JLA Watchtower (Archive)

The last few weeks - in fact, it would probably not be inaccurate to say the last few months - have been rather quiet for the Titans' Eastern contingent. Spearheaded by some of the younger members' attempts at urban renewal and community interaction, the team has begun the task of developing a rapport with Philadelphia politicians and citizenry alike. If the front pages of newspapers and magazine covers are to be believed, these efforts have been rather successful. Despite these successes, one might go so far as to say that life has gotten to be almost mundane - if such a thing could be said for a group of people who routinely dress up in colorful costumes and battle the forces of evil.

One such quiet, mundane night finds a younger member of the East Coast roster sitting on the couch in his girlfriend's apartment, twirling a pencil between his fingers, leafing through a hefty tome riddled with all manner of nonsensical symbols and various combinations of letters and numbers that would mean little to most people. Calculus... I should have taken Applied Geometry, Grant muses, reaching for a spiral bound notebook resting on the coffee table, taking a moment to jot a few notes, then returning to his reading with a brief sigh. At least his professor had understood when Emerson had requested an incomplete due to "super-heroing."

Mar'i was off on patrol with Jesse tonight, leaving Grant to ponder the meaning and application of complex logarithms all by his lonesome. Apart from the occasional rustle of a page or the scribbling of the pencil, the apartment was awfully quiet, so much so that he could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. A quick glance at the digital clock on the VCR told him it would be at least an hour and a half until Mar'i came home. He would probably call her later, if only so they could tell each other, "I love you." He could almost hear Jesse's eyes rolling.

Reaching for the book once more, Grant stopped short and looked to his right, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. The pencil fell out of his hand and clattered against the table before hitting the floor.

The vaguely spherical object hovered near him, drawing closer, turning this way and that as it moved toward the couch, the apartment lights glinting off of its faceted surface. Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Grant fumbled for his communicator, lifting it toward his face.

Four melodic chimes brought a swift end to whatever words that had formed on his lips, his thumb frozen on the small device. The sphere swiveled again, then titled forward, and for a very brief moment, Grant Emerson felt as though he was falling deep, deep down into one of those glimmering facets.