Return of The Corps

[Thaal Sinestro]

The sun gasped up from beyond the distant horizon, spilling its hot breath over the sand and stone that sprawled before the pair of shadows. They stood on a red stone mesa, deep in the untamed badlands which surrounded every speck of civilization in the verse. The chill of the night had not quite left them as the sun struck their faces, its warmth welcomed for the moment. Brusk, stiff winds flew as the temperature changed, grit whisking against their faces, the deputy’s poncho billowing gently. They stood there in quiet as they gazed over the vast and unforgiving desert that swelled below, eyes following the barely visible trails of dust that spoke of faraway drivers, no doubt on errands of destruction and mayhem.

Sinestro was the first to speak. “What are you afraid of?” he asked, his voice almost soft.

“Nothing,” Prince replied proudly, smoothing his hand over his beard. “I ain’t got no use for fear.”

The lantern smirked, remembering that exact response from so many recruits before. “You’re wrong,” he replied, keeping the growl in the back of his throat small. “Fear is a universal constant throughout all sapient races in every corner of the universe.” He turned to face the outlaw, the brim of his hat tilting up to reveal a single golden iris. “Even this universe.”

Prince snuffed belligerently, pushing his thumbs into the pockets on the front of his jacket. “Well I did away with it.”

“It would be a shame if that was true,” Sinestro replied, with a nearly mournful breath. “Fear is what makes you strong. It’s what makes your hands pull those guns so quickly. It’s what made you attack that bank. It’s what drives every excellent part of you.” He took a step towards the ledge, peering down over it casually.

Prince’s hand flashed, and his Schofield was pointed at the lawman. “I think you confused skill fer something else there, stranger.”

“And what was it that made you wake up and practice every morning?” Sinestro asked, the brass of conviction returning to his tone. “What is it that you felt when you pulled the trigger for the first time? What drove you to be such a paragon of slaughter, Mr. Prince?”

“Nothin’,” the bearded man spat back, his weapon now catching the light of the morning sun. “I didn’t feel a damn thing when I pulled that trigger.”

Dust on the plateau they stood on was swept by a passing wind, and for a moment they just stood there. The morning sun bit into them, the nearly cloudless sky watching their exchange dispassionately. Red stones scraped beneath Prince’s boot as it settled into place, his gun hand unwavering, not a flinch or tug of a muscle to disrupt his aim. In the distance, there was the sound of battle, but neither man bothered addressing it. Their attention was, here, now, in this moment.

A genuine smile crept onto the korugaran’s lips. “And now that you’re in this place, now that you can make anything and do anything your heart lusts for, are you back in the desert robbing banks?”

“It’s what I do best, mister. And I intend on keepin’ at what I do best.”

Sinestro lifted his ring, perched atop his clenched fist. Something stirred within him, some glint of emotion, and the weapon emitted a faint yellow glow. “Or perhaps it is all you know what to do with a skill that you’ve cultivated over a lifetime of struggle and killing? Maybe something within you has given you to the life you led, but you don’t need to lead that life anymore. You can be something more. Something stronger. Something better.” His mustache curled as a sinister sneer grew. “Charlie Prince of Earth,” he growled, “You have the ability to instill great fear.”