A private nursing home in Iowa
He doesn't know how long he's been here -- it's only by the grace of magic that the staff doesn't notice his presence. Which suits him -- he's not in the mood to talk. He can already sense his silence is about to be interrupted.
He stares out the window into the night, and for a moment, he can read the strands of destiny tied up in the stars -- His, June's, Jean Loring's, Ray Palmer's. So many lines converged at this point. How could it be anything but catastrophic?
"So what's the difference?" he asks to the unresponsive sky. "What chooses whether we're heroes or monsters? Do we make that decision?"
He turns and looks at the comatose June Moone.
"Does someone else?"
He runs his fingers through her hair.
"Can you feel it, June? One way or another, it's coming to an end."
He stares out the window into the night, and for a moment, he can read the strands of destiny tied up in the stars -- His, June's, Jean Loring's, Ray Palmer's. So many lines converged at this point. How could it be anything but catastrophic?
"So what's the difference?" he asks to the unresponsive sky. "What chooses whether we're heroes or monsters? Do we make that decision?"
He turns and looks at the comatose June Moone.
"Does someone else?"
He runs his fingers through her hair.
"Can you feel it, June? One way or another, it's coming to an end."