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!