I'm enjoying this. I think you have a good grasp of Regina's voice.

Signs I'm rusty at this whole fan fic thing ... I've been posting in the wrong thread. So, I'll be reposting the first few sections of the new thing here:

Heaven's in Here

Prologue

My name is Ted Kord. I was shot by Maxwell Lord in in 2005, and I woke up as a policeman in London in 1990. Am I crazy, in a coma, or have I traveled back in time? Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on a different planet. Now, maybe if I can work out the reason, I can get home before Lord destroys The Justice League ...

Heaven's in Here

One: If I Could Turn Back Time

I knew immediately it wasn't going to be enough. Knew even before he fired the gun. He had stolen something from Batman, some sort of spy satellite or something. He knew everything about all of us. Even Superman. Maxwell Lord – my friend Maxwell Lord, the man who once connived a new Justice League into being – was now in charge of Checkmate. He'd be coming for the rest of the League soon.

But I was first. Even if I could escape Checkmate's Zurich headquarters, I couldn't resist Max's mind-control. What happens if he uses it on Superman? Or Diana? We never worried about that because we thought we could trust him.

All I want is to put Earth's destiny in the hands of humans, he said, pointing the gun at me while I knelt wounded and bound on the floor. In the hands of people like me ...and people like you.

I asked if he was asking me to join or die. Then I told him to rot in Hell. In retrospect, maybe I should have stalled for time. Nah. Max would never have bought it. He fired, and I blacked out. For a moment, it was as though explosions rippled through my head. Then the pain changed, and it was as if I was being pummeled by fists.

Because I was. Instead of Max pontificating about his evil scheme, I suddenly had four skinheads laying into me, punching and kicking me as I lay on the ground. And I was on a city street, outdoors. I heard someone shout for the police, heard running. I almost forgot about the punching and kicking, because I realized that there wasn't a gaping hole in my head.

OK. First problems first. I grabbed one skinhead's arm and tossed him into his buddies, then flipped and kicked another one in the chin. He was out cold. One kick! I thought to myself, but these were hardly the Legion of Doom. I spun and took out another. The other two ran.

Stop, police! Shouted a woman's voice. A young, blonde woman in a police uniform – British? Definitely not American, despite her accent – took a baton to one of the skinheads as he tried to push past her. The last bruiser made a break for it, but I wasn't having it: I leaped, bounced off the wall and came down with my foot on his back.

I turned again to face the policewoman.

“The elderly couple they mugged said you jumped in to save them,” she said. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding, I felt a little wobbly on my knees. “Are you all right?”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I think I need to lie down for a …”

Aaaand, I was out. Just like that. It's kind of embarrassing, actually, because the cop was kind of cute. If you're into women in uniforms. Which, hey! I am! Thankfully, she was there in the hospital when I woke up.

“Hey,” she said, smiling down at me. “I was getting worried about you, DI Kord.”

“DI?” I said, clearly at the top of my wit.

“Sorry,” she said, folding up a copy of the London Herald and laying it on the table. “We had to go through your wallet when we brought you in. CDI was expecting you later today. Hell of a first day on the job!”

“Job?” I asked, confused.

“DCI Hunt was beside himself,” she continued. You should have heard the shouting. Well, I guess you'll hear it enough soon. The doctors say you can go home as soon as you feel ready.”

This was getting confusing. The cop seemed to think I was someone else. I had ID … people expecting me …

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Royal London,” said the cop, still smiling.

“London?” I said. “But I was in Zurich. Last thing I remember ...”

The last thing I remember is Max Lord putting a bullet though my brain.

“Are you going to be OK?” said the cop. “I think the pounding might have rattled you more than we thought.”

“No, no,” I said. “I'm OK getting pounded.” The cop snickered a bit and I added, “I can take a few hits! I mean …”

… I'm in London with no costume and no communication device, and the JLA doesn't have an embassy here anymore ...

“This is going to sound crazy,” I said, taking a deep breath to (continued...)

( continues...) steady my nerves, “but I need to get in contact with the Justice League.”

“Who are they? Some sort of social advocacy group?”

“No! The Justice League! Everybody's heard of them! Superman and Wonder Woman and ...”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the young woman, smiling the sort of smile you wear when you're just about to have someone medicated for their own health and safety.” Should I call the Sister?”

She was about to make that decision for me, but I wanted to smooth things over before they escalated. I couldn't get bogged down here. I had things to do.

“No, no,” I said. “I'm OK. Just a little fuzzy, still. Hey, I never actually caught your name.”

“PC Bishop,” she said, her smile relaxing. PC Henrietta Bishop. But everybody just calls me Etta.”

“Nice to meet you, Etta,” I said, smiling lightly. I then looked around the hospital, to see if anything else was odd or out of place. Maybe hanging out with Bruce did have some effect on me. That's when I saw the newspaper's headline:

Nelson Mandela Freed

And suddenly, I knew that whatever was happening was far stranger than I had realized, and it began to sink in that I was very, very far from home.

Heaven's in Here

Part Two: Where is My Mind?

When you're part of a team, you have a role. I was never the detective. That would be Bruce. Or Ralph and Sue. Or even J'onn. Me? I was the guy who could fix the machine, or fly the plane, or crack a joke when it was desperately needed. Which was more often than you would think. Grim and gritty was so late '80s.

But evidently, so was London in 1990. Assuming this is really happening and I'm not hallucinating or something, I'm in my mid-teens on the other side of the Atlantic, tinkering with machines and listening to Rush right now. Don't judge. “Tom Sawyer” was instrumental in my super-development. I've never spent much time in London, but I remember it being more frenetic than this. It's still busy, but it's a more reasonable sort of busy.

Like I said, I'm not a detective. But I do notice things. And as I ride along in the police car beside Etta, I'm noticing details: Ant-Thatcherite graffiti, punks with massive mohawks, bad dance music blaring from every car, homeless teenagers everywhere. There's a sort of grimness here, a sort of hopelessness. You can see it on people's faces. I don't remember much history, but I know Thatcher will be gone by the end of the year.

Etta's been rambling off about cases – kidnappings, disappearances, a few murders. They sound interesting … I can help. I love to help people. Especially cute policewomen. But really, most anyone who needs it. That's why playing Blue Beetle was always so addictive, even if Bruce and the rest eventually started looking down on me, thinking I was too goofy to be a superhero. Maybe they were right. Unbidden, the image of myself lying dead on the floor with Max Lord standing above me comes forward. I shake it off before I scream.

It's the little things that are different. I haven't seen a cell phone the entire time I've been here, but there are some old-school computers at a few desks. Not even all the desks. And they're, like, cave-puters. No Internet, yet. Not in any big, substantive way, anyways.

That's bad. If I'm going to get home, I need research. I need to figure out how it happened, who's responsible. This doesn't feel like Max. The Lord of Time, maybe? That Legion bad guy, The Time Trapper? I've never really dealt with either, so I don't know why they'd bother. A magic baddie? Maybe, but usually the Phantom Stranger shows up and says something cryptic by now.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe all of this is in my head. That's really not a comforting thought.

We walk through the halls of the police station, and the desk sergeant glares at me as Etta and I walk up. Another blonde woman, older than Etta. Pretty, but there's an odd sternness in her demeanor that I can't … and then I notice she's gesticulating at me.

“Srgt. Jenkins,” says Etta, “This is DI Kord, he's ...”

“I know who he is, PC Bishop,” replies the sergeant, and I realize she's American, too, which is odd. “We were expecting him this morning, and then he was in the hospital. Honestly, can't you schedule your injuries until after you've punched in? The paperwork alone …”

“Thanks, Skip!” says Etta, grabbing my arm and pulling me past the desk. “Don't mind her,” she says, conspiratorially. “She's … kind of a stickler for rules. And has no sense of humor. Or empathy … or tact …”

“Good thing she's in public service,” I joke, and Etta smiles. “But hey, are there many Americans at Scotland Yard? You, me and her make three ...”

“A few. I hadn't really thought about it. And I think Srgt. Jenkins was actually born in Norway or someplace. Anyway, here we are.”

We enter a large, open office where a hectic mob of people – some in uniform, some not – stop everything they're doing to gape at me.

“Is there something on my face?” I whisper to Etta, who just giggles. “Everyone, this is Detective Inspector Kord.”

The reception's not-exactly cordial. A woman in her late 50s with a warm face and sharp eyes strides forward, (continued...)

( continues...) extending her hand. It's more formal than friendly, though.

“Welcome to CID,” says the woman. “I'm DS Smith. I guess we'll be working together.”

I shake her hand and smile. There's something in her look – does she not trust me? Did I take her promotion? I can't read her. This one's actually English, though, so that's reassuring. I was beginning to get suspicious.

“Looking forward,” I say, deciding to stick with the game. “Sorry I'm late. Got into a scuffle on the way here.”

“He stopped a mugging,” adds Etta, brightly. DS Smith's smile becomes slightly more genuine. She's still suspicious of me, but it's subsiding.

“What,” says another voice, from a desk in the corner. A large, dark-haired man with a London accent – much rougher than DS Smith's – “is he expecting a medal?”

Most of the room laughs, but the man just glares at me, a sort of brooding anger just underneath his skin. DS Smith sort of roles her eyes and speaks up, bringing the room back to attention.

“Don't mind DC Black,” she says. “He's just winding you up.”

'Right,” says a bellowing English voice on the other side of the office. “If anyone's going to do any winding up around here, it's gonna be me!”

All eyes turn towards the large man who has just entered from an office across the room.

“So you're the Yank they sent me,” he says, looking me up and down. “What? They didn't have any Frenchmen this time?”

There are a few nervous laughs. I step forward and start to introduce myself, when I realize that Etta – who is suddenly standing stiffly at attention – has actually stepped back away from me. That cant be good.

“DI Kord,” she says, barely concealing a sudden nervousness, “This is DCI Hunt.”

The large man looks me up and down.

“Show the Yank his desk and get him outfitted,” he says, dismissively. “We don't have time for tea and crumpets with the queen.”

A seriousness falls across his face as he addresses the room.

“There's been another kidnapping.”

Heaven's in Here

Part Three: Dead Man's Party

I think I may have a screamed the entire drive from the station to Braddock Academy, a “posh” boarding school in Westminster. I should have been thinking about the case or how to get home, but it was everything I could do to hang on for dear life as DCI Hunt propelled his “Starsky & Hutch”-colored 1985 BMW M5 through the streets of London, going far, far out of his way so he could find roads to “open 'er up on.”

My face was greener than the Martian Manhunter with too many Oreos in him.

“Ah, c'mon, Nancy,” shouted Hunt. “I thought you Yanks loved your fast cars and your big guns. Show me a little Clint Eastwood, why don't ya? GO AHEAD PUNK, MAKE MY DAY!”

And that's when it occurred to me that “The Dead Pool” had only been out for a couple years, and he was still re-enacting the movie as he swerved in and out of traffic and flew around blind corners. On the other hand, we beat everyone from the station there.

“The boy's name is Brian Braddock III,” said a uniformed officer, handing Hunt a photograph of the handsome blonde teenager.

“I'm guessing it's not just a coincidence the place is named after him, then,” said Hunt, snarling.

“No, guv,” said the officer. “His family founded the place, and his father's on the Board of Trustees.”

“Of course he is,” said Hunt. “All right, Nancy, let's go talk to the headmaster.

“You really need to stop calling me Nancy, DCI Hunt,” I said, trying to sound somewhat professional. “My name is Kord. Ted Kord.”

“Right,” said Hunt, not even looking at him. “All right, DI Yankee Doodle Dandy, this is the second kidnapping at this school, following one suspicious death.”

He handed me a small stack of folders he had stuffed in his trenchcoat.

“The boy who died was named Aiden Walker. Found a few blocks away. It looks like he was running, fell and hit his head. Then, when the girl Nara McKenzie went missing, we began to see a pattern, and figured the first death was a kidnapping attempt gone wrong.”

“And now another kid,” I said, thinking out loud. “Ransom demands?”

“None yet,” said Hunt, as we came to the Headmaster's office. “But the day is young.”

We took statements from the headmaster and other staff members, and then fanned out to search the campus. I took the main building, alongside some uniformed officers whose names I never caught. We'd been given a list of young Brian's friends, but it was pretty much every kid on campus. The list of his enemies was virtually identical.

The uniforms had begun searching dorms. I was amazed that parents hadn't called their kids home after the first kidnapping. Must be a stiff upper lip thing. The police went through the rooms with clockwork efficiency, while I tried to look for something out of place. I feel a few rooms behind them, looking around one that had just been searched. A radio had been left on, playing Michael Jackson's “Bad.” I sighed, and extended my hand to turn it off, when there was a squelch of static, and suddenly, a familiar voice was talking.

“Blue Beetle's dead,” said a voice that was unmistakably Bruce's. No one sounded like Bruce when he was in Batman mode. And trust me, I've tried to imitate him a few times.

Then it hit me: “Wait, did he say I was dead?”

'Gaea's mercy,” said a voice that I recognized as Diana's.

“No ...” gasped Booster. I knew all of these voices. I wanted to scream at them, tell them I wasn't dead, but instead I just listened, in shock.

“I believe Ted discovered who stole Brother I,” said Bruce. See, that's what a detective sounds like! “and I believe that's why he was murdered.”

“It was Max,” I said to the radio. “Max killed me. Max ...”

I wanted to throw up.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH,” shouted Booster. “Ted went to you at the start! He went to you and you knew what he was getting into and you refused to tell him!”

Angry Booster had a very good point.

“Booster,” says Diana. Trying to be the voice of reason.

“I didn't ...” starts (continued...)

( continues...) Bruce, although it's clear even he doesn't know what to say.

“YOU GOT HIM KILLED,” shouts Booster and there's a crackle of static and then …

“DI Kord,” says one of the policemen, and suddenly it's just Michael Jackson's voice coming out of the radio. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Yeah,” I said, catching my breath. “Still … still a little beat up from this morning.” I laughed. “Dead tired.”

"Sir,” said the cop, who obviously didn't know what else to say. What could he say. Even if he believed me.

We were a team I thought. How could they ...

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a photo of the school soccer … err, football … team. Braddock was on that team. It was in the file. But Aiden was a little out of shape, and there were no girls on the team, which discounted Nara. But still …

“Find something interesting?” said a gruff voice from the doorway. I turned, and it was DC Black.

“Maybe,” I said. Just a hunch, but … we need someone to go through all three of these kids' classes and activities again. Any clubs they belonged to. Social groups. There's a connection here. I can feel it.

"Right,” said Black, and there was sort of a sulk in his voice, like he was about to argue, but knew he was outranked. I can make people do things I realized!!!!!

Black just nodded as he walked off, but I could feel it. There was something about these kids. Something no one else could see.

I moved on to the next room, but it was hard to concentrate. All I could hear was the rage and pain in Booster's voice.

Part Four: Criminal World

I've traveled in time before, of course. I know, that's a really ridiculous thing to say, but it's been … was … is that sort of life. When Dan Garret died and left me the Scarab, I sort of thought I'd become some sort of mystical crusader, like him. But it never really worked for me, so I ended up honoring him by swinging from rooftop to to rooftop in Hub City, and catching bad guys with nifty gadgets. I even built a flying ship that could maneuver in urban environments. Pretty cool, huh?

But yeah, it was all bank robbers and muggers until The Crisis. You know the one. Red Skies? The Anti-Monitor? Ringing a bell? Anyway, I hadn't been active for long, but The Monitor tapped me to help save the Universe. I know, right? The big time! I ended up in the future, when there were barely any people alive and animals talked. I became buds with a Gorilla King, at least until he died. I know how that sounds. But what I'm getting at here is, I've seen crazy.

Crazy doesn't send you back in time to a place where everyone thinks you're a police detective in England. And it certainly doesn't have you investigating the kidnapping and/or murder of a trio of teens. And yet, here I am. Which means I've not yet found the bottom of the crazy well, because if this is some supervillain plot, I'm totally lost.

Maybe there's something about the kids … some reason I'm supposed to be here …

“Good instincts,” says a pleasant voice, and I look up to see DS Smith smiling at me, carrying pieces of paper. It seems all three of them were involved in a … group activity.

She handed me the paper, and I'll admit, I was confused.

“The Socialist Students Union? I thought they were a bunch of rich kids.”

“Right,” came the belligerent chiding of DCI Hunt. “That's what most of these schoolyard Commies are. Working class stiffs, we know the value of a real job. Ain't that right, Sirius?” DC Black just glowered. “Don't mind him,” continued Hunt. I'm just winding him up. He comes off all rough, but he's from a family of toffs, ain't he?”

“I ain't anything like my family, guv,” said Black, simply. “I'm a copper.”

“That you are, my boy,” said Hunt. So let's go be coppers and find out what our junior Marxists are up to that would get them in trouble.”

I looked a the names on the list: Katy Bashir, Tim Bashir, Cullen Bloodstone …

“Bloodstone?” I said. “Now that's a suspicious name!”

“Yes,” said Smith, dryly. “Because villains are always appropriately titled.”

“Bring 'em all in,” said Hunt. I want to talk to all three of them. Down at the station. Away from this place.”

“Sure, but I'm still not seeing how it all links together,” I said, flipping through the papers. “Far as I can see, they're basically idealists. Do-gooders. Youth homelessness, caring for the poor ...”

“Load of bloody bullocks,” said Hunt. “Communism's dead and buried. The Berlin Wall's open, and Old Maggie and your Ronnie Reagan are serving it to the Soviets. Said so on the telly.”

And he was right. This was the time: Everything was happening fast. The Soviet Union was effectively gone already, and would be officially gone in … what? A year? I remember my dad wanting to take me on a trip to see the Berlin Wall come down, but it never happened. Work. Of course. And wow this is not the time to be processing my issues.

“Well,” I said, “just because it's all tied to this group, it doesn't mean that the group's activities are the reason they're being targeted. We'll find out soon enough.”

Hunt looked like he was going to say something, and then just grunted his assent, walking back toward the headmaster's office.

“Wow,” said DS Smith. “He must really like you. He's usually much more difficult to deal with than this.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he's just got a problem with dead and missing kids. He's looked distracted ever since we got here.”

Smith nodded, as she watched him leave.

“I've got a son not much older than (continued...)

( continues...) these children myself,” she said, simply. I nodded seriously, but I'll admit, I was kind of glowing inside. For whatever reason, people were taking me seriously here. It wasn't something I was used to.

“Hey,” I said, trying to dig out of the awkward and unfamiliar sense of pride. “Is there anything I can call you besides 'DS Smith'?”

She smiled. “You can call me Sarah Jane,” she said.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Sarah Jane. We'll see what happens when we get some of these kids alone.

I turned, and that was when I saw him in the crowd of students watching the police work from a distance. He was younger – 18 maybe? – and skinnier, but there was no mistaking his face. It was the face of the man who would eventually kill me.

Max Lord.