Author's Note: A few years ago I wrote a story called 'The Endless Complications', which dealt mostly with Tim Drake and the then-death of Bart Allen, who, after the Infinite Crisis over at the Distinguished Competition, became the newest Flash. So Bart died and I had Tim deal with it, getting counsel from Lex Luthor, of all the people. The point is that 'Endless' was a farewell story, one from friend to friend, and written when I wanted to inject some optimism into the stuff I was writing (a goal which has somewhat lessened since then). The story you're about to read is of similar design, though differing in its endpoint—for reasons that mostly have to do with me really growing attached to the Sentry, and quite phobic that 'Siege' will invariably kill him off. If indeed 'Siege' sends Bob to the big Avengers Mansion in the sky, the story you're about to read is in the same vein as 'Endless': a putatively worthy farewell, if you believe such things. And if you've been reading 'Siege' anyway, you know what happens to the Sentry: it's not pretty, and so this story sort of supplements what we see at the end of 'Siege' #3. If it works, then it works, and I'll count it a success. Lastly, a note on references: my standard lodestar for the Void is and always has been Stephen King's puzzlingly scary classic, It—this becomes, erm, somewhat important in the Void's eventual....well, you know. Elsewhere we referenced a slew of pop-cultural tokens, everything from Doctor Who to Finding Forrester, and all of it meant to show the final, excruciating breakdown within Robert Reynolds' own mind.

Broxton, Oklahoma.

Well, Sentry, here we are.

Asgard is burning. Crumbling to the ground. Ruined.

Because of you.

It's always been because of you. Everything. What did I tell you once? Everyone does everything, Sentry.

Indeed.

And you're not even going to protest, are you?

(No)

No, it wouldn't be prudent. You have no reason to protest anymore. No reason to stand up to me. Nothing to do with all our strength.

(She's dead let it go)

Dead. Feh. You never found the body. You of all the people. Never found the body. I'll take a moment to enjoy that.

(She wanted out)

You let her go. You always gave her a wide berth.

(Stop it)

She wanted out a long time before now. How else do you explain that little gunshot to the face last month? And your little tantrum. And Osborn laying into you like some abusive father—a role he knows like some people know breathing.

You know he killed your wife. You just know it. Like some people know breathing.

(Stop this right now)

Maybe he's just got a thing against blondes. That would explain a lot, certainly it would.

(...)

Yes.

So she's dead. And there's an instinct for you to leave, and in another reality you do. I know this because I make it my business to know. You leave after she dies and you don't come back until you fill the big gaping hole she left in your heart, the Void she left.

In this world, you stay. You come to Asgard because Norman has told you he can still help you. Because when you came back after not finding her, he was there.

He was always there. And so when he tells you he's going to Asgard to bring the God of Thunder down to our level, you listen.

(What?)

It's this pesky time thing. All the tenses are running together.

You're seeing me. You're hearing me.

As you're standing next to Osborn right now.

As you're fighting your old friend Ares in five minutes. As you're ripping him apart in six.

As you're fighting Thor in seven minutes.

Is that how long Norman's little siege is taking? His little militarism, the best thing his little mind could come up with?

(Seems longer)

Ages, I agree.

(You)

We.

Agree.

So there's an instinct to leave, but you stay. You do what Norman tells you because Norman has always listened to you. Norman has never judged you. They told you the Devil would appear handsome, but you're so far removed from all that now, aren't you? You're so much more than Robert Reynolds, alliterative hero of the good old days, the Sentry, the Golden Guardian of myth and lore.

You're the man now, Bob.

(Enough)

Not until you give in.

She's dead. There was no alternative. You followed Norman because Norman always listened. Always smiled. Always invested in you. Never judged you and never cast you out. He was a fan of yours!

Maybe the last.

The last friend you'll ever have.

(I never judged)

Him either, I know. You listened to everything he had to say because when the chips were down, he did something you couldn't.

(You couldn't do it either you came back and instead of fighting them you comforted Lindy and told her everything was okay and what was the point of that?)

I'm everything you're not, Sentry.

Give in.

I tried to tell you this in the Savage Land. I tried to tell you above Saturn.

These friends of yours, who needs them. You have me, we have each other.

Norman's got you. Got his little goblin fingers into you.

You're welcome by the way.

(I trusted him)

And look where that got you. You're the right hand of the beast here. Norman's trusted pet.

(He helped me he helped me I trusted him)

Trust is cheap. Little Sally Cheerleader trusts her square-jawed lothario not to stab her and leave the body on make-out point. Captain America trusted you to get over me and to be the hero he imagined you could be. Norman trusted you to listen to him. The great private dictator.

(You can stop with the epithets you don't have to sell me just tell me what I have to do)

Oh ho, what's that

(I want to feel I don't want to hurt and it doesn't hurt here)

So feel. Feel those bony hotdogs of yours sink into Ares' flesh. Feel those terrible words in whatever empathic heart you think you've got.

"I thought us friends," says the God of War.

But he doesn't look convinced. Behind the blood and the stubble and the positively swarthy Grecian charm, he's just another of their bruisers. A Bruce Banner wannabe, and look how that turned out for the both of you. Such history, such history of failure and betrayal, Robert.

If this is all too wordy, I could just keep hammering 'Give in' into your mind. Into that empathic heart you think still works.

Tell me, Robert.

(What tell you what)

If that empathic heart's working.

Why are you fighting this man, this god, who fancied himself your friend? You were friends, weren't you? Is that not the point of social bonds? Why people come together and stay together? Why did you meet Lindy? Why did you bother falling in love? Why, Sentry, tell me why? Huh? WHY?! Why bother with anything, Sentry?!

It was. 1990? Can that be right?

(It's this pesky time thing. All the tenses are running together)

I'm in Sociology. Maybe the Gross Anatomy Lab with some friends.

(Names you don't even remember)

We're studying. Or maybe we're uptown doing lines in the men's room at the Crystal. I don't know. I don't know.

Life is miserable. Life sucks. It's just beyond the Eighties, for God's sake, the go-go Reagan years, the decade of Glasnost and Gordon Gekko. Why do we do these things, why are we face-down in a pile of self-destruction. Not even a question it's a statement, no mystery.

(Through all these dark things, Bob. The manipulation and the lewd, ahem, congresses just to get what you want. The absolutely dreadful thing you call your existence. There's a bright spot)

She's there, sitting two seats over and dressed like the Benetton catalogue. And she's smiling at you, Robert, no one ever smiles at you.

Three days later you're out on Long Island staring at the moon, a giant silver dollar in the night sky, and she's doubting you, and you're coming up with some really great playlist in your head. And she says to you, "how many girls have you brought out here, Bob?" and you defend yourself and it's the most charming you've ever been.

You have each other in that moment. Most people take years. You took one night, Long Island's surprising beauty, be glad for it, it won't come again. Emma Frost will show it to you in another twenty years and it'll just be a memory, maybe that's okay too. There are so many more shared moments with Lindy but this is the one you love, the one you always think of when you think of peace and quiet and being clean and Bob.

So you love her and you wish to go on loving her. And when the drug thing happens, and when the Sentry thing happens, she just holds you and tells you she loves you. Dear old Lindy Lee, she'll always love you, Bob.

The Void loves you more.

I swear I do, Golden Guardian.

"I thought us friends," says the God of War.

For you, Sentry, time stops at that little sentence. You think about stopping, you think about going back.

So there's an instinct to leave, to drop this all and go back to Manhattan. Maybe you'll lock yourself in the Watchtower, recluse, and simply exist. Existing is all you do. Maybe you'll exile yourself t deep space—in another reality, you did this too.

(It's this pesky time thing)

"I thought us friends." You play it over even as you fight him, and you sublimate whatever feelings are there. Whatever friendship was there, because it's not important anymore.

You stood up with Norman because it was right, because Norman was always nice to you and never judged you, despite all your imperfections. You keep thinking this, or keep letting me telling you this.

(It's all running together)

"My mistake."

You're starting to give in. She's dead after all what does it matter?

Such as it is, you don't even emote when you rip him apart. Spray his guts all over Balder's little fiefdom. Who is this Balder anyway? Another one of Loki's people? You wish you could care.

What about Reed Richards what will he think of all this oh he's your friend but is he really? He's never just listened none of them have no

An instant for you, a minute for him, Thor attacks.

"My mistake."

Fight Thor, hand Thor his everlasting godly ass. Viking filth.

Play Ares' final pithy remarks over in your head.

"My mistake."

Don't emote. Don't smile. Don't do anything. There's no room for emotion left. No room for friendship. She's dead, Norman's all you've got, you're already tearing into the last friend you have. See that horrified look on Bullseye's face, when he's horrified, something must be wrong, yeah?

Thor won't hide from you.

Don't lose to him.

Norman.

Norman's a clod. But he's your clod, he's the one that listened and, hey why not, helped. No more of the old stuff.

Get up, Bob, come on, go fight a superpowered Alpha Flight for us, Bob.

Get up, Bob, come on, go fight Ultron for us, Bob.

Get up, Bob, come on, go fight the Skrulls for us, Bob.

No.

No more.

So you fight Thor. Fight Thor.

Viking filth.

Skin bleaches. Eyes burn.

Time was they'd turn yellow. Golden. They burn, oh so brightly they burn and so brilliant, Golden Guardian. It's all a first step.

Crack, Sentry. You're cracking.

Fight Thor and your eyes burn. Skin bleaches but you never had use for skin. It's like an M&M, a hard candy shell, tasteless, pointless, round and deceptive and pointless, and you're so much more now.

"I'm the Doctor! All of time and space everywhere and anywhere every star that ever was where do you want to start?"

I want to start right here, God of Thunder and Uselessness, I want to fight you I want to kill you.

"How many gods will I have to kill today?"

There's a tiny voice inside you, tiny and dying, asking where that comes from. It's me, Sentry.

Give in.

She's dead.

Norman has always listened to you. He's all you got left. Gathered you unto himself like a warm blanket.

He's a fan of you, a fan of the Void.

There's a dark pit at the bottom of creation, you're living it, Sentry. If you're lucky you'll drag Thor down into that pit. Into the big unending oblivion of the Void.

So you fight, the instinct to leave is gone.

Gone from your mind. The furthest thing from it. Everything leaves your mind, except me, I remain for glorious narration and for triumph.

Thor remains, Viking filth.

Shoves a lightning bolt in our face and thinks that'll do it, what folly, doesn't he know who you are?

How many gods will you have to kill today oh it depends, Sentry, give in, give in and let us find out.

Fires a lightning bolt into our face and it does nothing, we just stand there.

The eyes burn, oh they burn.

"They float, Georgie and when you're down here YOU'LL FLOAT TOO."

All of time and space, Sentry, all of it, every star that ever was, oh you're really losing it now.

Another lightning bolt, what folly. What a knuckle-dragging buffoon this armoured fellow is with his little hammer and his little ego. Kill him.

Make him float. Make him BURN burn it all down, Sentry, power of a million exploding suns, a deep hole at the bottom of creation, DRAG THEM INTO IT, make them FEEL, make them sorry

Sorry they ever forgot you but that's just pretence. Sorry for nothing, they are. Funny, that. Sorry for nothing, sorry for what? Holding you back, more pretence.

Another lightning bolt

"You've chosen the wrong master and you've chosen the wrong battlefield! And for that, I must smite you down with all the power at my command!"

Says you, God of Thunder. Who talks like that.

Another lightning boltnd something else happens, something marvellous.

We change. Like Kafka, like King, a nightmare inexplicably torn from Derry Maine. Pennywise the Dancing Clown is nothing, power of a million suns, but it reminds us of Pennywise yes.

The shell, Robert.

(The shell is breaking)

Oh Thor, you Viking Neanderthal, what ho, Thor, what madness, what indescribable terror you've just blasted into existence.

(No)

Robert Reynolds.

Shut.

UP!

So the shell breaks, so you want to leave but you can't. So so so.

We're in it now.

The juice is loose.

Thor says "no": you've managed to horrify the most useless man on the planet.

Make him float.

It is like Pennywise, what an epiphany we've just had! A Cosmic Terror bent on destruction and gluttony. Yes that fits. Yes. Take a page from the dark pit in creation, from the outer darkness that these idiots, these troglodytic knuckle-draggers have no clue exists.

The Void. The ashen eternity, the living death that walks, no, that's the other fellow.

The unstoppable force, the immovable object.

The night that never ends.

His hour come round at last.

Smoke blackened the skies above Asgard and above Broxton.

A thousand feet below, Norman Osborn, on his hands and knees, Norman Osborn barking into his communicator like a mad dog.

"Bob! Bob!"

There's frenzy and childish terror in his voice, he's snapped, lost it for good this time, give him a blonde and a bridge and he's there.

"Don't let them win! Bring it down!"

"Bring it all down Robert! Don't let them win!"

Locked in a fist fight with Viking filth. The Beast aping, curling, fighting its way out. The inhuman core of Robert Reynolds, the radioactive spider-crab the Void has decided to be this time, crawling its very painful way out of Robert Reynolds.

Or maybe it's not even that: maybe this was always Robert. Not crawling out of, just changing form. Ashes to ashes, Sentry to Void, we all fall down.

"No," the God of Thunder says, like he could stop it. "No," and he says it again.

Osborn. "Bring it all down, Robert! Don't let them win!"

And Asgard explodes.

Fire engulfs. Everything. It's the most exciting life's been for Broxton Oklahoma since they consolidated the school districts.

"Father," Thor says and falls to his knees weeping manly tears.

A thousand feet below, Osborn is babbling, stripped of his armour and surrounded by these heroes. Babbling, lost in his dementia, he had his chance and he lost it, shame that. And these hero types, who do they think they are, Sentry? Stark and Rogers, wasn't he dead?

Come fight Alpha Flight, Bob, come fight the Skrulls, Bob, come fight Ultron, Bob, come on, get up, come be the hero.

No.

No more.

No more lies, no more broken promises.

"I was saving you." Osborn raves, "I was the only one who could control him," and his voice stutters like a backwards child. "Me. The only one."

The only one. And where is Loki. And Madness.

'Dominion and the Red Death', Sentry!

'I'm the Doctor, where do you want to start, come with me, all of Time and Space, every star that ever was!' Come with me, be a companion, be a good sport, there's a good lad.

Robert Reynolds.

Give in.

Osborn keeps babbling and he's crying now, too, manly tears are the order of the day, smiles free

"I was saving you," Osborn says. And points.

The rest of them look up, and none of them move, not a goddamned muscle.

Like they can do anything about it.

Up here. In the blood red skies, above the ruined city of time?

("Every star that ever was!")

("We all FLOAT! You'll—FLOAT—TOO!")

I tried to tell you above Saturn. And in Antarctica.

Let. Me. In.

No more trenchcoats, no more wordplay.

(The tenses are running together)

No more tricks.

Just the Void.

(Darkness, dominion, and the red death)

The crustacean Krishna. The giant killer spider, yes that would do. The eater of worlds, in the colour of blood and of ash.

Think like Galactus, Sentry, yes, too terrifying for words, no words can convey the awe of Galactus and none can convey the terror of the Void! The night that never ends, Sentry, it's just begun, are you ready?

(The end of the world, Void, it's been quite a while...)

In a moment it would deal with them all. When it wanted to.

The skies darkened. Burned.

It looked down at Osborn and the rest. Maybe it was smiling.

It crossed human legs and rested blackened, burning hands thereupon.

And waited. Perhaps it would meditate, or leave, or perhaps it would stay. Perhaps it wanted to feed on them all, devour them like a bunch of post-coital mantises.

In that moment the Void made a great self-discovery. It wanted to stay here, at rest, among the spade-black clouds. And it wanted to kill them all, for no reason at all. Imagine it.

Then let them come. Let Rogers hurl his little shield at me, let Barnes waste his bullets, let Stark fail and finally die.

(NO)

There's a big black pit at the centre of everything, Sentry, let's drag them there, kicking and screaming and clawing for life.

Life, life for the Void! Let me do everything you can't and make us immortal

I tried to tell you, Sentry.

Robert Reynolds.

Give in.