Obscure memories formed a montage of the unbelievable.  In one instant, the Kid recalled a December long ago when the steely bulwarked figure of the Iron Tiger crushed through his home's furniture in a terrific rage.  In another, he recalled the creases and pores of the Comedian's nose, and could vividly recall the bitter scent of his thick, brown cigars as he blew clouds of charcoal smoke at him.   "That's the joke, kid," the Comedian said, leaning back against the hull of an airplane.  Then, in the murky mist of unconscious dreams, he saw himself being lifted by the cuff of his neck by President Richard Nixon, and being tossed into the gigantic grimacing face of Dr. Manhattan.  Shattering through the facade, he fell into a gutter of an empty street, lying next to two broken men of undistinguishable features.  No longer was he contained by human flesh:  now, his hands were paws, his vision was on the grayscale.  The men's faces were impossible to discern, but their anguish was physically palpable and filled Cristobal with terror.  Nevertheless, he approached their listless bodies, and just as he was approaching something noetic, a feminine figure clad in blue hovered over him.  Though the figure was made ambiguous by a blur, Arrow could feel that this was a sexual being, an Ishtar, an Isis.  She bent over the corpses and kissed one on the cheek before dashing away.<br/><br/>The being's familiarity surprised him awake.  Looking about himself, he realized that he was in the backseat of a speeding car, heading south.  New York City sped past, dizzying star systems of neon signs and brightened billboards forcing bile to rise from his stomach to the back of his tongue.  Turning his head slowly to fix his gaze on the front of the car, he saw two heavy eye-lashed eyes peer at him in the rear view mirror and, in the same second, he felt a paralyzing pressure on his wrist.  Had someone been sitting beside him?<br/><br/>Heavy eyes closed, and awoke again in a blindingly bright room.  This time, the Kid's vision was blurry from sedatives.  He couldn't move his neck; he could only see an askew horizon of a metallic table, a few bloody instruments on the silver surface, an IV bag suspended on a pole, and the bloody digits of a medic fumbling with sutures.  The medic peered into Kid Arrow's eyes with a tilt of his head, then increased the medication.  Arrow was knocked unconscious again.<br/><br/>Though Arrow believed that he knew what was happening during his time under, it was impossible to discern whether what he believed happened actually happened.  By the time that he woke up in an unfamiliar room, the fogs of sleep had liberated him from his concerns, because the young hero could not recall anything past his brush with death.  A large palm pressed against his skull; his mask was still on, and he felt from his careful prods the after effects of a mild concussion caused by severe trauma.  Long legs lifted from the bed and swung over the side, planting his large feet on the ground.  A debilitating abdominal pain seized him, forcing him to clutch his stomach with his forearms.  Fighting through it, Kid Arrow rose to his feet haggardly.<br/><br/>"... where the hell am I?" he asked himself.