Episode Report Card
Tippi Blevins: B- | Grade It Now!
Let's Put on a Show!

Back at the superhero museum, Carter is annoyed. Partly because he's always annoyed, and partly because Nelson has just showed up with Courtney. "You shouldn't have dragged Sylvester's sidekick into this," Carter says. Courtney protests that she is not a sidekick: "I'm his protégé." "You're a little girl," Carter corrects her, grabbing the staff out of her hands. The staff close up looks sort of like gilded plumbing pipes. He tells her to go home and turns on his heel. She follows him through the museum, telling him that the coroner's report said there was frostbite around Sylvester's wounds. "It's him, isn't it?" she asks over Carter's shoulder. Behind them, Nelson babbles about Jack Frost nipping at their toes. Courtney lowers her voice and tells Carter that Oliver had said there are two dead now. They have to do something. Carter takes a long moment to let emotions of pain and regret play out over his lovely, scruffy face. Nabu/Nelson whisper about them needing to do something. Carter takes a breath and turns to Courtney. "Look at Kent Nelson," he tells her. He's currently huddled behind some furniture, but he spends most of his days wandering the streets. Courtney says, "So Dr. Fate is incapacitated; the Sandman and the Star-Spangled Kid are both dead." She lets that sink in for a second, then: "You were their leader. What's your excuse?" He looks pained, but says nothing until she says she'll turn to another team for help if she has to. "Those kids playing hero are hardly a team," he grits out. Courtney says if he'd helped Sylvester when asked, maybe he'd still be alive. Carter scoffs and walks away, telling her not to waste her breath. "I've got enough guilt to last 20 lifetimes," he says. Carter reaches for the door just as Courtney brings out the big arsenal. "What would Shiera have done?" she asks. That gets him to stop. He lets his guard drop a bit as he turns back to look at her. Triumphant hero music plays.

Out in the rainy city, Clark is getting into Chloe's car. He wants to know how they knew his and the others' identities. "I think they've been tracking us for a long time," she says. "Let's just hope the prime murder suspect hasn't." She hands him a file on Joar Mahkent. His police records identify him as a "cryokinetic hitman," aged 43 at the time of his arrest. He was known as the Icicle and he's currently at good old Metropolis General, still recovering from injuries he sustained years ago.

Back at the museum, Carter has resumed his leadership role. "We're going to need him," he says to Nelson, who's still clutching the infernally whispering bowling bag. Those are words I never thought I'd type. Nelson looks scared out of his gourd. He drops the bag onto a nearby table and backs away from it in fear. "My morality may have wavered, but yours never did," Carter says. Poor skittish little Nelson goes back to the bag. He says he can't remember his life before becoming Dr. Fate. He thinks he had a wife, and a family, but he doesn't know where they are. His voice trembles. He's almost crying. Poor guy. "I scared them away," he says. Carter lays a hand on his shoulder. "Not all of them, my friend." Nelson nods with determination and slowly opens the bag. Light streams out. He takes out the golden helmet, whispering to it. "Please, Nabu, don't whisper too loudly. Don't show what could be, or not be." Good luck with that. Taking a deep breath, he holds the helmet up to his face and it molds itself around his head with a starburst of light. He screams. From the mask, a blue and gold costume forms around Nelson's body. A glowing ankh flashes momentarily behind his head. He turns back to Carter and Courtney. His voice is deeper now. "Greetings, Hawkman," he says. Nelson's all gone. "Dr. Fate," Courtney breathes with reverence. Carter crosses the room to a wood-paneled wall. Doors slide open as he approaches, revealing a display of the mask, armor and wings of his superhero self. He picks up the mace that completes the ensemble, testing its weight in his hands. "Time to go hunting," he says. The heroic music reaches a drumming crescendo. Commercials!

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