After the crisis... something's still wrong.
John Stewart is slumped back against a chair, jaw slacked and eyes wide in astonishment as he sifts through the files at the database archived at the Watchtower.
He'd felt something was wrong immediately, when he found himself in the midst of a pitched battle against dueling Mordrus with no memory of how he got there, but it's easy to chalk up unexplainable phenomena to natural happenstance when dealing with these mystical types. Nothing ever makes sense around them.
But coming back to reality, he couldn't shake that sense of wrong. Things everywhere seemed a bit out of place - that eerie sense of subtle wrong that you tend to get when you're in another dimension.
But this isn't a parallel universe. This is home.
And judging from what he's looking at now... he's lost more than a year of his life.
His mouth is agape, and his eyes are starting to burn a little.
He'd felt something was wrong immediately, when he found himself in the midst of a pitched battle against dueling Mordrus with no memory of how he got there, but it's easy to chalk up unexplainable phenomena to natural happenstance when dealing with these mystical types. Nothing ever makes sense around them.
But coming back to reality, he couldn't shake that sense of wrong. Things everywhere seemed a bit out of place - that eerie sense of subtle wrong that you tend to get when you're in another dimension.
But this isn't a parallel universe. This is home.
And judging from what he's looking at now... he's lost more than a year of his life.
His mouth is agape, and his eyes are starting to burn a little.