A Dream of Hawks and Heroes
*The Dreaming is a house of many mansions, and each room tells Hector Hall something he knew but had forgotten. A turn of a plain brass knob, and he is in the JSA brownstone, sitting on a sofa, talking music with Jack Knight and Albert Rothstein. An Elliott Smith song creeps from a CD player, and Jack and Al are good-naturedly bickering.*
i've been out haunting the neighborhood/and everybody can see i'm no good/when i'm walking out between parked cars/with my head full of stars
"I just don't see why everything has to be a drug reference, Jack," says Hector. "It doesn't make it cool, anymore than rapping about violence makes that cool."
The Helm of Nabu sits on an end table. Hector remembers this moment. It was ridiculously mundane, and like most of his more mundane memories, he cherished it.
high on amphetamines/the moon is a lightbulb breaking...
"You've gotta admit that's good songwriting, Hec," says Jack, smiling. "And it's not about the drugs, it's about being lost. Everone can relate to that."
"Great. I'm arguing music with the only two JSA members who ever sported mohawks."
"He's got a great voice," says Al, who has mostly watched the argument, amused.
"Yeah," concedes Hector. "He does. But I can see why he committed suicide."
"He didn't commit suicide," says Jack. "He was murdered."
Hector is serious now, and finds himself looking at his own reflection in the helm.
"Look, Jack, there's suicide and then there's suicide, y'know?" says Hector, a little distant. "You surround yourself with destructive circumstances, and you can't be surprised when bad things happened."
"You are so totally Hawkman's kid," says Al, laughing now.
"So what does that say about super-heroes," says Jack.
"It's not the same thing at all," says Hector, but they're already gone. Jack, Al, even the Helm of Nabu.
He looks up, and there is no ceiling, only a sky blackened by thousands of hawks, circling closer now. And CD keeps playing.
cos everyone is a fucking pro/and they all got answers from trouble they've known/and they all got to say what you should and shouldn't do/though they don't have a clue...
i've been out haunting the neighborhood/and everybody can see i'm no good/when i'm walking out between parked cars/with my head full of stars
"I just don't see why everything has to be a drug reference, Jack," says Hector. "It doesn't make it cool, anymore than rapping about violence makes that cool."
The Helm of Nabu sits on an end table. Hector remembers this moment. It was ridiculously mundane, and like most of his more mundane memories, he cherished it.
high on amphetamines/the moon is a lightbulb breaking...
"You've gotta admit that's good songwriting, Hec," says Jack, smiling. "And it's not about the drugs, it's about being lost. Everone can relate to that."
"Great. I'm arguing music with the only two JSA members who ever sported mohawks."
"He's got a great voice," says Al, who has mostly watched the argument, amused.
"Yeah," concedes Hector. "He does. But I can see why he committed suicide."
"He didn't commit suicide," says Jack. "He was murdered."
Hector is serious now, and finds himself looking at his own reflection in the helm.
"Look, Jack, there's suicide and then there's suicide, y'know?" says Hector, a little distant. "You surround yourself with destructive circumstances, and you can't be surprised when bad things happened."
"You are so totally Hawkman's kid," says Al, laughing now.
"So what does that say about super-heroes," says Jack.
"It's not the same thing at all," says Hector, but they're already gone. Jack, Al, even the Helm of Nabu.
He looks up, and there is no ceiling, only a sky blackened by thousands of hawks, circling closer now. And CD keeps playing.
cos everyone is a fucking pro/and they all got answers from trouble they've known/and they all got to say what you should and shouldn't do/though they don't have a clue...