( continues...) 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.

Can anyone recommend an OUaT episode where there's an Emma-Regina fight that doesn't quite reach actual violence? I need a scene like that for the fic.

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.”

Yay! I'm really enjoying this, Victor.

Thanks! I'm sort of getting an idea where it's going, now. Made a couple last minute changes in my outline, and I think they'll work better.

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.

“Booster,” says Bruce, although (continued...)