The inside of the Batwing was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional tick of the onboard systems adjusting their flight path.
The interior was lit in cold blue hues, the control panels arranged in precise order—no wasted space, no unnecessary lights. Efficiency in cockpit form.
Batman sat at the helm, eyes scanning the interface in front of him with incredible focus. Beside him, arms crossed and legs braced wide, sat John Stewart. He looked less like a passenger and more like a man trying to remain still in a chair that wasn't built for waiting.
"I could go much faster alone," John said without looking over.
Batman didn't lift his gaze. "True," he replied. "But that would beat the entire purpose of pairing up."
John scoffed, leaning back slightly in his seat. "Lucky me for getting you."
Batman allowed the silence to linger before breaking it with a question.
"Do all Green Lanterns love to complain, or is it just the ones from Earth?"
John actually smirked. "I guess Hal did complain a lot. Especially during training."
Batman's hands paused briefly over the controls. "You trained with him?"
John shook his head. "No. I mentored him. At least for a while. I was the Green Lantern of sector 2814 before him. Now… without him."
A faint hum passed between them. Not from the ship. From the gap Hal had left behind.
"Were you two close?" Batman asked, still not looking over.
John exhaled through his nose. "No. We disagreed. Often. He was vulgar, hot-headed, reckless... but one of the best Lanterns I ever met. He left a mark on everyone—whether they liked it or not."
Batman nodded. Once. "That's true."
Neither of them spoke for several seconds.
Then John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm not investigating his death in an official capacity. Hal's ring… it flagged Apokoliptian involvement. Strongly. But the Corps won't move without consensus from the Guardians."
Batman's brow furrowed, slightly. "They're hesitant."
"They can't afford a war with Darkseid," John continued. "Not with the Reach expanding again. And the Sinestro Corps has been making noise. Real noise. The wrong move now… could end everything."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Will they be a threat to Earth?"
"Not as long as the Corps stands." John sat back, firm. "And I sent out a message. To someone I trust in the Corps. He's looking into Hal's death too. We'll know more when he arrives. Galactic news cycles aren't exactly my reading list."
Before he could finish the thought, the comms system crackled to life.
"Error. Tracked signal lost."
Batman turned to the console instantly. Fingers already working.
"Bring up the world map. Marked signals only."
The screen flipped to a global projection. Thousands of red dots—active nodes—all pulsing.
Then they started vanishing.
Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.
Each blinked out faster than the last. In under thirty seconds, only a small cluster remained. All within North America.
Batman's frown deepened.
John leaned in. "What's going on?"
Before Batman could answer, another voice came through the comms.
"Batman, the signal I was tracking is gone," Superman said. "I can't get a read on anything. The device you gave me isn't responding. Is it an error?"
Batman was already on autopilot. Hands moving across the keys, eyes reading invisible information.
Another voice chimed in.
"It's not an error," Black Canary said. "The stream just ended."
Batman didn't speak. He typed for another few seconds. Then:
"She's right. System integrity's clean. No faults."
Superman's voice returned. "Then what is it?"
Batman tapped one last command.
The screen shifted. Footage from multiple traffic cams, store fronts, street corners. Obscure locations—dusty, neglected, ordinary in the way only forgotten places were.
In one feed, Enchantress appeared.
Her movements were smooth, unnatural. Beside her—President Ross, disoriented, clothes wrinkled, fear leaking from every pore.
A moment later, she vanished.
Another feed. Another figure. Same routine.
More officials, each dropped like trash on the side of the world. Each one abandoned.
"They're not signals," Batman said, tone clipped. "They're coordinates. Drop points. Where the hostages are being left."
John's jaw tightened. "Then we better move fast."
He looked at Batman, voice lower now.
"Yes. If the public finds them first—they're dead."
The coordinates weren't just numbers anymore. They were flashing red warnings, countdowns disguised as markers. And as the realization hit, every capable hero within the league or in contact with them mobilized.
But no one moved faster than Superman.
The wind from his departure barely had time to bend the trees in his location before he was already slicing through atmosphere. Within seconds, clouds broke around him.
The location: Calverton, Maryland. A city few remembered existed. Too quiet. Too plain. But now, momentarily, center stage.
He hovered above it—just under the cover of a low-altitude cloudbank. His eyes scanned the layout. His hearing stretched outward like a net.
Then he heard it.
Voices. Angry ones.
"I swear guys—I fucking saw that bastard," one man shouted from a sidewalk crowd. "Shit… maybe I'm just seeing things from anger."
Another, younger, harsher: "I hope that bastard gets executed live. If not, I'll do it myself."
Superman's gaze drifted down the street. A group of men stood on the edge of the main road. Not armed—but not calm either. The kind of tension born from betrayal, the kind that made fists itch for something more than words.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Conversations across blocks, some subdued, most seething. The fallout from the stream hadn't settled. It had only begun.
And it was all aimed at one man.
Pete Ross.
Superman opened his eyes again, then shifted slightly in the air.
He spotted him.
A back alley just behind a worn-out convenience store. A pair of broken streetlamps left the narrow passage in semi-darkness. Rust-lined dumpsters lined the side like failed barricades.
Behind one of them—Pete Ross. Suit stained, tie missing, forehead streaked with sweat and blood. He wasn't sitting. He was crouched low, arms over his head like he expected bullets any second.
Superman remained hovering for just a moment longer.
He wanted to move. He wanted to not move.
He thought he knew Ross. Not intimately. But enough. Enough to believe he was at least trying to do good. Make difficult calls. Balance impossible weights.
But now?
Now all he could see were faces. Faces from La Maz. From the island. Children altered. Soldiers misled. The dead who would never be named.
The lasso didn't lie.
And that made this harder.
**Woosh**
The sound broke the alley's silence. Superman landed without a word, the dust at his feet disturbed by nothing but presence.
Pete startled, back slamming against the dumpster as his head whipped around. Eyes wide. Uncertain. Terrified.
Superman didn't speak.
He just looked at him.
Expression unreadable, but heavy. He didn't need to yell. Disappointment did more damage in silence.
Pete's voice broke the quiet first. "C-Clark?"
Superman didn't respond immediately. He took a single step forward, boots brushing past scattered debris.
"You should've told me," he finally said. Voice low. Measured.
Pete swallowed. "I—" He started, then stopped. There were no words that wouldn't rot the moment they left his mouth.
"I thought I was doing what had to be done," he muttered instead.
Superman's eyes didn't soften. "You thought you could lie to the world. Control it. And now you're surprised it hates you for it."
Pete looked down, unable to hold the gaze.
Superman let out a breath.
And then he stepped forward again.
This wasn't forgiveness.
It was removal.
He extended a hand. Not in kindness. In obligation.
"Let's go," Superman said.
Ross hesitated. Then reached out.
Author's Note:
Appreciate everyone still sticking around through these chapters. I've been taking more time lately to plot out how actions ripple—not just through the world, but through the people inside it. Unlike the original GOTO, where chaos and power led the charge, this version is meant to be a bit more complex. Consequences matter. Ideals get tested. And characters don't walk away untouched.
Thanks again for the continued support. More to come soon.
...And yes, I'm aware that slowing down to focus on realism in a story featuring gods, demons, and cosmic-level psychics might be the real fiction here—but hey, we all cope differently.