eyes_of_green: (No Fear)
Travis didn't usually remember his dreams, other than the one with the fist coming at his face. But there was one other exception, borne of childhood dreams that never quite went away. It came up again - he'd seen a couple of kids arguing over who got to play Superman. It came up often, in a real neighborhood, with fences and ovens and real beds and kids who had their own rooms. Everyone wanted to be Superman.

He was five years old. He could still see. He had found an old scrap towel someone had thrown away. It was moth eaten, stained with who knows what, and smelled funny, but he didn't mind, it was a cape. It wasn't like the blankets at home. Those were threadbare and poorly spun, but worth more than gold to people who were without heat as often as with heat during New York winters. He'd tried to borrow one of those blankets once, to be his cape - it didn't go well. But this was his, and it was his cape. He could be Superman.

Anywhere else, someone might have argued with him, or joined in the game. Not there. Even the boys his own age laughed at him, mocked him, told him the words that would always come just before he woke up. "Man, Superman don't live here."

No one in Travis' hood wanted to be Superman. That was somewhere else, that wasn't real. They mostly dreamed of being Frank. Frank lived there, but he wore suits. No one touched Frank's car. He didn't even lock it, almost like daring someone. No one ever touched it. Superman's enemies came back time and time again, everyone knew that. A couple people mouthed off to Frank - no one ever heard from them again. Who wanted to leap tall buildings when you could buy and sell everyone in it, or so people said. And that, that was power.

Travis remembered those words. And he always dreamed that that could fix everything. That if Superman, who could do anything, just lived a few doors down, then he'd understand. Then maybe the water would keep running. Maybe it would be ok for the police to come now and then. Maybe the garbage would be picked up every week and everything wouldn't smell like urine and rot. And maybe the jokes would stop about how ambulances who came to the hood didn't even bother to carry medicine, they just brought bodybags.

Maybe something would be fixed, and stay fixed. People would have something and someone to look up to who wore red and blue, and a cape, instead of $400 shoes and suits that could feed a family for a month. People would want something better, or at least want something, other than to drink the pain away. The fights in the alleyways would have to stop, he was sure of that. Superman would fix that. And the sirens wouldn't always be in the distance. His mother and oldest sister could get jobs, real jobs, where they could go out after seven at night and get home safely. Even a little bit of that super breath could get rid of the needles and broken glass from the play areas, and he'd probably never again trip over someone who'd frozen to death in January, like he'd done that one time on his way to school.

Surely, if Superman really knew what was happening, something would change. Other heroes might come down and deal with the thieves and the pimps and the gang bangers instead of living in their space station, waiting for Brainiac or Doomsday.

When he put on the dirty, hole-ridden old towel, that was what he dreamed, what he hoped. Not that he could move the moon or fight off giant robots. That the people, the person, even, who could do anything, could fix something, and then it would stay fixed. That if people had faith in Superman, instead of drug dealing, suit-wearing Frank, that there might be hope for something better.

A couple older boys had stolen the towel, played keep away until they got bored, and just beat him up instead. And that's the way it was.

Because Superman didn't live there.


Apr. 13th, 2006 10:34 am
eyes_of_green: (blind)
That was satisfying, managing to destroy ten yellow Manhunters he couldn't so much as scratch by using their own shortsighted programming against them. Ok, granted, permanently marring the moon could have gone better, and there's this broken arm thing, currently held in place with a green glowing cast. And the twisted ankle... that could be better too.
But all in all, the Manhunter situation could have gone a lot worse.

Now though, he has to deal with more immediate concerns. Like phasing through the roof of his little home on the roof of Warrior's and falling onto the bed. After about fifteen minutes of gathering braincells, he recharges the ring, just in case.

"To those who think the darkness might,
Hide their wicked ways from sight,
Turn and run, or stand and fight,
I'll kick your ass with Lantern's Light."

That done, its back to the bed, and using the ring to tap into NY's phone system to place a call, seeing if he can catch Tara, or just leave her a message.
eyes_of_green: (Default)
They've spread the cure far and wide, and gotten everywhere they could. Just in case, Travis held on to a concentrated dose for a few certain people. He needs rest, he knows it. But he started a circle, and he needs to finish it before he can allow himself the luxury, and that means getting back the guy who gave him his chance, who gave him the ring. Which is currently running severely low.

"To those who think the darkness might
Hide their wicked ways from sight,
Turn and run, or stand and fight -
I'll kick your ass with Lantern's Light!"

He sees what the others see in these oaths. Not technically necessary, but it really did feel like a recharge, and not just the ring.

Words spoken, a flash of green light streaks through the air, tracking down the singnals from three power rings. Yes, three. First to find Guy and Arisia... when that's done, he has a certain half-Tamaranian to visit. At least her ring tells him she's alive. That'll have to do for now.


eyes_of_green: (Default)

June 2009

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