"I can't see! We gotta get closer! Come on, Sam!" Luke said to his brother as they pushed through the crowd of people gathered in a park. Luke and his brother, Sam, were young, 14 and 11 respectively. They had given their parents the slip while they had the chance.

It was a nice fall day, everyone was out to see just what the government was going to be announcing to the world. There were plenty of rumors. A new spaceship. The cure for cancer. Little green men. No one knew for sure, but everyone had ideas.

"Sam, hurry!" Luke called out to his brother, "Hold your horses, Luke. I'm right behind you." Sam said, carefully maneuvering through the crowd. He didn't show the same reckless abandon as his brother. He would take his time.

Luke's gaze was immediately focused on what appeared to be a giant metal box sitting atop a stage, a man in a suit standing at a podium. He was smiling brightly, clearly excited to unveil whatever it was inside the box.

He was a handsome man with ginger hair, clearly the face of whatever was going to be revealed to the world.

"This is a historic moment." The man said to the crowd, "Not since the days of the All-Star Squadron, The Justice Society, have we had heroes representing America and it's values." He continued, "I know what you're thinking, 'Maxwell Lord, what about Superman?' Superman is an alien. We don't know if Superman will put the interests of America first."

"We can't put all of our faith into the Kryptonian Superman just because he calls Metropolis his home." Maxwell told the crowd, "We have to defend American freedom and interests at home and abroad. And that is why I am pleased to announce America's newest hero."

Maxwell gestured to the box, "I present to you..." He paused, a smarmy grin finding a home where his lips were as he surveyed the crowd.

"Sanctuary."

It was with those words that the top of the metal box exploded upwards, causing some of the crowd to jump. Ascending slowly out of the box was a woman dressed in a black jumpsuit and red, white and blue armor. Her long black hair blew in the wind, "This is the future of America!" Maxwell shouted.

He was clapping excitedly as Sanctuary began to flight over the crowd. It was infectious and it didn't take long for the crowd to clap along with him.

Sam, like his brother, didn't take his eyes off of the figure levitating high above the crowds. She looked down, her eyes coming into contact with Sam's.

Sanctuary smiled at him, though she lost the smile quickly to fly back to the stage and land beside Maxwell. "God Bless America!" Maxwell zealously yelled, an American flag unrolling behind him.

Speakers playing the national anthem very loudly.

It wasn't lost on anyone that this was a spectacle. They didn't really care. It was history in the making.

The dimly lit Bourbon Street bar was packed with tourists and locals alike. People who had come down to experience Jazz, and traditional New Orleans culture from the safety of a shuttle and a police escort.

And then there was John Constantine. Face bruised from his last fight. Really, it was his last beating. John could handle himself, but he wasn't exactly Bruce Lee. He held a bag of ice against his face with one hand, and a shot glass with the other. He could hear the TV playing.

Maxwell Lord, he hated that guy, was announcing some new project. All it took was for him to shout, "God Bless America!" For John to loudly scoff. "You got a problem, brah?" A man beside him asked, "I just think all that stuff's bollocks." John answered, "Of course, some limey has a problem with America." The man said.

"You can get out of here." Another said to John, "You misunderstand, I mean that faux patriotism. You can't tell me you lot actually believe in that shit?" John said, glancing around at the people in the bar.

They were mostly bikers.

"Actually, I can see why that would get you all riled up. You gents are hell-bent for leather, innit?" The Englishman joked, downing his shot. "Hot-blooded Americans down in good ol' New Orleans. I forgot I was in the American south for awhile. The only region in the world us Brits get to make fun of for the lack of proper dentistry." He said, tapping his empty shot glass.

As it was refilled he could practically hear the fists balling up as more men began to surround him. John quickly took the shot and downed it, slamming the glass down hard on the head of the man beside him, throwing his bag ice down hard enough that it would spill.

He jumped up and tossed an elbow back into one of the bikers, the ice on the ground caused the others rushing him to slip and fall. John took advantage, jumping over the bodies and using a few as stepping stones to the relative safety of the New Orleans streets.

He figured he would have made it too were it not for the fact that he noticed a potted plant. He grabbed the plant and continued on his way, only to find a fist in his face and his body hitting the ground.

Next thing he knee he was being beaten and then tossed out on the street.

"I want the plant. It's my friend." He called out from where he lay on the concrete. The plant came flying out of the bar, slamming down beside him. It didn't take any damage. John realized that this was because it was plastic.

"Well, fuck me." He said to himself, slowly getting to his feet. He wiped blood from the cut on his cheek, hobbling over towards bushes not far from the bar.

"Are you there, Thing? I have good news, Thing." He said as he stood in front of the bush, pedestrians passing by with looks of disgust on their face.

"Is he...?"

In truth, John Constantine's efforts to find vegetation were pointless, as Swamp Thing was connected to all plant matter, including the microscopic algae resting comfortably in John's digestive tract. Granted, the end result would not be one that Swamp Thing wanted. Still, halfway across the world, John was heard.

In the bushes, plant fibrils flared with consciousness and Swamp Thing partially manifested into form, appearing as only a face obscured by leaves. Swamp Thing didn't need the Jazz to recognize what this place was, he could do that just by the feel of it. Memories flare like the sun as it dips behind the horizon, streaking a sunset of thoughts that originally aren't his own. Louisiana. Home. At least to Alec Holland.

"Hello John... it is good... to see you again... though, I hope... it is under... better circumstances... this time."

Swamp Thing took note of the bruises and thought perhaps not. His brow furrowed and he continued.

"Tell me why... you have called... me back to this... wretched City of Man."

"Wretched? I like this place. Though, that might actually prove your point." John admitted, "Look, I've been chasing down a lead here. Felix Faust, you should know him, or Alec should at least." The Englishman said, digging a beat up pack of cigarettes from an inside coat pocket.

The blue-collar warlock stuffed the cigarette between his lips, raising a now fiery finger up and placing it against the end of it. "He's up to something. Something big. It involves Intergang, meaning it probably involves Trigon and human sacrifice, meaning it probably involves virgin girls."

"I say, out of the kindness of my heart, that we sort them out. Chase Faust back to Metropolis and let the Superhunk or the Sentinels finish him off."