The jewelry store was just the beginning. As Hal moved through the devastated downtown area, his ring continued identifying looters taking advantage of the chaos—some organized and dangerous, others clearly opportunistic individuals grabbing whatever they could.
At an electronics store six blocks away, a more organized operation was underway. A group of eight looters had backed a stolen delivery truck up to the shattered storefront and were efficiently loading it with high-end computers, gaming systems, and televisions. Unlike the jewelry store crew, these looters were methodical, with lookouts posted and what appeared to be communication devices coordinating their efforts.
Hal observed them from above for a moment, assessing. Most wore masks—not just for concealment, but proper respirators that suggested preparation rather than impulse. Two carried visible firearms, and based on their positioning and alertness, others were likely armed as well.
"Armed criminals detected," the ring confirmed his suspicion. "Recommended approach: containment perimeter followed by targeted neutralization."
"I was thinking the same thing," Hal murmured, positioning himself directly above the operation.
He struck without warning, first creating a dome-shaped construct that covered the entire area, preventing escape. The reaction was immediate—the lookouts shouted alerts, and the loading operation transformed instantly into defensive positions. Confirming Hal's assessment, previously concealed weapons appeared in several hands.
"Green Lantern!" one of them shouted, pointing upward. "Take him down!"
Multiple firearms discharged simultaneously, bullets streaking toward Hal from different angles. His shield construct deflected them easily, but the coordinated attack suggested these weren't typical looters—they had tactical training.
"Ballistic analysis indicates military-grade weapons," the ring informed him. "Criminal profile matches known paramilitary organization operating in Coast City vicinity."
"Not just opportunistic looting, then," Hal realized. "They planned for this."
One of the gunmen reached into the truck and pulled out something considerably more concerning than a handgun—a compact launcher that Hal recognized from his military days. "RPG!" he shouted to his companions. "Light him up!"
Hal didn't wait for the rocket-propelled grenade to launch. He immediately created a containment sphere around the weapon and its wielder. The man pulled the trigger anyway, and the resulting explosion was contained entirely within Hal's construct—but the force still knocked the launcher's wielder unconscious.
The remaining looters scattered, looking for cover or escape routes, only to find the green dome still sealing off the area. One tried shooting at the dome itself, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off, ricocheting dangerously around the enclosed space.
"I'd stop that if I were you," Hal called down, descending toward them. "Unless you want to explain to your buddies why they're full of your bullet holes."
The shooter ignored the warning, emptying his magazine at Hal instead. With a sigh, Hal created a precision construct—a small green disc that intercepted the man's hand, applying just enough pressure to force him to drop the weapon without causing injury.
"We've got rights!" another looter shouted, though he wisely kept his own weapon lowered. "You can't just trap us like this!"
"Actually, under the Coast City Emergency Powers Act, looting during a declared disaster is a felony with enhanced penalties," Hal replied, having learned this from the briefing Faraday had given him earlier. "And I'm pretty sure carrying military-grade weapons while committing said felony takes this well beyond a rights issue."
What happened next caught Hal by surprise. One of the looters who had appeared unarmed suddenly pulled a small device from his pocket and threw it directly at the dome's ceiling. Upon contact, it adhered and began pulsing with an electric blue light.
"Warning," the ring alerted. "Unknown energy signature detected. Construct integrity compromised."
The dome wavered briefly where the device had attached, creating a localized weakness. Three of the looters immediately converged on this spot, some sixth sense telling them where the vulnerability was despite the dome's transparency.
"That's new," Hal muttered, quickly reinforcing the weakened section with additional will. Whatever the device was, it was specifically designed to disrupt energy constructs—which meant these weren't just opportunistic criminals but people who had prepared for encounters with powered individuals.
The leader of the group seemed to realize their opportunity was fading. "Plan B!" he shouted, pulling another device from inside the truck. This one was larger, with multiple antennas protruding from a central housing.
"Scanning," the ring announced. "Device contains electromagnetic pulse generator. Potential threat to local infrastructure and emergency response systems."
"Oh no you don't," Hal said, immediately creating a targeted construct—a green spear that shot downward with precision, piercing the device without harming the man holding it. The EMP generator sparked and fizzled, rendered harmless.
Realizing they were outmatched, the remaining looters finally dropped their weapons, raising their hands in surrender. Hal systematically created restraints for each of them, taking extra care with the ones who had demonstrated tactical knowledge or access to specialized equipment.
As police finally arrived on the scene, Hal descended to meet them, maintaining the dome containment until officers could secure each suspect.
"We've been chasing these guys for hours," the police sergeant told him, looking both exhausted and relieved. "They hit three other stores before this one. Some kind of organized looting ring that activated as soon as the attack started."
"They were prepared," Hal observed. "That device they used against my construct—I'm guessing that's not standard criminal equipment."
"We've been seeing more of this specialized anti-powered gear on the streets," the sergeant confirmed, lowering his voice. "Ever since Superman went public, there's been a black market for tech designed to counter enhanced individuals. These guys must have adapted something meant for Kryptonian energy signatures."
"Great," Hal muttered. "Because alien invaders weren't enough to worry about."
With the organized looters in police custody, Hal continued his patrol. The ring guided him to a damaged pharmacy, where he caught another group trying to steal prescription medications. These were more desperate than criminal—people whose own pharmacies had been destroyed, trying to get medicine for sick family members.
"Please," an elderly woman begged as Hal approached. "My husband needs his heart medication. Our pharmacy was destroyed, and the hospitals are overwhelmed."
Hal hesitated, then deactivated his restraining constructs. "What do you need?"
She showed him an empty prescription bottle. Using his ring, Hal carefully scanned the pharmacy's database, located the correct medication, and created a temporary prescription label.
"Take what you need," he said quietly. "Leave your information with the pharmacist when they return. They'll understand."
"Thank you," she said, tears in her eyes. "You're not like what they're saying on the news."
"What are they saying?"
"That you're just as dangerous as those red ones. That people with power can't be trusted."
The words stung, but Hal pushed on. Near the waterfront, he encountered a more serious situation—a group of armed men attempting to break into a bank vault exposed by yesterday's battle. These weren't opportunistic looters but professional criminals taking advantage of the chaos.
"Gentlemen," Hal announced, hovering above them. "I'm going to give you one chance to surrender peacefully."
Their response was immediate—automatic weapons fire directed at him. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the shield his ring automatically generated.
"Okay then," Hal muttered. "Hard way it is."
He created multiple constructs simultaneously—a giant hand that swept two gunmen off their feet, restraining bonds that wrapped around another, and a cage that dropped over the remaining two. The entire confrontation lasted less than thirty seconds.
But reactions from bystanders were mixed. Some citizens cheered, recognizing him from yesterday's battle. A group of teenagers actually applauded.
"That was awesome!" one called out. "You're like a real-life superhero!"
But others shrank back in fear, intimidated by the cosmic power he wielded. A mother pulled her child closer, hurrying away. A man across the street was filming everything on his phone, but his expression was suspicious rather than admiring.
"You're as bad as those red monsters!" the man shouted. "Freaks with power, destroying our city!"
The words stung more than Hal expected. He'd always been celebrated for his skills as a pilot. Now, wearing this uniform, wielding this power, he was something other—something that inspired fear as much as hope.
As he continued his patrol, news vans began appearing. Reporters who had been covering the devastation now turned their attention to Coast City's newest protector. What started as one or two journalists quickly became a mob of cameras and microphones.
"Green Lantern! Christine O'Malley, Channel 7 News. Can you comment on the President's address yesterday morning?"
"Is it true you're working with the aliens who attacked us?"
"Sources say you were a military pilot—are you still working for the government?"
"How do we know you won't turn against us like those red ones did?"
The questions came rapid-fire, each one more aggressive than the last. Cameras flashed in Hal's face, microphones thrust toward him like weapons. The crowd of reporters pressed closer, cutting off his escape routes.
"Please, I need to—there are people who need help," Hal tried to explain, but his words were drowned out by more questions.
"Were you involved with the Superman incident in Metropolis?"
"What's your connection to Iron Man?"
"Are you human? Can you prove it?"
The barrage of questions, the press of bodies, the flashing cameras—it all began to blur together. Suddenly, Hal wasn't in Coast City anymore. He was seven years old, watching as reporters swarmed his family after his father's funeral.
"Mrs. Jordan! How does it feel to lose your husband in such a public way?"
"Jim, you're the oldest son—will you follow your father into aviation?"
"Hal, do you understand what happened to your daddy?"
His mother had tried to shield them, her body a barrier between her children and the hungry press. But they kept coming, kept pushing, kept demanding answers from a grieving family.
"Please," Jessica had begged, tears streaming down her face. "My children just lost their father. Have some decency."
But they didn't stop. They never stopped. Even at the funeral, cameras had clicked as they lowered Martin Jordan's casket into the ground. Even as seven-year-old Hal had broken down sobbing, they kept taking pictures, kept asking questions.
"Is it true the crash could have been prevented?"
"Will you sue Ferris Aircraft?"
"How do you feel about your husband dying in front of thousands of people?"
"Green Lantern!" A reporter's sharp voice brought Hal back to the present. "There are reports that you were at the crash site of another alien vessel. Can you confirm—"
"Back off!" Hal snapped, his voice harder than intended. The ring flared in response to his emotional state, creating a barrier that pushed the crowd back several feet.
The reporters stumbled, some falling. Cameras clattered to the ground. For a moment, there was shocked silence.
Then the questions started again, but now with a different tone.
"Are you threatening the press?"
"Is this how you'll treat ordinary citizens?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, you're seeing it live—Green Lantern using force against journalists!"
Hal's heart raced. This was spiraling out of control. He tried to remember his media training from his Air Force days, tried to put on the confident test pilot persona that had served him well in press conferences.
"I'm sorry," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "There are still people who need help. If you'll excuse me—"
"Wait!" Christine O'Malley pushed forward again. "Just one question—who are you really? The public has a right to know!"
"I'm someone trying to help," Hal replied, lifting off the ground. "That's all that matters right now."
He flew upward, but the news helicopters followed. The cameras tracked his every move as he responded to the next crisis—a partially collapsed apartment building with people trapped inside.
Near the coast, where the damage was heaviest, Hal encountered a different kind of situation. A partially collapsed apartment building had trapped several residents in upper floors, the structural damage making traditional rescue difficult.
"Please!" a woman called from a fifth-floor balcony, her voice carrying over the sound of helicopter rotors. "My daughter's inside! The stairwell collapsed!"
Without hesitation, Hal created a construct platform, lifting himself to the balcony. The news helicopters circled like vultures, their cameras capturing every moment.
"Ma'am, I'll get her out. Which room?"
"The pink door at the end of the hall. Her name's Marie. She's only six." The woman was crying now, her fear palpable. "Please, she must be so scared."
Hal phased through the balcony door, his ring automatically reinforcing the unstable floor beneath him. The building groaned ominously, dust falling from stress fractures in the ceiling. Behind him, he could hear reporters speculating about whether he could save the child, some actually debating the ratings potential of a successful rescue versus a tragedy.
"Marie?" he called out, moving carefully down the hallway. The structure shifted slightly under his weight. "My name's Hal. Your mom sent me to help you."
A small voice answered from behind the pink door. "I'm scared. The building keeps making noises."
"I know, sweetheart. But I'm going to get you out safely. Can you open the door for me?"
"It's stuck. The building shook and now it won't open."
Hal placed his hand on the door, the ring scanning its structure. The frame had warped badly, the door essentially welded shut by twisted metal. With careful precision, he created a construct that gently pried the door open without causing further damage to the unstable structure.
Marie stood in the middle of her room, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her eyes widened at the sight of Hal's uniform and glowing ring. She was trembling, tears streaming down her face.
"Are you the green superhero from TV?" she asked.
"That's me," Hal confirmed, kneeling to her level. "I'm going to carry you to your mom, okay? But first, I'm going to make something to keep us extra safe."
He created a protective bubble around them both, transparent but shimmering with emerald energy. Marie reached out to touch it, her fear momentarily forgotten in wonder.
"It's pretty," she whispered.
"Ready?" Hal asked, lifting her gently.
She nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck as they floated through the apartment. The building gave another ominous groan, and Hal quickened their pace. They emerged onto the balcony where her mother waited, the news helicopters capturing the reunion.
"Marie!" The mother's cry of relief was genuine, raw. She hugged her daughter tightly, then turned to Hal with tears streaming down her face. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved my baby."
"Just doing my job," Hal replied, but the words felt different now. This wasn't testing aircraft or pushing envelopes—this was using power to protect people who couldn't protect themselves.
As he prepared to leave, the mother touched his arm. "Don't listen to what they're saying on the news. You're a hero. A real hero."
The words should have been comforting, but as Hal flew away, the helicopters still following, he couldn't shake the feeling of being hunted. Each camera lens felt like a weapon, each reporter's question like an interrogation.
He helped extract three more families from the damaged building, each rescue filmed and broadcast live. The reporters provided running commentary, some praising his efforts, others questioning his motives.
"Is this all for show?" one journalist speculated on live TV. "A calculated attempt to win public trust after yesterday's destruction?"
Another chimed in: "Notice how he hasn't removed his mask. What is Green Lantern hiding?"
As the afternoon wore on, Hal found himself increasingly frustrated. Every action was analyzed, every word dissected. When he stopped a carjacking, reporters questioned whether he'd used excessive force. When he helped firefighters contain a chemical fire using construct barriers, they asked about environmental impact.
"Green Lantern!" a particularly aggressive reporter shouted as Hal finished securing a damaged water main. "Rick Martinez, Coast City Herald. Your response in the jewelry store today—some are calling it vigilantism. How do you respond to accusations that you're acting as judge, jury, and executioner?"
"I restrained some looters until police arrived," Hal said, trying to keep his voice level. "No one was hurt."
"But who gave you that authority? You're not law enforcement. You're not elected. What right do you have to decide who gets arrested?"
The question hit a nerve. What right did he have? The ring had chosen him, but did that make him Earth's protector? Or just another person with too much power?
"I'm trying to help," Hal said finally. "People are suffering. The city needs—"
"What the city needs is accountability!" Martinez interrupted. "Not another powered individual making unilateral decisions!"
Other reporters picked up the theme, their questions becoming more pointed, more personal. Hal felt his carefully maintained composure cracking.
"Is it true you were a test pilot with a history of insubordination?"
"Sources say you disappeared for several days before yesterday's attack. Where were you?"
"Can you confirm reports that you were in contact with the aliens before they attacked?"
Each question felt like an accusation. Hal's mind kept flashing back to those terrible days after his father's death—the constant intrusion, the lack of privacy, the way grief had been turned into a spectacle for public consumption.
"Mrs. Jordan, how do you feel knowing your husband's last moments were witnessed by thousands?"
"Hal, do you blame yourself for your father's death?"
"Will this tragedy end the Jordan family's aviation legacy?"
"Enough!" Hal's voice cracked like a whip, the ring flaring bright enough to force the nearest reporters to shield their eyes. "There are people who need help. Real people with real problems. If you'll excuse me—"
"Running away from hard questions?" Martinez called after him. "Is this the kind of hero Coast City deserves?"
Hal paused in mid-flight, looking back at the crowd of reporters. For a moment, he considered trying to explain—about responsibility, about duty, about the crushing weight of power he'd never asked for. But looking at their hungry expressions, their cameras ready to capture any sign of weakness, he knew it would be pointless.
Instead, he flew higher, beyond the reach of their questions but not their judgment. The ring guided him toward several more incidents—a gas leak that needed containing, a bridge support damaged in yesterday's battle that required reinforcement, an elderly man having a heart attack whom Hal rushed to the nearest hospital.
Each action was necessary, potentially life-saving, but the cameras never stopped rolling. The commentary never ceased.
"Notice how he's avoiding our questions," one reporter observed on live television. "What is Green Lantern hiding? Who is the man behind the mask?"
By the time the sun began to set, Hal was exhausted—not physically, as the ring sustained him, but emotionally. He'd saved dozens of lives, prevented untold property damage, and helped maintain order in a city struggling to recover. But all the media seemed to care about was controversy, conflict, and conspiracy theories.
As he flew one final patrol circuit over the city, he noticed a small crowd gathered in what remained of Seaside Park. Unlike the reporters, these were ordinary citizens. Some were cleaning up debris. Others were distributing food and water to those whose homes had been destroyed.
And in the center of the group, children were playing on a construct playground he'd created that morning and forgotten to dismiss. Their laughter carried up to him, pure and uncomplicated.
This, he realized, was why he wore the ring. Not for recognition or fame, but for moments like these—when power could be used to bring light to dark places, hope to the hopeless.
"GREEN LANTERN!"
The shout came from below. Not from a reporter this time, but from one of the children playing on his construct.
"Thank you for saving my mommy!" the little boy called up, waving enthusiastically.
Hal waved back, a genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. "You're welcome!"
He flew on, leaving the reporters and their questions behind. The city stretched out below him, wounded but healing, its people resilient even in the face of cosmic threats they couldn't begin to understand.
Finally, as darkness fell, Hal headed for his true destination—the place he'd been drawn to since leaving the safehouse. The Coast City Aviation Museum.