Hal Jordan's POV
Okay, so apparently becoming one with a cosmic entity feels like chugging liquid lightning while getting struck by enlightenment. Who knew?
I'm floating here above what used to be the Central Power Battery, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I canfeel the heartbeat of reality itself. Not metaphorically—literally. Every star, every planet, every microscopic organism making the choice to keep existing instead of giving up, it's all there in my head like the universe's most insane radio station that never stops broadcasting.
Ion's consciousness is... it's hard to explain. It's not like having someone else in my head. It's more like suddenly remembering I have muscles I never knew existed, except those muscles can bend space-time. Every breath feels like inhaling starlight, and when I look down at my hands, they're crackling with green energy that makes my old constructs look like finger paintings.
The weirdest part? I still feel like me. Still the same guy who used to sneak out of the house to watch planes at the airfield. Still the same test pilot who thinks the best way to solve most problems is to fly straight at them and see what happens. The cosmic awareness thing is incredible, but underneath all that infinite knowledge, I'm still Hal Jordan from Coast City, and I still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.
Which is probably why my first instinct when facing down a rage-powered cosmic entity is to crack jokes.
"Well," I say, looking around at the chaos surrounding us—Green Lanterns picking themselves up off the ground, various alien fleets maintaining what they probably think is a safe distance, and one very pissed-off Red Lantern who looks like he wants to set the universe on fire—"this escalated quickly."
Atrocitus hovers about fifty yards away, and seeing him through Ion's enhanced perception is like looking at a solar flare given consciousness and anger management issues. The Butcher entity has transformed him into something that makes my cosmic makeover look subtle. Where I'm radiating controlled power, he's broadcasting pure, undiluted fury that's making the space around him literally burn red.
"Jordan," he says, and his voice has harmonics that seem to originate from somewhere in the center of dying stars. "You have no idea what forces you're meddling with."
"Story of my life," I reply, flexing my fingers and watching reality shimmer slightly in response. Holy shit, I could probably punch a hole through a moon right now. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying. "But hey, I've got a pretty good track record with flying blind."
The power flowing through me is unlike anything I've ever experienced. My old ring constructs felt like using tools—this feels like being the tool. When I think about creating something, it doesn't just appear, it becomes real in a way that makes the universe nod approvingly and say "yeah, that makes sense."
But with great cosmic power comes the great cosmic temptation to accidentally break everything. I can feel Ion's vast knowledge just beneath the surface of my consciousness, offering insights into how reality works at the fundamental level. Problem is, my brain is still basically a hairless ape that gets excited about flying fast and hitting things, so accessing that knowledge is like trying to drink from a fire hose made of pure enlightenment.
Case in point: I just accidentally created a small aurora in Oa's atmosphere because I was thinking about how pretty Carol's hair looked when she was powered up. Oops.
"You think this is amusing?" Atrocitus snarls, and the Butcher's influence makes his words carry the weight of every injustice that's ever occurred. "You've become the universe's favored child, drunk on power you haven't earned, while beings like me suffer for eons without relief."
The accusation stings because there's truth in it. Five minutes ago I was a relatively normal Green Lantern getting my ass kicked by my former mentor. Now I'm apparently the living embodiment of willpower itself, and I have no idea how or why that happened. It feels like cheating, like I've been handed the ultimate cheat code for a game I barely even touched the surface of.
But then I remember Dad's words, both the real ones from childhood and the cosmic conversation we just had. This isn't about deserving power—it's about what you do with it.
"You're right," I say, surprising him. "I didn't earn this. I just got really, really stubborn and lucky at the right moment." I spread my arms, feeling the green energy cascade around me like a living thing. "But I'm here now, and you're planning to burn down the universe because you're angry about something that happened billions of years ago. So we've got a problem."
Below us, I can see the various alien fleets repositioning themselves. Kree dreadnoughts sliding into defensive formations, Skrull battleships going stealth, Shi'ar warbirds calculating firing solutions. They're all waiting to see how this cosmic-level pissing contest plays out before they make their moves on Oa.
And that's when it hits me: we can't fight here. Not with all these ships, all these people watching. If Atrocitus and I really cut loose, the collateral damage would be catastrophic. This needs to be somewhere else, somewhere we can have our cosmic throwdown without accidentally erasing a few civilizations.
"You want to settle this?" I call out, backing away from Oa toward open space. "Fine. But not here. Too many innocent people, too many witnesses who'll get hurt."
Atrocitus tilts his head, studying me with eyes that burn like dying suns. "Concern for collateral damage? How very Green Lantern of you."
"How very human of me," I correct. "Come on, you cosmic temper tantrum. Let's take this somewhere we can really cut loose."
I turn and accelerate toward the outer system, pushing my new capabilities to see what they can do. The sensation is incredible—like being shot out of a cannon made of pure velocity. Stars streak past as I hit speeds that should've liquefied my internal organs, but Ion's power is keeping me intact while my consciousness expands to process the massive amounts of sensory data.
Behind me, I feel Atrocitus following, the Butcher's rage eager for an unrestrained confrontation. Good. Get him away from the fleet, away from Oa, somewhere we can have this out without innocent people paying the price.
As we race through space, leaving the political complexities and tactical considerations behind, I find myself grinning. Despite everything—the cosmic responsibility, the universe-altering power, the fact that I'm about to fight the living embodiment of rage itself—this feels right. Two pilots, heading toward a confrontation that'll determine who's the better flyer.
Some things never change, even at cosmic scales.
The space between Oa and its outer moons stretches before us, vast and empty and perfect for what's about to happen. I slow down, turn to face my pursuer, and crack my knuckles. The sound somehow carries through vacuum, which is probably Ion's doing.
"All right, you red-burning son of a bitch," I say, green energy building around me like controlled lightning. "Let's dance."
Atrocitus comes at me like the universe's angriest shooting star, and I immediately realize that every fight I've ever been in was just finger painting compared to this.
He doesn't mess around with fancy moves or intimidation. The first attack is simple, brutal, and perfectly calculated. Red energy slams into my hastily constructed barrier like a freight train made of pure hatred. My construct holds for maybe half a second before it just... dissolves. Not shatters, not breaks—dissolves, like it was never there in the first place.
The force sends me spinning backward through space, cosmic debris trailing behind me like I'm a meteor that forgot how to burn up properly.
"Son of a bitch," I gasp, using Ion's power to stop myself before I plow into an asteroid. "Okay, noted. This guy doesn't screw around."
Atrocitus moves like someone who's been killing things longer than most stars have been burning. Every gesture is economical, efficient, like he's conserved energy for billions of years and doesn't waste a single erg on anything that won't hurt me.
When he attacks again, I barely see it coming. A red spear materializes where I'm going to be, not where I am. Barbed nets cut off my escape routes before I even know I need them. The bastard's not just fighting me—he's fighting every possible version of me, covering options I haven't even thought of yet.
I dodge by pure instinct, throwing up a massive green boxing glove that manages to deflect the spear. The collision creates a light show that probably looks pretty from Oa, but up close it feels like getting punched by a small moon.
"Crude," Atrocitus observes, his voice carrying the kind of disdain usually reserved for insects. "Powerful, but crude. You fight like what you are—a child with a weapon he doesn't understand."
"Yeah, well, this child's still breathing," I shoot back, but even as I say it, I know he's right. Everything I'm throwing at him is basic stuff—constructs a rookie could make, tactics that probably went out of style when dinosaurs ruled the Earth.
His next attack comes from six directions at once. Distraction from above, feint from the left, killing blow from behind, and three other things my brain doesn't even have time to catalog. I survive it, but only because Ion's raw power lets me create barriers fast enough to matter. Barely.
I'm getting schooled. Plain and simple.
"You're learning," Atrocitus says as he circles me like a shark, "but far too slowly."
Then he really shows off.
The space around us starts to bend. Not metaphorically—literally. Gravity wells appear where there shouldn't be any, turning empty vacuum into a three-dimensional maze designed to funnel me exactly where he wants me. When I try to fly out of it, the exit points move. When I try to smash through with brute force, the maze adapts.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, watching my construct fist get trapped in what looks like crystallized space-time. "How the hell do you even learn to do that?"
"Billions of years of practice," he replies, dismantling my defenses with the casual efficiency of someone taking apart a watch. "Power without knowledge is worthless, Jordan. You have the strength of a cosmic entity, but you're still thinking like a primitive human."
He's not wrong. Ion's consciousness keeps offering me glimpses of techniques that could match what Atrocitus is doing, but trying to use them is like attempting brain surgery while drunk. Too much information, too many ways to accidentally kill myself if I mess up the cosmic equivalent of which wire to cut.
The attacks get more complex. He's not just hitting me with energy blasts—he's hitting me with concepts. Constructs that carry doubt like a virus, undermining my connection to hope itself. Physical assaults that come wrapped in psychological warfare.
I find myself always a step behind, always reacting instead of acting. This is what it feels like to fight someone who's had more time to perfect his craft than my entire species has existed.
A particularly nasty combination—three fake attacks to set up the real one—sends me careening through an asteroid field. I hit rocks with enough force to turn them into powder, and for a few seconds I just lie there in the cosmic dust, trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to win this.
"This is embarrassing," I tell myself, pulling cosmic gravel out of my hair. "Getting worked over by someone who's probably not even trying that hard."
But as I watch Atrocitus approach with the patience of a predator who knows his prey is already dead, something clicks in my head. He's right about experience and technique. He's right about me being outclassed. But he's wrong about one thing.
I'm not trying to become a better cosmic entity. I'm trying to stay Hal Jordan while using cosmic power.
Maybe that's the point.
Instead of attempting another elaborate energy manipulation that'll probably blow up in my face, I do something simple. Something I understand completely. I build an F-22 Raptor.
Not a construct shaped like a fighter jet—an actual F-22, every detail perfect from the twin engines to the weapons systems. Built from crystallized willpower and fifteen years of knowing exactly how these things work.
Atrocitus stops mid-attack, staring at my creation with genuine confusion. "What manner of vessel is this? It appears... inadequate for stellar combat. No energy shielding, primitive propulsion systems." He pauses, studying it like it's some kind of puzzle. "Is this psychological warfare?"
"It's called a fighter jet," I say, dropping into the cockpit and feeling every control respond exactly the way it should. "And you're about to learn why humans spent thousands of years figuring out how to make things that fly fast and kill efficiently."
The engines roar to life—twin afterburners burning with the light of stars but sounding exactly like the real thing. Atrocitus's expression shifts from confusion to dismissive amusement.
"You craft weapons from your species' atmospheric vehicles? How... quaint. I suppose when one lacks sophistication, one must rely on nostalgia."
"Nostalgia?" I kick in the afterburners and bank hard, using a nearby asteroid for cover while I test the jet's responses. Everything feels right—the stick, the throttle, the way the aircraft moves like it's part of me. "Let me explain something about fighter pilots, Atrocitus. We don't just fly. We live to fly. And right now, you're about to get an education in what that means."
I come screaming out from behind the asteroid, and for the first time in our entire fight, Atrocitus has to react to me.
The F-22 moves through space like it was born there, responding to my thoughts as much as my hands. When he creates tracking constructs, I respond with defensive maneuvers drilled into my muscle memory—barrel rolls, split-S turns, evasive patterns that would make the Thunderbirds jealous.
"Impossible," he snarls, launching red projectiles that home in on my exhaust. "Atmospheric flight principles cannot function in vacuum!"
"Tell that to Newton," I shoot back, pulling a climb that uses a moon's gravity to slingshot me behind him. "Physics is physics, even when you're powered by cosmic stubbornness."
For the first time since we started dancing, I'm not just surviving—I'm dictating the terms. The jet's targeting system locks onto Atrocitus with the kind of precision that comes from decades of human engineering, and I squeeze the trigger.
Green energy streams through space like tracer rounds made of compressed willpower. Atrocitus actually has to dodge, and the look of genuine surprise on his face is worth every bruise I've collected.
"You think atmospheric maneuvers can match eons of cosmic warfare?" He creates constructs designed to ground aircraft—energy nets, gravity wells, attacks that should swat me like a fly.
But I'm not flying by atmospheric rules anymore. The F-22 responds to will as much as aerodynamics, banking through attacks that should be impossible, threading gaps that exist more in my head than in space.
"Here's the thing about fighter pilots," I say, lining up another attack run. "We adapt. We improvise. We take whatever the enemy throws at us and figure out how to use it against them."
I prove the point by diving through one of his gravity wells, using it as a slingshot to build speed for my next pass. The maneuver puts me right on his six, and this time my weapons connect.
Emerald fire washes over Atrocitus's form, and he staggers like someone just rang his bell with a cosmic tuning fork.
"Unexpected," he admits, and there's something new in his voice. Not respect, exactly, but recognition that I'm not following the script he expected.
"That's the whole point," I reply, already banking for another pass. "You've fought cosmic entities, energy beings, creatures of pure thought. But you've never fought a test pilot with cosmic power backing his play. We're unpredictable because we don't follow your rules."
The battle transforms into something resembling aerial combat, but on a scale that makes World War III look like a backyard scuffle. We weave between moons, use asteroid fields for cover, perform maneuvers around gas giants that leave light trails in the upper atmospheres.
Atrocitus adapts fast—I'll give him that. Within minutes he's creating his own aircraft, fighters that look like they were designed by someone's worst nightmare. All sharp angles and screaming engines that burn with concentrated hatred.
But they fly like cosmic constructs pretending to be aircraft. Powerful, sophisticated, and completely predictable to someone who's spent years studying how things actually move through three-dimensional space.
"Impressive constructs," I admit, dodging a barrage that could probably level downtown Coast City. "But they fly like cosmic entities trying to copy atmospheric flight. Let me show you how it's really done."
I do something that would definitely get me court-martialed: I ram one of his fighters head-on, using the F-22's momentum and Ion's enhancement to turn myself into a guided missile. The explosion takes out three of his escorts in the chain reaction.
"Acceptable losses," I gasp, reforming the fighter from cosmic debris while space burns around us. "Always acceptable when you're protecting something that matters."
"Madness," Atrocitus breathes, but there's something different in his voice now.
"Not madness. Desperation." I bring the fighter around for another run. "See, you've got billions of years of experience and cosmic power. But I've got something you'll never understand—everything to lose. My family, my world, my future. That's not a weakness. That's what makes me dangerous."
The fight continues, but the dynamic has shifted. I'm still outgunned, still facing an enemy with more experience than my species has words for, but now I'm fighting on familiar ground. Every maneuver I make is rooted in principles learned at thirty thousand feet, adapted for cosmic warfare.
When he tries to box me in, I thread gaps using techniques from atmospheric combat. When he deploys tracking weapons, I use electronic warfare principles scaled up to cosmic levels. When he tries to overwhelm me with numbers, I fall back on fighter pilot tactics—speed, surprise, and the willingness to take risks that no sane entity would attempt.
"You cannot maintain this indefinitely," he warns. "Your human limitations will assert themselves."
"Maybe," I admit, pulling a maneuver that uses gravitational shear to escape what should have been a killing blow. "But human limitations include refusing to quit when everything depends on you. And right now, the entire universe is counting on me not screwing this up."
The battle pushes us both past our limits, but while Atrocitus fights with the patience of eons, I fight with the urgency of someone who knows every second counts. Sometimes urgency beats experience.
But even as I hold my own, I can feel the strain building. The constant improvisation, the need to stay unpredictable, the weight of cosmic responsibility—it's all adding up. My constructs are getting sloppier, my reactions slower.
Atrocitus senses the weakness and presses his advantage. His attacks become more personal, more vicious. Energy constructs that target not just my body but my mind, carrying the accumulated trauma of everyone who's ever been betrayed by their protectors.
The psychic component hits like a sledgehammer to the soul. Images flood my consciousness—every time the Green Lantern Corps failed someone, every world that burned while bureaucrats debated proper procedure, every innocent who died because their protectors chose rules over results.
For a terrifying moment, I feel my connection to Ion wavering. Maybe Atrocitus is right. Maybe hope is just setting yourself up for disappointment. Maybe the universe really is too cruel for heroes to make a difference.
But then I remember something that probably saves my sanity: I'm still Hal Jordan, test pilot from Coast City, and I've been dealing with systems failures my entire career. When the instruments are lying and the engine's on fire, you don't panic—you fall back on training and basic principles.
The basic principle here is simple: refuse to give up.
Ion's power flows back through me like liquid lightning as I push through the doubt, but this time it's different. Stronger. Like the cosmic entity is responding to my refusal to quit, amplifying everything I am. Yeah, bad things happen. Yeah, people fail and disappoint you. But that doesn't mean you stop being one of the good guys.
The power surge is incredible—not just raw energy, but clarity. Purpose. The absolute certainty that what I'm fighting for matters more than anything Atrocitus has lost.
When I look at him now, floating there with billions of years of rage written across his scarred features, I don't feel compassion. I feel disgust.
"You know what pisses me off about you?" I say, green energy crackling around me with newfound intensity. "You lost someone you loved, and you think that gives you the right to murder innocent people across the universe. Well guess what, asshole? Everyone loses people. Everyone suffers. The difference is that most of us don't use our pain as an excuse to become monsters."
Atrocitus's eyes narrow. "You know nothing of loss, child. Nothing of true suffering."
"Don't I?" The power building around me is making space itself ripple. "I watched my father burn alive when I was seven years old. I've spent twenty-two years terrified that everyone I care about is going to die because I can't protect them. But you know what I didn't do? I didn't decide that innocent people deserved to suffer for it."
His form blazes brighter, rage feeding on my rejection of his worldview. "Your father's death was an accident. My people were murdered by your precious Guardians' machines."
"And that sucks," I shoot back, not giving an inch. "But it doesn't give you a free pass to commit genocide. It doesn't make you the victim when you're burning down worlds full of beings who had nothing to do with what happened to you. You're not some tragic figure seeking justice—you're just another mass murderer with a sob story."
The words hit him like physical blows. For a second, genuine hurt flickers across his features before rage swallows it whole.
"I will show you what real loss feels like," he snarls, power erupting from him in waves that make nearby stars flicker.
"Bring it," I reply, and the power surge from Ion makes my words ring with cosmic authority. "Let's finish this."
What follows isn't elegant. It's brutal, personal, and absolutely vicious.
Atrocitus comes at me like a freight train made of concentrated hatred, but this time I don't dodge. I meet him head-on, Ion's power flowing through my fist as I drive it into his jaw with everything I've got. The impact creates a shockwave that probably registers on sensors three sectors away.
He staggers back, genuine shock replacing the arrogant confidence he's worn for the entire fight. Then his eyes narrow, and he swings back with a punch powered by the Butcher's full fury.
I barely get my guard up in time. The blow still sends me rocketing backward through space, but Ion's enhancement keeps me conscious and pissed off. When I recover, there's cosmic blood floating around my mouth, and I'm grinning like a maniac.
"My turn," I say, launching myself back at him.
We abandon all pretense of sophisticated energy constructs and cosmic warfare tactics. This is just two beings beating the hell out of each other while traveling at speeds that turn space into a blur. Every punch is backed by the power of fundamental cosmic forces. Every impact creates light shows that make supernovas look subtle.
I catch him with a right cross enhanced by pure willpower, sending him spinning through an asteroid field. The rocks explode around him like cosmic firecrackers. He recovers by grabbing a chunk of planetary debris and hurling it at my head with enough force to crack continents.
I pulverize the incoming rock with an uppercut and keep advancing. "Come on, you cosmic has-been! Show me this legendary rage!"
We tear across the star system trading blows like cosmic prize fighters, our battle leaving a trail of destruction and impossible light. When he clips me with a hook powered by billions of years of fury, I taste blood and starlight. When I return the favor with a combination that channels Ion's essence through my knuckles, he actually cries out in pain.
"Not so fun when someone hits back, is it?" I pant, circling him as we drift through the void beyond the system's edge.
His response is a haymaker that carries the concentrated anguish of watching his world burn. It connects with my ribs, and I swear I feel something crack despite Ion's enhancement. But instead of backing off, I step inside his guard and drive an elbow into his solar plexus with enough force to fold him in half.
"You know what your problem is?" I say as he gasps for breath in the cosmic void. "You never learned to take a punch without crying about it."
That gets him moving again. We slam into each other like colliding planets, fists flying in combinations that blur the line between martial arts and cosmic warfare. Every strike carries the weight of our opposing philosophies—his despair and my stubborn refusal to quit beating against each other with the force of dying stars.
We're moving beyond any star system now, trading blows while rocketing through interstellar space. The void between galaxies becomes our boxing ring, with only distant starlight to illuminate our cosmic brawl.
"Having fun yet?" I call out, wiping blood from my mouth as we pause to circle each other in the emptiness between everything.
"You cannot maintain this forever," he pants, showing strain for the first time. "The entity's power has limits."
"Maybe," I admit, feeling the cosmic forces flowing through me like controlled lightning. "But my stubborn refusal to quit doesn't. And right now, that's all I need."
We're beyond any star system now, fighting in the deep void where space is so empty that our battle is the only source of light for light-years in every direction. Each exchange creates its own constellation—green and red energies clashing with forces that make supernovas look like birthday candles.
"This is pointless," Atrocitus says as we pause in our cosmic dance of destruction. "We could fight for eons without resolution."
"Then let's not," I reply, feeling Ion's power building to levels that make my enhanced physiology strain to contain it. "One more round. Everything we've got. Winner takes all."
"And when I tear your pathetic hope apart piece by piece?" His voice carries venom that could poison stars. "When I show the universe that your precious optimism is nothing but delusion? When I feast on your despair as you watch everything you love burn?"
"You won't." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "Because you're wrong about everything. People aren't fundamentally evil. The universe isn't cruel by design. Bad things happen, but that doesn't mean we stop trying to make things better. And I'm going to prove it by kicking your ass."
Atrocitus's laugh is like the sound of galaxies dying. "You still believe in fairy tales, child. I will enjoy teaching you the truth."
"You know what?" I say, looking around at the vast emptiness surrounding us. "Here we are in the ballroom of eternity, and it's going to be one hell of a dance."
"Very well," he snarls, his form blazing with anticipation. "One final exchange. Let us see which philosophy proves stronger when everything burns."
We separate, putting vast distances between us as power builds around both our forms. Atrocitus draws on billions of years of accumulated rage, the fury of every being who ever suffered while their protectors failed them. Red energy spirals outward from his position, creating patterns that hurt to look at directly.
I don't reach for some cosmic understanding or profound revelation. I just think about home. About Mom making coffee in the morning and worrying when I don't call. About Jim trying to be the responsible big brother while secretly being proud of his screw-up sibling. About the boys asking me to make dinosaur constructs in the backyard. About Carol putting up with my bullshit for years because she sees something in me that I'm still figuring out.
Simple stuff. Human stuff. The kind of ordinary moments that make life worth protecting.
Ion's power responds to that simplicity, that basic human certainty that some things are worth fighting for. Not because they're perfect, but because they're mine.
We hang there in the cosmic void, two opposing philosophies gathering power for one final clash that will determine not just who wins this fight, but what principles guide the universe going forward.
Despair versus hope. Rage versus will. The belief that suffering justifies cruelty versus the harder choice to remain good despite the pain.
"For my murdered people," Atrocitus whispers across the void, his voice dripping with malice. "For their screams that echo through eternity."
"For everyone else," I reply.
And then we collide with the force of dying stars, green and red energies meeting in an explosion that briefly outshines entire galaxies, the fate of the universe hanging in the balance between two beings who refuse to back down.