Blue Light healing is extremely versatile. According to Mom 2, healing is one of the ring's core functions, and a major strength of The Blue Light of Hope. The ring uses available biological and medical data, as well as the relevant hopes of the target and others nearby, to identify problems, sites and sources of pain, sites of dysfunction, and even future problems that lie dormant. 

Then, fueled by the combined hopes of the wielder, the targets, and those nearby, it acts.

Filaments too small to be seen with the naked eye enter bloodstreams and shoot through veins, rapidly deconstructing harmful microbes, bacteria, and viruses and rebuilding them into vitamins, simple sugars, or other helpful resources, as needed. The molecular memories of faulty immune systems are systemically rewritten, drawing on available examples of healthy ones and the ring's formidable modeling capabilities to ensure safety. Structural damage of all kinds is repaired; plaque removed from arteries, toxins cleansed, chemical imbalances restored. Wear and tear on organs is identified and patched up; broken bones are made whole. 

Cancerous cells are sought out and broken down, the transcription errors that caused their unbound replication identified and repaired. Tumors are painlessly disassembled, the excess mass seeming to disappear in the blink of an eye. 

Those wounded by gun or knife are reasonably straightforward to treat; damaged organs and veins are rebuilt by tiny strands of blue light, followed by layers of skin. Those shot are scanned for traces of lead or other foreign contaminants to be removed. A soothing blue light passes over burned areas, restoring the flesh as though it'd never been touched.   

(There are limits to what can be done for brains; root causes can be identified and addressed and some kinds of damage can be repaired, but the ring can't restore memories that are no longer encoded in neurons. Even with this kind of power, some things can't be fixed.) 

The entire process is quick, painless, and leaves the patients filled with a warm sense of hope; a feeling that All will be well, whispered into their hearts. 

...

Wow.

More than one person stares in amazement, or bursts into tears, or looks at her with absolute shock on their faces.

It isn't just that burn scars are healed, or bullet wounds close up, or that head trauma experienced as a child that unconsciously shaped behavior ever after disappears and hardened criminals realize just how stupid their past decisions were.

It would be the old man who was hit by a car, was on supplemental everything and not really expected to wake up, whose wrinkled skin has smoothed and whose liver spots have faded and who is now, with the full strength of his youth, trying to get all these tubes out of his body, he's fine, there's nothing wrong with him, he's feeling better than he has for decades.

All will be well echoes, and repeats, and echoes, never spoken but universally heard, as injury, cancer, poisoning, and old age all pass under the Blue Light of Hope.

(And, incidentally, any hope Musoka had not to get thirteen kidnapping and thirteen hundred employment attempts within the next seventy-two hours disappears.)

She opens her eyes and grins happily, looking around at all the people she's healed.

Wait. Wasn't that guy... older...

<...Did I just de-age that guy?>

<Yes. You've done it before, actually, but it's usually not that dramatic. I thought you'd noticed?>

<I hadn't!>

Musoka is making such faces. (Luckily, she's wearing a mask that covers her face!)

She looks at the nearby doctors. "Can you take me to some more patients, please?"

"... Thank you," says the once-old man.

And then there's a storm of people - not everyone, but a lot of people - thanking her - "Who are you?"

"How the fuck did you do that?"

"Thank you."

"What was that?"

"That was amazing."

"Who are you?"

Aaaand she's being hurried off to some more patients by hospital staff who see that rare and precious opportunity of getting all the beds empty, all of them, really all, everyone's going to be healed and out of our hospital this is amazing.

She tells people they're welcome and she hopes they all stay well. (She's going to go heal the other people in the hospital! She can answer questions later. (Maybe online.))

She follows the doctors.

Then there are a lot more people to heal! (Doctors and nurses and all other hospital personnel who are not urgently needed are piling in after her to get de-aged, since they can now hope that that can happen.)

Meanwhile -

She what? thinks Minerva, in her 943 different bodies and 27 concealed supercomputers, scattered across the world's surface.

She what.

... This is objectively the best news ever, and, also, Minerva needs to get as many bodyguards as possible. No, not security personnel, bodyguards - how many of her can she redirect - how many hours a day can Blue Lantern work, gatekeeping this by price is really ugly and she hates it but also it gives them more resources to do more good things she hates being dead and resourceless -

She what.

(He's a shabby, middle-aged Indian man, right now, because he is a Delhi slum, sharpening knives and selling gossip, because men and women are never so desperate as when they have so little, and so he is interrupted in the middle of persuading his last customer that his neighbor's wife desperately wants an affair - which she does, because he talked to her yesterday after joking with her husband about how weak and unmanly cuckolds were and how that would be a worse fate than death - and his customer is very surprised when the stall vanishes in a buff of brimstone - )

And he's his preferred appearance and in one of his unholy places, a church desecrated and burned in the Thirty Years' War (wonderful mess, a hundred years' work and look how it paid off) and somehow never noticed since, and spreading out his books on a dustless worktable that a man cut his children's throats on, then his own, and has since been one of the Master of Masters' most prized possessions.

She's going to end death. Magister loves death! The fear of death is one of his best weapons. So many old men and women, fearing the end, who could look to Heaven and instead look to him... there's no craftsmanship in it, but it's good, steady work, giving twenty years to people who are going to have it anyway. And she's going to take that from him - well, if she has a price, he can pay it, and if not there's ways of handling those... it may give the Enemy one, but Magister has never hesitated to trim a holy throat, and he sees no reason to start now.

After all, the Master of Masters has always thought more about the long term.

If he hadn't, would he still be here?

She... interesting. Not a power he was used to!

The False Sage sits back in his incredibly comfy leather chair (don't worry, the person he took it from doesn't need it), in a location accessible by exactly two people who aren't him neither of whom know where it is, and considers.

... Well, he is getting older.

And it's not like he's bored.

So, living forever, how's it work? Is it, oh, stealable?

Fingers click computer keys behind a veil, in a palace in South America.

(The palace is concealed inside an ancient, defunct factory, which is concealed further inside the mountains of... they really aren't sure if it's Venezuela or Brazil, at present. They don't pay taxes to any of them. Not that it matters.)

Eternal life serves certain goals. Those who desire those goals be pursued have interests. Those who wish to prevent them have other interests.

(Nations are for those who do not worship divinities.)

She is acquainted with certain individuals, but perhaps those acquaintances are less important than certain changes.

(Death comes to them all, and they mourn it, for it takes them from Her.)

It offends Her, after all, when Her mortals cease to exist.

(What offends Her must end.)

Perhaps it should cease.

Legate Livia is at war. Legate Livia is at war because Legate Livia is perpetually at war; her homeland is occupied by the puppet government of a hostile power, after all, and she is its acting head of state. Even here, on her Caribbean exile, with no hostile powers daring to set foot on the Tyrant's island and twenty thousand riflemen bound to absolute loyalty to her, she is at war.

(She is also at war because of all this nonsense with explosions next door, but her lieutenants can handle that.)

It is, indeed, one of her concerns that she is close to a hundred years old. And a solution has just presented itself. True, the solution is attached to an American superheroine, but Livia has never had much trouble getting people to do what she wants.

(The Ten Thousand Perfect Rifles felt that it would be a character flaw to doubt her, when perfected. And so they feel that way now and always.)

An order will be given, and when it is, the Legion will march.

The Titanium Tyrant has not, as it happened, heard of this yet, because he is still fighting a civil war with his adopted daughter his student Paragon's daughter Ilderia the rebellious Countess of the Fourth and her allies, and communications are limited. Unlike his friends and rivals amongst the Nine (and among those irrationally not considered part of the Nine, such as a certain woman who has inspired superstitions stretching from Ecuador to Ireland), he has better things to do than attempt to personally extort superheroes, such as rule his own island.

When he does learn, he will take a moment to think, consider kidnapping plans, plot out likely scenarios of how they would go, and begin typing an email.

If Musoka knew about any of that, she'd be far too terrified to use her ring at all! So it's good that she doesn't. (Yet!)

She enters the next wing of the hospital, floating behind the doctors, mind and heart still filled with the hopes of the people she just healed and those she's about to. Again she raises her ring-hand, and again the thin lines of Hope spread, healing and restoring patient and staff alike.

(There's more people being healed now, so it takes her longer. Someone measuring would notice that Musoka seems to be healing a few more people at once than she was before.)

And as the last of them are being healed:

<Musoka, we're running very low on ring power.>

<Alright. I'll find a place to recharge.>

She lowers her raised hands and sags visibly, body language radiating   heavily exaggerated but very real exhaustion.

She tries to catch the eye of a nearby hospital staff member, planning to ask them for the use of a private place to catch her breath. 

Sure, no problem! (People there are being AMAZED...)

(Other people are traveling very quickly...)

She thanks them, Mom 2 injecting a tiredness into her translated voice to match her exaggerated body language, and heads into the provided private area.

Once she's alone, she uses her ring to scan for any cameras or other recording devices, just in case.

As it happens, the spy robots have not arrived yet.

And the hospital doesn't have any cameras in this room, either.

Hooray for not being spied on!

Musoka, still full of hope and happily unaware of impending spybots and kidnapping attempts, has no trouble at all opening the subspace rift. She murmurs her oath with a grin on her face and sighs happily as the blue light washes over her.

<How much charge is left in the lantern?>

<About 3.42 charge's worth. We're fine to keep healing for now, but this isn't something we can do full-time; the lantern doesn't generate power fast enough.>

While they're in the storage unit, Mom 2 will hop on the hospital wifi and take a peek at Musoka's email inboxes. Anything interesting?

The Tyrant's message hasn't arrived yet, since he's busy fighting a war! It's mostly just 'welcome to your new account' stuff.