated this place.

The guns dropped to his side, caught on his fingers, then dropped to the dirt at his feet. He closed his eyes and winced, waiting for death to take him.

But nothing came. The cold wind just brushed against his face. He cautiously opened one eye, then the other, and both the ghost and the boy were gone.

He looked around, unsure then ran for dear life back to his home across the street. He mentally said his first prayer as he dialed 911 to bring aid to the badly beaten men lying throughout his junkyard.

Corey sat on the sidewalk outside the junkyard. A flickering streetlight fizzled in and out, casting him in spotlight then fading out around him. He wiped his eyes, and tried to purge the mental image of bruised bloody faces and the long dark hole that meant death.

The Spectre silently came up behind him, a completely polar comparison, this tall regal figure of this small, crouching, confused boy.

"You should not have interfered. This is my mission, my life. You put yourself at risk, dealing with things you have no concept of."

Corey ignored him, and wiped his nose. "That guy. You would have killed him. If he shot that woman, or at least tried to. You would have killed him."

"Yes."

"But he didn't. Something tipped the scales, and he was just good enough to have a chance at… something. He's calling the police right now, and they'll bring ambulances for the people in there. He's reformed right?"

"No. A person can not truly "reform." The very meaning of the word makes no sense in regards to human beings. Re-form. It's impossible. They have the one form that is given to them. They live with it and die with it. He knows too much evil to simply turn away from it."

"But?," Corey prodded.

The Spectre waited for a very, very long time, before answering. "But… rules are rules."

Corey shook his head. "This is too much. I have to figure some stuff out."

He looked down the street. "I'm… I'm going home."

Spirited Writings

Okay, this issue's already WAY longer than I intended it too be, so I'll just make this short. The reason that a) this story is longer than a lot of my other ones, and b) it took me forever to write, is that this story's basic intent was to take all the questions relating to Corey's relationship with the Spectre, that I didn't think were interesting enough to do a whole story about, and answer them all at once. So this issue was my least favorite to write, and might be your least favorite to read, but I'll make up for it next time. Summer's here so look for more issues of the Spectre coming to an FDC near you very soon.
This issue also contains my little retelling of the events detailed in JSA #9, by Mike Hintze. It's mostly to establish where this title fits in continuity, but I also just wanted to play with a fun battle scene. You should go read that issue though, to find out what the whole deal was, as it's a great read.
Thanks for all the constant support, and remember, keep sending feedback! I'll publish your grocery list in Spirited Writings, just send it my way. The e-mail again is jonah_rite@hotmail.com. It's been a blast, folks!

-Jonah Rite

The DC Universe of characters, which includes 90% of all the ones written about on this site, their images and logos are all legally copyrighted to DC Comics and it's parent company of Time/Warner. We make absolutely no claim that they belong to us. We're just a bunch of fans with over active imaginations and a love of writing.